Today, I Marry A Man

Many of us grew up in hiding. I was hidden behind a religious wall, protected from a world trying to “steal me away.”

Little girls grew up dreaming of the men they'd marry, playing make-believe wedding. They’d find a stray piece of bridal tulle from their mother’s sewing room, fashion a skirt or veil, and march down the aisle toward a make-believe man, confident their dream would one day be a reality.

Because of my upbringing, daydreaming about walking down the aisle toward a man would’ve felt ridiculous. Still, I wish I could go back and dream that dream. Find a piece of black fabric, fashion a bowtie from it, and march down the aisle toward the man of my dreams.

In high school, my sister had a boyfriend named Joe. I was ten. Joe was sixteen. He was nice and cute. I remember his soft teenage mustache and his smooth arms in a sleeveless shirt. Even as a young boy, I felt things when I looked at Joe.

I never daydreamed about being tossed into the air by Joe or loving him the way a little girl might have. If I had known it was an option, maybe I would have. Regardless, I paid close attention to his every move. The way his pants fit, the dirt under his fingernails, his eyebrows that were nearly grown together, his fresh white teeth and red lips. I suppose I wanted to marry Joe, but I never knew that was a thought I could have.

I came out at forty-six years old. By then, I’d spent a lifetime pretending to be straight for all the wrong reasons. You've heard this story before; we all have. Man gets married, raises a family, and then comes out decades later to live as a gay man. It might seem cliché, but each of these stories is about a person who went to war with themselves at a very early age. On the outside, everything might’ve seemed fine, but know this: his spirit was a battlefield.

These are stories of survival. Not all of us did, you know. Thank God for those of us who found the strength.

Several years after my long-fought war ended, I stumbled upon this beautiful man. Before too long, we were shopping for two suits instead of one. Two pairs of black oxfords. Two men’s wedding bands. Two bowties. Because a wedding date had been set. A venue had been rented. The guests had been invited. And we groomed the hell out of ourselves because, well, you know.

But this is what went through my mind the morning of my wedding:

I didn’t walk down the aisle just as a man who decided to be gay and marry another man. I carried in my heart all the variations of my former self. Each version that never got to live honestly received a personal wedding invitation, and you bet your ass they all sent in their RSVPs.

They were:

The little gay boy who didn't know it was possible to play make-believe wedding with a man.

The innocent fourth grader who stared at Joe's arms.

The high school boy who was so damn lost. So damn gay. And so damn sad.

The young college kid who kept falling in love with boys who kept falling in love with girls.

And perhaps most importantly, the one who sat with these feelings over all those years, doing the very best he could to hold it together. The one who survived it all. I am in awe of his strength.

That variation—that last version—was my Best Man.

Chris and I picked up our wedding rings a week before we tied the knot. We were supposed to bring them home, put them away, and wait for the officiant to hand them to us during the ceremony. Instead, once we tried them on, we never took them off. We wanted to be married to each other so badly. And now, we are.

Til death do us part.