Where You Go, I Will Go. A Wedding Service. The Love Of Idgie and Ruth.

Rough draft: Sections of a wedding service for two queer women, written as an assignment.

Greeting and Introduction

The couple stands facing the one presiding.

Officiant: Welcome Partner #1 and Partner #2. Welcome to this day. A day made sacred by the presence of love and beloved community. Please turn to see all those who have gathered to share in the delight of your love.

The couple turns to face the gathering of witnesses.

Officiant: Look out and see the community who loves you and has gathered here to affirm the power, grace, and holiness of your love for one another. We know that love does not grow in isolation. It is nourished, supported, and challenged by those in our lives who bear witness to it. With us today are all those you see before you, all those who could not or would not be here, and all those who have gone before. We offer special thanks to those whose lives, hearts, and struggle have made this love, this moment, possible. You stand here today as part of their legacy. Your love is part of a rich history.

To those gathered, will you repeat after me.

Officiant: We see you.

People: We see you.

Officiant: We support you.

People: We support you.

Officiant: We delight in you.

People: We delight in you.

Officiant: We love you.

People: We love you.

Officiant: You may be seated.

The couple turns back to face the officiant.

Officiant: To love is an act of revolution; in spirit, in heart, in body, in mind. To love is to defy greed, control, and cynicism. To love is to claim the deep transformation that comes when we commit ourselves to one another and allow ourselves to be truly seen. In choosing to love we name ourselves worthy and step into the power of the divine love that connects each of us. To love is to recognize the lie of scarcity and choose a new path.

The Homily (aka A Short Sermon)

“Where you go, I will go;

    where you lodge, I will lodge;

your people shall be my people,

    and your God my God.”

I love these words. They speak to a sense of unity that so many of us long for. They come from the book of Ruth, an ancient tale of resilience and deep love. However, most of us probably know them from the sacred story of Idgie Threadgoode and Ruth Jamison in Fried Green Tomatoes. These were the words, found on a torn out page of the bible, that Ruth sent when she called for Idgie. Now, I’ve only seen the film so forgive me any inconsistencies with the book. But this was this passage that invited Idgie back into Ruth’s life. It was a commitment of the heart, but it was also an expression of need.

“Where you go, I will go;

    where you lodge, I will lodge;

your people shall be my people,

    and your God my God.”

Ruth and Idgie shared a love that saved both of their lives time and time again. Together they started a business, raised a child, nourished a community, and defied injustice. They built a life. It was a life that had not been modeled or laid before them. Each day they perfected their covenant. They laughed, wept, played, fought, and fiercely defended one another. Their love was quiet but transformative, not just for themselves but for all those whose lives they touched. And no, their lives were not free of violence, loss, or trial, but together they tasted a honey so sweet that it defied death.

Today we are here to celebrate the love of Partner #1 and Partner #2. Like Idgie and Ruth their love is one of creation. It does not remain confined to two hearts. Instead it moves into the world and lifts others up. We feel them do this in their music, their deep kindness, their cultivation of family, and the careful care they show to each other, their beloved dog, and their garden. I have felt that love and I know many here today have been touched by that love as well.

It is an honor to stand in celebration of a love that is so fierce, so evident, and so kind. Today we gather to bear witness to this love and the deep commitment that has long existed between your two hearts.

Just as your love transcends your pairing, so does this act of commitment. This world does not make it easy to love. There is profound heartache, incredible injustice, and wounds within each of us that escape naming. Love will be tested, and it will take more than the power of two to overcome. So as a community we also make a commitment to you.

Together we vow again…

Officiant: We see you.

People: We see you.

Officiant: We support you.

People: We support you.

Officiant: We delight in you.

People: We delight in you.

Officiant: We love you.

People: We love you.

May your love be as deep, comforting, and charmed as the love of Idgie and Ruth. May that love continue to grow and blossom thanks to its deep roots in care, respect, accountability, and passion. May you know the unconditional love and support of one another, of your community, and of all creation. 

