I would not have wished for Mark Sanford's correspondence with his Argentine lover to have been made public. Most of us, I think, who have impulsively committed such intimate and passionate feelings to writing would cringe to have them published - and certainly would not want them tossed into the crass and dehumanizing environment that Sanford is now confronting.
But they are public, and I could not help myself. I read them. And, honestly, I found them quite beautiful. They are not momentous or articulate or consequential in the way that literature can be. But they are affecting and passionate and deeply, deeply human. In their poignant clumsiness, they reveal, not only two adults very much in one another's complicated thrall, but something very important about the unpredictable, irresistible imperative of love.
Which is another way of saying that I think this anti-gay Republican politician from South Carolina has helped make the argument for gay marriage in a way that few of us have been able to.
Take this passage, from Maria, about their feelings for one another: "Sometimes you don't choose things, they just happen ..." Could there be a more universal, recognizable definition of how feelings of love have no identifiable provenance? Even though it was written by a woman who seems quite heterosexual, can anyone who is homosexual avoid hearing echoes of "I didn't choose to be gay" in this expression of futility in the face of love? Maria goes on, in words that any lesbian or gay man who has finally stopped resisting their truest, inner self could recognize: "I can't redirect my feelings and I am very happy with mine towards you."
Or compare this passage Sanford wrote, with what we have argued so invariably for decades: "The rarest of all commodities in this world is love. It is that thing that we all yearn for at some level - to be simply loved unconditionally for nothing more than who we are - not what we can get, give or become." It is sentiments like this that separate Sanford from some politicians whose scandals have been swept in with his - Elliot Spitzer, Larry Craig and David Vitter. There is no (fair) comparison between their pursuit of sexual gratification and Sanford's deep, personal affection for, even adoration of, a woman not his wife.
This is all the difference in the world - both for Sanford, and particularly for us. The history of prejudice against lesbians and gay men comes primarily from the notion that it is our sexual natures which drive us. And if that were true, marriage would not need to be of any concern to us now that the sodomy laws are gone.
But in this historical moment of sexual decriminalization, marriage is even more important to us - and for the same reason it's important to heterosexuals. It involves something so much greater than just sex. It involves love, the kind that takes you by surprise and leaves you breathless - and a little bit obsessed. Marriage is an institution that channels love, tames it and denatures it some, for a longer-term benefit - not only to children but to the couple.
Adultery is a problem - an eternal one - because it interrupts the stability of marriage. It is, in fact, an impulse we should control but, as we see again and again, that unpremeditated love has a force and logic of its own.
Sanford's adultery is wrong, but his heartrending experience is all too human. It is that humanity lesbians and gay men are still struggling to have the public understand about us. We are as surprised and delighted by love as any heterosexual. And we have as little control over it. As Sanford writes, "How in the world this lightening [sic] strike snuck up on us I am still not quite sure."
I don't know if any of this will or should change Sanford's mind about same-sex marriage, and I admit that question is almost beside the point. But if anyone understands love's hegemony the way we do, it is Sanford. As I read him expressing his tenderest and most rapturous feelings, I saw some of myself in him. Someday, I hope he can understand why.