Don’t tread on me!

Hurray for the New Jersey Supreme Court, which ruled that same-sex couples and their families are constitutionally entitled to the benefits and protections offered by marriage (although queer couples still don’t have access to over 1,000 federal marriage benefits). For the New York Times’ account of this historic move (don’t miss the audio slide show), go here.

The Times also posted a comments blog. (Unfortunately they don’t seem to be taking any more comments, but what’s there is plenty entertaining.) I loved reading these comments. I skimmed over the bigoted, stupid ones and was so heartened by the funny, thoughtful, heartfelt ones. It made me feel...actually...hopeful. And part of a fabulous community. To wit:

Joshua says: “I’m really tired of being treated as a second-rate American, especially because i’m totally first rate.”

Sarah Junker notes: “Interracial marriages were banned in some states up to as late as the 1980’s. I harken to this when I’m discouraged by the slow rate of social change in this country. It may take decades before state bans on homosexual marriages are viewed as morally outrageous and historically outdated, but the wall is falling one brick at a time.”

And my favorite, from Javier Galitó-Cava: “I have been with my partner for 12 years. I have helped him raise his bilogical son who just turned 23. My step-son is straight and a wonderful and well adjusted young man by the way. He never had any homosexual tendencies and, although he loves musical theatre, he is hopelessly straight. He doesn’t own one pair of Prada shoes and can leave the house without any product on his hair as if nothing was wrong.

“Maybe the statue of Liberty should have a new engraving, “Give me your tired, your poor, but keep your faggots and your other weirdoes, PLEASE!” Oh Javier, you are officially my new BFF.

From EAC_ Esq.: “Shame on all three branches of the federal government for passing and upholding the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA). Never have I seen such a flagrant and embarrassing display of political pandering to the wealthy, conservative religious groups that helped buy the Oval Office for President Bush. I cannot fathom how such an act of legislated bigotry can withstand scrutiny in light of the full faith and credit clause of the U.S. Constitution.”

Daniel Cole asks: “Is having children a prerequisite to marry? Did I miss the “I promise to have children” form straight couples have to sign? Do heterosexual couples who choose not to have children have fakey, weirdo marriages?...First it’s the gays, then it’s the household furniture. As much as I’d love to marry my couch, I don’t think it’s gonna happen. My couch can’t even make a proper signature. It’s alright, Couchy – I still love you. The “slippery slope” argument gets a lot of play, maybe because it’s so funny. Marrying my cat? It’s just funny. Marrying all three of my cats? Now that’s just wrong.

“There are many wonderful gay and straight couples, and I’d love to have them all over for dinner and cocktails.” Call me – I'm in!

And from someone named Mark: “Basic, fundamental rights accrue to each of us by the very fact of our being. They are not “granted” by the government. They are inherently ours from the moment of birth. If, as a society, we pretend that those of us in the majority have the right to deny such rights to any minority segment of that society, then we deny those rights to ourselves as well. The Bill of Rights, in addition to protecting each of us from “the government”, is also designed to protect minorities from the tyranny of the majority - and vice versa.”

Don't people rock? Lest you think I’m letting total strangers hog today’s post, I wanted to add that I think it takes bravery to call one’s corporate employer, or spa, or cell phone company (all things that I or my Charming Girlfriend did today) and talk to a faceless customer service rep about one’s same-sex partner. These people might be big homophobes. They might be falling over themselves to be gay-friendly. We can't know. We just do it. Coming out is a continual process.

Finally, to see a totally adorable studio portrait of a young lesbian couple in 1967 (check out the beehive hair!), go here.

Susan Sontag, blogger manquée.

I’m fascinated by Susan Sontag’s journals (and not just because she was a big ol’ dyke). Her thoughts resonate for writers, er, bloggers decades later: "In the journal [read: blog] I do not just express myself more openly than I could to any person; I create myself...One of the main (social) functions of a journal or diary is precisely to be read furtively by other people." Spoken like a true blogger, a woman ahead of her time.

She also said "Nothing prevents me from being a writer except laziness." Susan Sontag, intellectual eminence – lazy? Now I don’t feel quite so guilty about staying home sick two days in a row and barely getting any real work done. And like many a Hollywood writer, she suffered from self-doubt: "With a little ego-building – such as the fait accompli this journal provides – I shall win through to the confidence that I (I) have something to say, that should be said." I think all bloggers (even the avowed narcissists) can relate.

