It's about love

Every time I see one of those horrible "Yes On 2" bumper stickers, which still adorn a number of cars in Florida, I am saddened to consider the hate one must have in one's heart in order to vote to deny basic rights to a group of citizens who differ from them in really only one key respect: their sexual orientation. Even though Amendment 2 passed and, in Florida, it now is enshrined in our state's Constitution that marriage shall be only between a man and a woman, I feel strongly that the fight for equal rights isn't over. And so, as the weekend of the National Equality March approaches, I want to share a story with you, a poignant reminder that it's not about God or Christianity or any religious ceremony at all ... it's about love.

Kate Fleming was a theatre major when I was a theatre minor in college. We were classmates and had several classes together, and I once performed in a one-act play that she directed. I can't honestly say we were close friends, but we were friends, and I always respected her exceptional acting ability and her constant upbeat attitude. She always had a smile on her face.

Regrettably, I didn't keep in touch with Kate (left) after graduation but, as it turned out, she had a very successful and prodigious career as an audio book narrator. She settled in Seattle with her partner, Charlene Strong, and recorded her books from a studio in the basement of their home. It was in that studio, however, that Kate became trapped during a flash flood on December 14, 2006. She was taken unconscious from the home and rushed to the hospital.

I'll let Charlene pick up the story from here:

As the ambulance rushed her to a trauma center, my mother, brother and I drove fast behind. When we arrived at the hospital, I instinctively ran to be with Kate.

But, as I neared the entrance of the emergency room, a social worker stopped me in my tracks. After I explained that I was Kate's partner of 10 years, the social worker told me that the state could not recognize same-sex partners in emergency situations. As if I were a stranger, I needed to receive the permission of one of Kate's family members to be near her and to make decisions for her care. For what seemed like an eternity, I frantically dialed her sister in Virginia. I thought with a shudder: "What if no one is home? What if Kate dies without me holding her hand?" After being barred from comforting Kate during these harrowing moments, I finally received permission from Kate's sister to be with her. From that point on, I was treated like any other spouse fighting for their loved one.

That night, Kate died with me beside her. I removed the wedding ring that she wore and the necklace I gave her for her 40th birthday. I could tell her that I loved her.

Even after Kate's passing, I still had to fight for recognition as her spouse. Since I was not her legal wife, the funeral director would not address me as Kate's family or let me make her funeral arrangements. Kate's mother had to sign the request for her cremation. The death certificate stated that she had never been married. Kate's voice could no longer speak out against these mounting indignities.

After this tragedy, Charlene (right) became an activist, and largely as a result of her tireless work, the Washington legislature passed a domestic-partner rights bill in 2007. Now, two years later, Charlene Strong is the catalyst for a documentary film, for my wife..., about her life with Kate and her struggle to gain GLBT equality in Washington. The film has garnered numerous awards, from St. Louis to Sydney, and it neatly encapsulates, in light of a horrific tragedy, what the struggle for GLBT rights ultimately is all about.

It's not about marriage in a religious ceremony, for legal rights are conferred by the state, so a civil marriage would suffice. It's not about the hate that unfeeling, ignorant opponents spew when they lump homosexuality in with bestiality and necrophilia. It's not even just about Charlene and Kate, or the millions of other GLBT Americans seeking nothing but the rights they deserve -- that they are guaranteed -- under the Constitution.

Ultimately ... it's about love.