Marriage Equality in Arizona, It's Personal

Marriage equality in Arizona: It’s personal  

Sue Green is a former journalist and the broadcast director of Cronkite News Service at Arizona State University. Four years ago, she married her partner of 15 years.  She first moved to Arizona in 1979.

My father used to tell me how he had to wait years for his marriage to be accepted in every state, but he didn’t say it with pity. He said it with pride because he had to fight for it.. You see he got married in 1961, six years before the Loving vs. Virginia ruling was handed down by the U.S. Supreme Court making it legal for all interracial couples to get married. Just straight couples of course, but hey, it was a step in the right direction.

My parents – a black man from California and a white woman from Liverpool - had a party that weekend to celebrate their freedom, their freedom to go where they wanted and not be afraid they would be turned away because by simply loving each other, they were breaking laws. When they married, only 24 states recognized their marriage. They even had to battle the military to get “permission” to. They met in England in 1959 and, like many G-I’s and British women, they fell in love and wanted to be together, to make a family. They just wanted to get married. But there was nothing logical about it because in more than half the states back home in the U.S., it was against the law.

After being called in to meetings with some of his superiors who spent hours trying to dissuade him, often questioning my mother’s motives, my father stuck by the side of the woman he loved, and the military eventually gave in, having no choice but to allow them to marry. No derogatory words yelled at both my mother and father during these meetings, or even threats, were going to change their minds. They loved each other and wanted to get married like their other friends.

After my mother and father were called into the offices of my dad’s bosses, and my mother called a whore, and threatened with not being able to get a VISA, and my dad being told he had to make a choice, my dad’s superiors realized this tactic would not work, and my father finally got the go-ahead and was told they could marry, but we could never be stationed at any base in any state where “miscegenation” was against the law. We would not be heading South. Quickly, my father agreed and got on the phone with my mother, telling her to grab her wedding dress which had been hanging in her closet for months. He wanted to get to registrar’s office before the military powers that be would change their minds.

That afternoon, they found a preacher, got my mother’s family together, and stood before the priest, God and a handful of friends and committed themselves to each other, regardless of the law in some states. That commitment was as strong the day my father died as it was the day they tied the knot, knowing they faced an uphill battle. But not letting it scare them off.

 Because of the laws against interracial marriages, we could not get orders to be sent to live in any of the states that did not recognize their marriage like Texas or Arizona, but that didn’t matter. My dad said there were plenty of other places that would accept him, his white wife and bi-racial child. We were eventually sent to California, and I quickly came along, followed 14 months later by my sister, and 14 month’s later by my brother.

 This interracial family with four young children who couldn’t have looked more different sort of stood out on the base. It seemed as if when we came out one after the other we got lighter and our hair got straighter. My brother could easily have passed for white, but not the rest of us. But while some people might have called us names, it didn’t bother us. We lived in a house where we knew our parents really wanted us, and were even willing to break the law to have us. How many people could say that?! We sort of lived in this safety cocoon at least while we lived on that base in California.

Then in 1967 everything changed. The Supreme Court said my parent’s marriage had to be recognized, and we were no longer “bastards” as some had called us. We were legal, everywhere.  At that point in my life, little did I know that fighting for marriage equality was far from over for me, that it was to become somewhat of a tradition for me.

  

You see, some 46 years later I found myself facing the same challenges my parents had faced when I decided to marry the woman of my dreams. My marriage to Robin Phillips was only legal in so many states, and many people told us don’t do it, it’s not worth the trouble, it will never be recognized. Sound familiar? Even Robin, my partner at the time had refused my marriage proposals several times when I asked her to marry me because she said she didn’t want to get married until all states would recognize it.

It wasn’t until I had to have a life threatening surgery that she finally gave in, married me, and wiped my sloppy tears as the minister conducted our ceremony on the beach in Provincetown, Mass., one of the few states that would recognize my marriage.