Our Revolution

Growing up working class I watched my Mother hate herself. Not in any sort of obvious way. First because of her addiction and later because of her inability to 'get it right'. No temp or deli counter job ever seemed to bring in enough to feed us, clothe us, house us. A fact she never needed to tell us to hide. So often we went hungry. Or more to the point we learned to do without, expect little and make it work. I ate peanut butter on slices of deli turkey she'd steal from work and my brother got used to macaroni and cheese made without any trace of milk or butter. This is not to say that my mother was weak or sad or fragile. Quite the opposite. Her quick wit, strong shoulders and brave voice made her powerful. Made it near impossible to see the self loathing. To see her deep longing for love. Made it near impossible for me to know that love was something I could want.

In the course of 50 years my working class Grandparents had managed to buy a home, own a car and feed themselves. They did everything right by capitalist standards by working late, doing whatever was asked of them, and minding their manners. They played it straight. Their reward was the ability to climb a few rungs on the class ladder...but it cost them their daughter. They lost her first to the work that prevented them from spending any formative time with her. Second, to the addiction she developed to cope with deep loneliness and neglect. Third, to the shame that came after she got clean and was still unable to properly care for her children. A punishment, it seemed, for being incapable of being as 'good' as my Grandparents.

In my family, worthiness of love is tied to self sufficiency. A contradiction that still ripples through my life on the daily. Well before the age of 10 I had internalized the idea that I should be able to provide for myself and my loved ones without the support of others. To succeed meant earning self respect and the respect of others, which loosely translated to love. To fail meant to stay steeped in the shame of needing to work harder and be better before letting anyone see you.

When I was younger this meant we went without dinner while my Grandparents ate less than a mile away from us. This meant trying to keep my Grandmother out of our kitchen when she would come visit. This meant lying to her when she asked if we needed anything. This isolation, these lies, were important to us. They were how my Mother was supposed to win my Grandparents respect and therefore their love. Love and care were simply commodities to be earned by putting your head down and getting to work. And if you didn't have them then it was your own failing. I helped maintain the illusion because supporting my Mother and striving to meet my own needs seemed to be my best shot at getting the same kind of care she was searching for.

Nothing has been so formative as this early isolation, this early quest to meet my needs, this early lesson about love. I have learned to do without, expect little and make it work. This dynamic has played out in my relationships where I have stayed with partners who had little to offer me, didn't love me or met me with violence. And I am not alone. This is a cycle. A generational wounding that I have seen seep into even the smallest corners of our communities.

The recent economic collapse is nothing compared to the emotional collapse that has been present for decades. And the two are not unrelated. It is unreasonable to think that people can exist within a system that treats them as if they were expendable, worthless and insignificant without internalizing those same messages. It is unwise to ignore the devastating impact this has had on our ability to form connections that nourish and sustain us.

The Occupy Movement means so much more to me than wealth distribution or the state of the economy. Yes let's rally under the banner of the 99% because we have lost our homes, our education, our health. But let's also rally because we have lost each other. Our loved ones. Our ability to connect. These wounds are not just economic, they are emotional. They are wounds that tear at our ability to form full and vibrant relationships with one another. That encourage shame and shutting down and shutting up. They are wounds that sustain the system which creates them.

The power of this movement is not in it's ability to effect economic change. The power of this movement lies in it's ability to shatter our isolation. It is powerful because it has created a moment where the streets hum, you are not alone. Not in your trying, not in your failing, not in your inability to protect the little that is precious in this life. You are not alone. You are not broken. The system is.

We have been told that we are only worth what we produce, what we are able to make for ourselves. So for those of us with access to little raw material, capital, resources, it means believing somewhere under the layers of fierce resistance that perhaps we aren't worth much at all. For me this moment is about more than defending public protest space or shutting down banks. It is claiming my worthiness to be loved. It is about making an internalized struggle public, finding unity and breaking down the barriers to intimacy that have cost me my Mother. My family.

It is about believing that we are worth so much more, knowing we have the numbers to fight for it and saying to the person beside you in the street, you are not alone. There is our revolution.

A Seder And My Desire

I sat in a room of 200 and thought about family. A family of strangers, sidewalk acquaintances, comrades, friends and old/would-be lovers. A community of faith. Faith that yes, justice is possible and it is worth giving our lives too.

