i have the audacity to call myself a writer

…but what the hell, i still think it has its merits. published in the purchase independent in early ‘07 and in pomp and circumstance in summer ‘07.

a bridal guide for queers who like to fuck shit up
by ocean capewell

I was riding Metro-North back to our lovely school the other day, adrift in a sea of largely bland Westchester humanity. My line of vision drifted to the hand of the dude in front of me, for some reason. I noted that he had a wedding ring on his left hand, but instead of residing on his ring finger, it nestled happily on his middle finger. Whoa! I thought. Wouldn’t it be awesome if he was queer & he chose to wear his ring on that finger as kind of a fuck-you to heteronormative society? I envisioned throngs of angry queers storming city hall, their be-ringed middle fingers thrust skyward. Magazines like the advocate and Curve would write articles on this trend that would allow one to get married while still subtly broadcasting the “we’re here, we’re queer, we haven’t quite assimilated yet” vibe.
This man who so inspired me was probably wearing his ring on his middle finger due more to a bad fitting job than a desire to take a hammer to heterosexism. Still, for a second I had a grand vision of using my left middle finger for something other than flipping off bad drivers.
But, whoops! That’s not going to happen. My long-term love is an anarchist & doesn’t want the government involved in our relationship. I hate material culture, we’re both broke as hell, & we’re both female-bodied & female-identified. So, no wedding bells will toll. My current dream of walking down the aisle holding a bouquet of broccoli (my bridesmaids, bunches of kale) will never come to pass in any legally sanctioned way. I will continue to harbor the fear that my girlfriend will get hit by a car and I won’t be able to visit her in the hospital because I’m a “legal stranger”. I can envision telling an indifferent doctor, But you don’t understand. We dance on the roof together. Once we rode our bikes through a dust storm, and I rode through the city with my eyes closed, just following the sound of her voice. Her parents, who don’t know anything about her, will have the right to make decisions about her care and take her away from me. All this could be changed with a little trip to city hall. Except it can’t.
We’ll go on being girlfriends, and on some level that’s fine. Neither of us ever wanted to be anyone’s wife. We both had the same queer punk zine as teenagers, before we knew each other, and we both cut out the page with a picture of a nuclear family and a house in the suburbs. It said QUEER: THE PRIVILEGE TO IMAGINE MORE. I stuck it on my notebook in New York, she stuck it on her bedroom wall in Pennsylvania. We saw the bloated excess of suburbia, we saw the dysfunction of our nuclear families, & we wanted more.
A lot of my high school friends are engaged. They sit in their apartments with their fiances/fiancees and argue gently about china patterns. They have terse lunches with other couples and discuss safe subjects. Just a few years ago they were full, intense, passionate people; now they’re completely content with being a half. I am not content with just being a half. I have everyone, everything. I am “married”, on facebook, to a gay man. We celebrated our “wedding” by wrapping my scarf around both of our necks and taking pictures with his imac. I feel like half of an old married couple with one of my housemates, because we share a shopping cart at A&P, and it was buying broccoli with her tonight that inspired me to write this article anyway. I can have passionate relationships with everyone in my life & not feel sealed off because the government says i only love one person.
& fuck that. I want more. My friends & I, we raise our voices & sing, & shout, & when we do we can hear a new world coming. I promise you.