I didn’t realize how important this was to me until we signed our marriage license application and I realized this was how my parents felt, signing that paper, knowing that not everyone would recognize their marriage, but knowing they would, and that’s all that counted. It didn’t mater if it was just the two of us, or the 300 million people in the country, I just wanted to be married to Robin, and I didn’t care what the courts, lawmakers, voters or anyone else had to say about it. I knew that In Massachusetts I was “legal” and I was going to be legally married somewhere.

I felt my parents by my side even though they were not physically there as the wedding day arrived.  Robin, myself, the minister and two new friends stood there as we said our vows, heartfelt vows that summed up what we felt in the past, what we felt in that moment and what we were sure to feel in the future when the entire world would recognize what our small group of friends and family recognized, that we were now married.

Robin and I are lucky, we came home from our wedding and our neighbors had decorated our house. Before Pete and June knew us, they did not have friends who were gay, but after getting to know us as just “regular” people, they knew how important it was that we come home to Arizona, a state that did not recognize same sex marriage, and let us know they were with us. Heck, let the entire neighborhood know! Two other friends, Mark and Val, asked if they could throw us a wedding party. We have incredibly supportive family and friends, and we are just waiting for the day when they get to celebrate our “fully fledged marriage” with us, and not in just the 30 states where it is recognized.

I can go into the many legal reasons this is so important, but on this day, a day I was afraid I would never see before I passed, I would rather just spend the time thanking my family and friends for their support, the love of my wife Robin who has seen me through some tough times the past few years, the many people who I don’t know but who have fought to give Robin and I these rights, and my mother and father, those 63 years ago who taught me that it doesn’t matter if everyone agrees with you. If your love is strong enough it will be strong enough to survive all the hurtful words, and looks and comments over the years.

 They taught me that it was also my responsibility to the many who might not be as strong, and together as Robin and I have been strong enough to wait together, arm in arm not just with each other but our friends and family for this day, this day when our home state of Arizona is forced to recognize our marriage.

So, I say Thank You to all the people before me who have fought for the basic rights to be married, and those after who will continue to fight for others. Because what I have found is that love is indeed enough to see you through the tough times, and it is an amazing love that hopefully will help those who might not agree with these decisions to remember we are people with hearts and feelings, and if you can’t support us, at least respect the idea that we love each other as much as you might love the person you are with.

I thank the 9^th Circuit Court for falling on the side of those who support the idea that all people are created equal, and are willing to stand behind those words. While I wish that the voters of Arizona had had another chance to make this decision, I am happy that the court at least has seen that here in Arizona, Robin and I are like any other married couple. I thank you for helping me to once again have a reason for thanking my mother and father for showing me that no matter how difficult the journey, it is well worth each step of the way because you meet the most amazing and incredible people. Along the journey They might not always agree with everything you say, but they are good people, and they will amaze you at times when they stand up for you, so you remember to stand up for those who need your support.

     

Memory: When the head lets go, the heart holds on

My mother-in-law is fading.  She has Alzheimer's.

It's OK.  She's happy.  She remembers her kids, when to go to meals, the walking route around her complex.

She remembers she loves a cup of tea, and R&B, and riding in the car.  And most of all she remembers her husband, the love of her life who's been gone since 1996.

But a few weeks ago, she forgot me.

I hadn't been by to visit for a couple of weeks and when my name was brought up, she was a little fuzzy on just who I am and what I mean to the family.

I picked her up on the next Saturday morning so she could spend some time with me sitting on the porch, reading and drinking a cup of tea. When I first appeared, she cocked her head looking a little unsure and asked "What's happening?!"  She was ready to go for a ride, but not quite sure who she was going with.

The confusion didn't last long. Once we were in the car and heading toward home, Iris relaxed. We made that cuppa and then sat for hours, justing hanging out in each other's presence.

And family told me that she talked a lot that next week about the fun morning with Robin sitting on the porch. That was her Perfect Moment.

My Perfect Moment was when Iris truly did remember me again.