We filled our mouths with history, resistance and gratitude. I watched as s/he moved with intention through the kitchen. And I thought, I want that. Button down shirt tucked in with firm hands. Strong forearms and short hair. I want that. I imagine too hot food brought to hir lips for a hesitant taste, measuring the ratio of spice and subtlety. I consider the ritual we could create together, our flavors blending, birthing something new.

A baby boy pushed along the floor with toy cars while someone at the microphone slammed about the bulldozed olive groves in Palestine. And I thought, I want that. A sweet haired child, big mouthed and wide eyed, transferred from my hips to hirs. I want that. Struggle, possibility and newness lined up alongside each other.

We moved through the Haggadah sipping syrupy sweet wine and singing songs of blessing and survival. Us, this core of queerness, unity and hope. This family cell that rebels and conforms at once. We queer all that we touch, make it strange and right and perfect. We spin retaliation into rehabilitation and can hold our children as we scream for a new world. Because those screams don’t injure, just readjust. So tender cheeks go unscathed and there is an intimacy in our work.

Romance, resistance, relationship. I want that.

We Will Not Be Silent

I worked as a peace keeper for this action. It was so, so, so amazing.

Friday, Nov. 7, thousands of California residents took to the streets in San Francisco at 5:30pm to protest the passage of Proposition 8 in Tuesday's election, that banned same-sex marriage, which had been legalized earlier this year. Queer, trans, and straight allies all joined the march to express outrage over Prop 8 taking people's equal rights away.

After the main march began, a small affinity group took action, joining hands and blockading Market Street at 9th, holding a banner reading "WE WILL NOT BE SILENT: REPEAL PROP 8".

Hundreds of supporters remained along the streets and sidewalks, chanting together, "Say No to Hate: Repeal Prop 8!", "What Do We Want? EQUAL RIGHTS! When Do We Want It? NOW!", and many others.

The group had already blocked traffic for over two hours, when the main march (which had proceeded to Dolores Park), heard about the action and marched all the way back to 9th and Market to join the street blockade.

The energy was high, and chanting was endless. After a brief sit-in behind the line of blockaders, the crowd collectively decided to push past the line of police lined up opposite the blockaders, and marched to City Hall, pouring onto the front steps and taking up the whole street in front. After about 30 minutes of the whole crowd chanting, and several impassioned speeches, the original affinity group led the crowd back to Market Street, and up to the Castro District. It was an unbelievable mass of energy, with thousands literally taking over San Francisco's streets. Diners in restaurants curiously came out to the sidewalks, with many supporters joining in the march, to a chorus of "Whose Streets? OUR STREETS! Whose Rights? OUR RIGHTS!"

When the march reached 18th and Castro St. around 9pm, marchers sat down to occupy the
intersection well into the night, listening to many individuals who became inspired to speak up.

Read CBS Channel 5's account of the protest and watch their news broadcast videos here: http://cbs5.com/local/proposition.8.protest.2.859454.html

Getting ready to lock down the intersection.

Our baner, holding strong. I'm off playing peace keeper somewhere.

My view from the steps of city hall. One of the most amazing moments of my life.

Solidarity, Even In Grief

The past week has been hard for so many people I love. So many are dealing with big kid issues and as I look around I realize that after this they will cease to be the people I know. Death changes you. Heartache changes you. And that in and of itself is heartbreaking but it can also be renewing.

Over the past week or more one of my best friends, my loves, my teachers, lost someone she loved. Someone that loved hir, cared for hir and nourished hir. I won’t attempt to describe what they meant to each other, or what kind of persin Jodi was, because if I know anything about hir I know that she would hate my bogus attempt to articulate the complexities of hir life and hir love of beth. But I will say I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all those she loved and all those that loved hir. I’m sorry for those who feel cheated. For those who hang on to words they didn’t get to say.

Each death is different. It means something different, makes you feel something different, teaches you something different. I know what grief has felt like for me but I can’t begin to imagine how grief lives in someone else. I can’t imagine what grief for this loss feels like to those who love hir.

