unpartnered

"Hi, I'm Jo Anna. And this is...um...this is my...this is, uh...Amy."

Good God, when is this gonna get any easier? Why can't I just utter those words? She's my ex. This is my ex. Hi, I'm Jo Anna. And this is Amy, my ex.

I mean, she's in another relationship, for crissakes. I should be able to acknowledge that we're no longer together by now, shouldn't I?

Because the thing is, in a heterosexual relationship at a PTA meeting, you can say, "Hi, I'm so-and-so, and this is John Doe, the children's father." Or maybe you refer to yourself as "divorced." There's a sense of separation there, of feeling severed, of finality. And people understand. They get it. They've likely been there.

And we...well, we just don't have that.

Typically, when we'd say "this is my partner," or "the children's other mother," well, you can imagine the strange looks we'd get (yes, even here in California). It usually doesn't take people long to figure it out from there, but at least then they can put us into a little box. The oh-ok-so-they're-a-lesbian-couple box. And then choose to hate or love us based on any number of subjective and abstract concepts and irrational fears.

But now, who are we? We are a lesbian unpartnered couple. With kids. And there's no real box for that. And if people didn't squirm before, man, you should see them wriggle now. Because we still look like a family. We still act like a family. And we work really hard every day to preserve what we've built together as a family. And like it or not, agree with it or not, most people who meet us are able to pretty quickly reconcile themselves to that fact. We. Are. A. Family. And they get that. They understand that.

But this...this seems to shake people up. And I have to wonder if it's actually potentially damaging someone's perception (and possible acceptance) of the legitimacy of gay relationships when they then see us unraveling. When they hear of our fractures.

Is it suddenly justification? Validation? Confirmation of what they already believed?

Do they go home whispering, "Uh-huh. You see? I knew it. They're not meant to be."

Or is there a possibility...a small one, granted, but a possibility just the same...that, like having children, it somehow legitimizes us more?

That maybe they, too, can empathize with the loss, with the sorrow, with the grief that comes with the realization that you're no longer one half of a whole. That your birthdays and holidays and vacations are all fast becoming pawns on a chessboard. That you, too, feel like a failure. That you, too, just want to be happy and complete. That whether you were allowed to marry, or barred from the institution, or even chose not to marry, your heartbreak is no less painful. Your long dark nights, no less lonely.

Do you think? Maybe? Do you think they can see that we're just the same?

[**and just a note that i do realize as i write this today how utterly ridiculous and petty it must all sound in light of the devastation of 9/11]