Recent discussions of various civil-union proposals have revived
some familiar questions, including "Why limit such recognition to
couples, as opposed to larger groups?" and "Why limit it to
romantic/sexual couples, as opposed to other interdependent
relationships?"
Such questions come from various quarters, including both
friends and foes of marriage equality. Although they're sometimes
offered as "gotcha" challenges, they deserve serious
reflection.
I was mulling them over recently when two events occurred that
hinted at an answer.
The first was a phone call from my home-security monitoring
company about a false alarm I triggered with smoke from a minor
kitchen disaster.
"While we have you on the phone," the operator suggested, "can
we update your emergency numbers?"
"Sure," I said, remembering that some of my listed neighbors had
eliminated their land lines.
After going through the numbers, she said, "So, you've given me
your community patrol number, and numbers for Scott, Sarah, and
Mike-all neighbors. But this Mark person-what's your relationship
to him?"
"He's my partner."
"Um, roommate?"
"No," I replied, "partner."
"I don't have a box for 'partner,'" she retorted. "I have a box
for 'roommate.'"
"Fine," I said, "roommate." Then I hastily hung up and returned
to the kitchen, since I didn't want my "roommate" to come home to a
burned dinner. (Later, I regretted not asking for, and insisting
on, the box for "husband.")
The second event occurred not long afterward, when my high
school called asking for a donation for their "Torch Fund"
endowment.
Some background: I attended Chaminade, an all-boys Catholic prep
school on Long Island. For years I notified them of my various
milestones for their newsletter, and for years they declined to
publish anything gay-related-publications, awards, whatever-despite
their regular listings of the most insipid details of my
classmates' lives.
So now, whenever they ask me for money, I politely tell them
where they can stick their Torch. I did so again this time.
"I understand," the caller replied. "But while I have you on the
phone, let me update your recordsâ¦"
Here we go again, I thought.
Eventually she came to, "Any update in your marital status? Can
we list a spouse?"
"Well, you CAN," I responded testily, "but I suspect you won't.
My spouse's name is Mark."
"Why not?" she replied, seeming unfazed. "And his last
name?"
I doubt his listing will stand long. But what interested me was
this: here was someone representing my conservative high school,
and she had a box-in her mind, anyway-for my same-sex spouse.
For all I know, she might be a paid solicitor with no other
connection to the school. But she illustrates a significant
cultural shift toward recognizing the reality of gay and lesbian
lives.
The reality is this: like our straight counterparts, we tend to
fall in love, pair off and settle down. It's not for everyone, but
it's a significant enough pattern to merit acknowledgement.
And that's at least the germ of an answer to the questions
raised above.
Why do we give special legal recognition to romantic pair-bonds?
We do so because they're a significant-and very common-human
category, for straights and gays alike. They benefit individuals
and society in palpable ways-ways that, on average, "roommates" and
most other groupings can't match.
To put it simply, we recognize them because it makes sense for
the law to recognize common and valuable ways that people organize
their lives.
Of course, there are other significant human relationships. Some
of these, like blood ties, the law already acknowledges. Others
(like polygamy) pose serious social costs.
Still others may deserve more legal recognition than they
currently receive, or may be dealt with on a case-by-case basis. (I
doubt that we need to change marriage or civil-union law to
accommodate unrelated cohabitating spinsters, for example.)
But none of these other unrecognized relationships holds a
candle to same-sex pair-bonds when it comes to widespread mismatch
between the social reality and the legal recognition.
Which brings me back to Mark. Mark is not just some dude I share
expenses with. He's the person I've committed my life to, for
better or for worse, 'til death do us part. We exchanged such vows
publicly, although the law still views us as strangers.
In short, he is-whether the law or our home-security company
recognizes it-my spouse.
We fall in love, we pair off, we build lives together. The law
may be a blunt instrument, but it need not be so blunt as to call
that "roommates."