My Big Gay Wedding Plans
My fiancee, Karen, and I have a post and rail fenced backyard on a little over an acre of land in rural New Jersey. Behind our home the black walnut trees stand some fifty plus feet tall, their low branching limbs stretching almost as wide, dappling shade across our lawn. To the side and back of us, water slowly trickles through a shallow gully—a welcome respite for the wildlife we know visits us (thank you trail cam!).
Inside, I’ve placed my I’m-semi-retired-Eames-chair in such a way as to view through my window the big red horse barn across the road. Morning coffee happens here. As does editing and plotting (and all manner of writer angst).
It is, as they say, idyllic.
Folks here are farmers for the most part, and my favorite Friday night activity is to forage farm stands for a truly locavore dinner. We’ve found the source of the most delicious tomatoes, home made bread, and even cheesecake! Just around the corner, down a long windy dirt driveway in an old converted chicken coop, is one of the best Italian Markets I’ve ever visited. They have cannoli, and stuffed shells, and meatballs, and pizza dough, and all the herbs and spices I could ask for.
Friday afternoons have me standing at Misty Acres Farm stand just down the road (where the bread is regularly dropped, and I know exactly when!), trying to decide between warm homemade pretzels or focaccia dotted with farm grown onions and herbs. I can never decide, so I slip enough money into the slot and grab one of each.
It was just such a Friday evening recently when Karen and I were sitting under our walnut trees dipping fresh farm focaccia into a fine Italian olive oil, when we started turning the idea of a farm stand wedding feast over in our heads. How could one accomplish such a feat?
So yes, we are planning a backyard wedding. Or, to be perfectly clear, we are planning a big gay country backyard wedding—in conservative rural America.
I’m a late bloomer lesbian. Had I spent more of my formative years exploring self-identity rather than struggling with social expectation and belonging as I climbed out of my dysfunctional world, I’m sure I would have an entirely different story to tell. But here we are.
“It’s never too late”—the everyman mantra—is certainly apt, and I’ve embraced it wholeheartedly.
When you change your internal narrative in such a drastic way there are a lot of questions begging answers. Yes, people wonder (like, a lot) about the what, how, when, and why, but honestly, a lot of the bigger questions have always been my own. I looked for answers to my ignorance, wanting to hear from like-minded folks (seriously, was anyone else as clueless as I?!). There was grief, too, as I navigated the minefield of missed opportunities and wrong paths taken. I grappled with the sheer level of self-denial (a blog post for another day), and faced some mortification at having to tell those closest to me just how wrong I’d got it.
And for sure, my tongue tripped over the words those first times I had to explain why my post-divorce date was female, or why I turned down the nice guys my friends introduced me to. It took a moment to step out of the shadow of compulsory heteronormative narratives, to own my identity in a way that was both confident and unapologetic. To explain it succinctly, I’d just never practiced this kind of heart-open living before.
Internalized homophobia continues until one rejects cultural stories, and instead lives free in a story that is of one’s own creation. And no one can do this for you. NO one. Authentic living isn’t unique to the LGBTQ+ world either—of course it isn’t—any soul embracing a new narrative must grapple with the source and the consequences of their old one. We must all make peace with who we are, where we came from, and what we’ve done, and then soldier on happily un-compromised by the world and its detractions. To know oneself well, and to live into that knowledge, is a noble goal for anyone.
So yes, there is nothing particularly special about being a gay woman. What is special, is the way one chooses to live and how much personal integrity they bring to the table, paying no mind to sexual/gender politics. As Karen often says, “I don’t choose my friends based on who they’re sleeping with”. There is no place for that nonsense here.
I’ve found that being myself works best. So long as I’m not trying to cover my tracks by denying any part of myself, and I’m speaking nothing but truth, life flows rather peacefully. I have not required a single special consideration by living life as myself. I have not felt the internal/eternal undefined unspoken discomfort which comes from living a false narrative—something I experienced perpetually before coming out.
Here I am. This is me. Like me, don’t like me, there’s really nothing I can do about it either way.
I sip homemade lemonade under the sprawling sycamore on my neighbor’s farm choosing desserts. I stroll through lines of tomato vines planning a dinner menu with a local chef on his farm. I sit cross legged on my bed and open the little box of cake treats my neighbor sent my way so we may choose wedding cake flavors. I talk about my life with the pride and happiness I feel inside of me. It’s real, unabated, and genuine. I smile, and then kiss my fiancee goodnight before catching the light. This is life.
We are throwing a big gay country backyard wedding.
Our neighbors are raising the barn—everything from tent to cake.
This is life.
It took some time to get here, sure, but the course correction is phenomenally satisfying.
This is life.