She believed in taking lovers willy-nilly, but she suffered from romance: "Poor little ego, how did you feel today? Not very well, I fear – rather bruised, sore, traumatized. Hot waves of shame, and all that. I never had any illusion that she was in love with me, but I did assume she liked me." Ouch! Veterans of the LA dating scene feel your pain.

She was conflicted about being gay: "My desire to write is connected with my homosexuality. I need the identity as a weapon, to match the weapon that society has against me." One hopes that as she matured intellectually and sexually, she learned to embrace her fierce 'mo self.

She conflated writing with sex: "The orgasm focuses. I lust to write. The coming of the orgasm is not the salvation but, more, the birth of my ego...The only kind of writer I could be is the kind who exposes himself. I write to define myself – an act of self-creation – part of process of becoming – in a dialogue with myself, with writers I admire living and dead, with ideal readers." If only she'd lived long enough to discover the dialogue of the blog.

I am reminded of Twyla Tharp’s fabulous book The Creative Habit, in which she argues that creativity is not so much about the divine spark, but the dogged daily practice of one's work. Once a wonderful poet I gave a reading with, when asked how she coped with the inevitable dull, even blocked periods between flashes of inspiration, said that she believed in two things: the muse and the mule.

One of my favorite ways of preparing for creativity is to play the piano – but I gave up my piano when I moved to this new apartment. Instead I play FreeCell on my computer. Immersion in that mindless game allows for the most extraordinary thought processes.

Now back to writing the outline for my The Closer spec. I don’t like writing outlines, but it must be done. Twyla Tharp talks about the importance of making a plan, then letting it go: "once the shell is in place and you start work on the interior, the scaffolding disappears."

It’s Suri Holmes, people!

Last I checked, Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise are not married. That makes Suri a Holmes, not a Cruise. It drives me crazy that the media have slavishly, knee-jerkily kowtowed to this, dare I say, patriarchal construct – the one that some prominent postmodern theorist (Lacan? Limbaugh?) dubs the “Name of the Father” – which implies that women and children are, after all the pretty bouquets have been tossed, mere chattel. Y’know, property. Oh god, I hear you thinking, I thought this post was about adorable, reclusive little Baby Suri or maybe Pontifica's celebrity obsession, but it's turning into some crazy rant about the patriarchy. Yes, people, I’m ranting about the patriarchy! Booya!

(She is pretty cute, huh? Just look at that hair.)

Father = pater = patriarchy = male dominance in surnames. I’ll grant that when and if TomKat actually ties the (oh-so-bearded) knot, Katie – I’m sorry, Kate – will take her hubby’s last name, and because a woman giving her child her own last name is so not done in Hollywood, much less anywhere else in this post-feminist landscape, Suri will officially, legally become a Cruise.

Why does this happen, you ask, this wholesale feminine shedding of names? Partly because, historically, it’s been important for a man to establish that he, and not some cryogenically preserved Scientology founder, is the real father of his hired consort’s – I mean ladyfriend’s – child. Friend Lacan would add that it’s because the woman lacks a phallus – not a real phallus, you understand, but a symbolic one. Oh jeez, there’s a reason I dropped out of grad school.

My friend Emily, that dazzling iconoclast, defiantly gave her son her own last name even though she was married – and even though her daughter carries her father’s last name. But won’t it be confusing once they’re in school? asked well-meaning passers-by. Who the hell cares? was her tart reply. Love her.

Anyway. It’s all part and parcel of this return to traditionalism (some might call it a backlash) that has young women taking their husbands’ names. I always gently ask my soon-to-be-married straight friends why she won’t be keeping her own name – or why he won’t be taking hers – or why they won’t (both) be hyphenating. You know exactly the kind of blank stare I get. Then the women get sheepish or defensive, as if they secretly know what I’m talking about, but they’re just not willing to blaze that particular trail. It’s romantic to take his name, they protest. Somehow it’s not so romantic for him to take hers, unless they’re wacky outsider hippie artists. It creates a family unit – it’s easier on the children – blah blah blah. Let’s just admit it – feminism is still stigmatized and misunderstood. Anyone bold or foolish enough to claim the feminist mantle is still a man-hater, a lesbian, a bra-burner (though it’s been well-established, gentle reader, that no bras actually ever got burned).

Aw hell, what’s so bad about it, after all? Women aren’t really second-class citizens anymore, right? Don’t you fret, adorable little Suri of the suspiciously Thetan-looking eyes. It’s just tradition.