But I took some deep breaths, dove into my workday and emerged at the end with my
While we waited for the event to start, our friend Marc took a picture of the two of us. I have no idea what the FML on the sign behind us means, but I can assure it's not some transgender acronym that describes our relationship. Though if it had said SPF, I might have remembered to stand in the front as the shorter person when this picture was taken:
I took this picture with my camera phone at the end of the march, right around the time one of the speakers was yelling into a microphone that he was "the ancestor of oppression" (which was at least something new). The crowd had grown pretty big by this point, and I'm amazed my cheap little camera was able to capture its depth. I tried to get a picture of a sign that had a really clever pun making fun of DOMA, but the yellow sign kept getting in the way ... and I'll be damned if I can remember what the pun was. (UPDATE! I remembered: DOMAPHOBE)
We didn't stay for the end of the rally; our hunger got the best of us. And it was raining. And cold. And I hadn't left the house that morning dressed to play an angry activist defying the elements to demand equality. But we did shiver our way back up to Boystown to eat dinner at a restaurant that we knew supported us. Stupid straight California voters may choose their god or their hate or their pathological irrationality over our right to equal protection for our relationships and our homes, but we don't have to risk accidentally rewarding their Chicago bretheren financially for it. Not when we have choices. And merchants who see us as equal citizens. And my little marching-to-Boystown-in-the-rain-to-punish-unknown-oppressors protest felt the most satisfying of all last night.