Over the past few years I have been to my share of funerals. I’ve worked my way through the grieving process more than I would have liked too, and this is what I’ve found to be true for myself: There are moments where you think you can’t go on, and not in the cliché overdramatic lifetime movie kind of way but in the you can feel your heart freeze in your chest with grief kinda way, as if remembering what you’ve lost might actually kill you. There are moments when you can feel your love of the persin boil inside you. There are moments when you recall some silly bit of something about them and you laugh with your whole body and in that moment you forget that you’ve ever felt sad. There are moments when you feel completely fine and you wonder if that’s ok. There are moments where you feel their presence embrace you and you know with absolute certainty just how much they loved you. There are moments when you think you can’t possibly move forward because you owe who you are to the persin that’s passed and they aren’t there. Moments when you are overwhelmed by the injustice of being a better persin for knowing them and then being asked to live without them, the weight of being asked to carry on those gifts when the one who gave them can’t. And learning to absorb that grief and love and knowledge and begin to move forward as a newly transformed persin takes so long. It is slow, and at times tedious, but it gets easier and even the getting easier is tedious, until one day you realize as you walk down the street that you are reacting to the world with the gift that they gave and the knowledge of what it means to lose someone too soon, and you realize that you are stronger and healthier than you ever thought you could be. And you realize that once again they are responsible for this, this persin you are now. And then a small wave of sadness runs down your body but it shakes off quickly and in the end all you can possibly be is thankful. It takes time, but they are always there with you, teaching you how to live without them.

Jodi and I weren’t close, but we love many of the same people. And to those people I say wholeheartedly, I’m sorry. And to Jodi I say, thank you.

You are all in my thoughts and prayers. If there is anything that any of you need let me know. And that’s no lip service my friends, if you need it and I can give it than it’s yours.

ALL my love to all of you.

The Final Letter

Dear Friends,

How are things? Life has been crazy for me for the past few months. After moving back to Berea I was really struggling to find my place here. Berea will forever be my home but it also holds a lot of difficult memories for me (I'm sure you all can relate). I realize now that part of the reason I moved to New York in the first place was in an effort to run away from those memories. But now I'm back and they are all still here and it seems you have all disappeared. I know that we all lead busy lives and some of us live far away but I miss feeling like our friendship was something real.

The past few months have been some of the hardest, loneliest days in my life. I decided that if I was going to live here I was going to confront the people and actions that drove me out of this town to begin with and I needed my friends beside me. I'd already told many of you that Tristan Baughman raped me in high school and though many of you were silent about the topic I assumed that you just didn't have the words that you needed to talk to me about it, and that was ok. I never expected that silence to mean that you didn't believe me.

About a month ago I saw Tristan's Myspace account for the first time and when I looked at his friends list I saw so many of you on it. So many of you that I had told. So many of you that I thought supported me. And it crushed me. Words could not possibly describe what happened inside of me when I saw that. It was as if all of my greatest fears realized…nobody believed me, nobody cared. Because if you did then why would you ever want to be friends with him? Even if just on Myspace? Why wouldn't you just read his page and move on? I wrote a few of you messages and I called a few of you crying and once again there was silence. I watched as you stopped calling, broke plans, pushed me out of your top 8 and in general cut me out of your lives. And all I could think to myself was WHY? Why am I losing friends to this? Why am I still being hurt by this when nobody even looks twice at him?

I know it is hard to accept that Tristan is capable of something like this, I've been trying to deal with it for the past five years, and I don't expect everyone to all of a sudden forget the Tristan they knew but I am expecting a little support. Just a fucking little and instead there has only been silence and distance.

I thought about telling you all of this in persin but I never see you. I thought about calling all of you but I just don't have the energy to rehash this all over and over again. So I'm sorry but I don't know how else to do this. I'm hurt and I am so uncontrollably sad. I need my friends and I need my friends to be good friends. If you don't know what to say to me then just say THAT. We can go from there…cause I just can't fucking do this alone anymore. So give me a call, or leave me a comment or better yet let's go out and be assholes. Cause the truth is....I miss you.


Love to you all,
Blyth