Robin, Phoenix 

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Searching for age and wisdom in the grocery aisles

Working from home the other day, I took a quick break to zoom to the supermarket. It was a rare rainy day in Phoenix. All I really needed was some Diet Coke. So $122 later I also had juice, cleaning supplies, light bulbs, brownie and blueberry muffin mixes and everything I needed to make a house-warming pot roast.

Sometimes when I'm roaming the aisles trying to make up a menu in my head or remember a recipe, imagining how flavors will blend, I look for an older woman to chat with. They know their stuff for sure and they usually know the answer to the question, "Where the heck does this store keep Maraschino cherries?"

Before I hit on the idea of cooking a pot roast yesterday, I bumped into an older couple standing in front of the raisin-craisin, dried cherries and dates shelves. By older I mean early 80s, by dried fruits I mean 123 choices in very similar packaging.

"What are you looking for?" I asked.

"Dried candied dates," the woman replied. Luckily, I saw them right away.

"This it?" I asked.  The price was right so she picked up two.  As she put them in her basket, I asked, "What are you making with them?"

"Date nut bread," she beamed. "I make it every year."

"You making that again?" he finally spoke up and then turned to me. "I hate it. Don't like it. Won't eat it."  She ignored him, smiling at her dates, and we parted ways.  

A few minutes later, after picking up a pot roast, I returned to the vegetables for potatoes, carrots, onions. And I wondered, "What would a pot roast be like if I put in sweet potatoes rather than white potatoes?"   Hmm...   started looking for an older woman to run this one by.

I spotted a friendly looking woman in the right age range near the celery and approached.  "I'm making a pot roast and am wondering about using sweet potatoes rather than white ones," I started. She looked up, sort of interested, but she made a quick sidestep, putting her cart between us. It was a move I hadn't seen since training for my black belt. I took a half step back but continued, "Perhaps I'll mix some new potatoes with a yam... "

She kept her distance, but cocked her head and said, "I haven't done that. I bet they'd cook faster."

"Hmm.. you're right. I could put them in a little later or not use too many. I'll try it."  

She nodded, "Yes, it might make the roast sweetish."    


And it did.  Sweet potatoes cook much faster than the new potatoes I also used.  And the beef was a little sweet. And the house was warm all night.   ~  Robin, Phoenix

Letter to my mother

Today I am beginning to mourn the loss of my mother. You see, it started with me seeing a picture of my mother than had been taken more than 12 years ago in New York City. She was so vibrant and connected in that picture on that day. She was writing a note to those who had lost loved ones in the 9-11 attacks. It was so important to her on that day that she write something.

But now she just writes notes to remind herself of things she might forget. She doesn’t look like this picture now. The Alzheimer’s is slowly but surely stripping that vibrancy and connection from her eyes, and I miss my mom. So, I decided I wanted to write a letter to my mother before it is too late, before she can no longer appreciate how much I love her.

And this got me to thinking that I bet there are a lot of people who owe a letter to their mothers. No, not an email, but a pen to paper letter. A note telling her how much you appreciate her, how much you love her. A note telling her how she makes you smile, how you loved when she baked peanut butter cookies and let you use the fork to put the grooves in the top of the cookie.

Tell her about how you loved it when she let you stay up late that first time to watch a special show on TV, or covered for you with your dad.

Tell her how you remember her on the ground cutting out a pattern and cloth on the floor so she could make you that homemade outfit that might actually fit! Tell her how much you learned about work ethic when you saw her laid out on the couch exhausted after spending the day working at the sewing factory to make sure you could have tennis shoes for your sporting team.

And after you write those letters I would love it if you would send them through the mail to your mom so you can surprise her… just because.

And then if you find it within yourself, I would love it if you could send a copy of the letter to me because I would love to collect them, and put them together into a special project. You can send them to Susan Green/ Letters to my Mother, P.O. box 13641, Phoenix, Az 85002.  Lets overwhelm the post office!

I love my mother, and I know there are plenty of you out there who love your mothers as well. Join me and share this gift with your mom. It only costs the price of a stamp, but I guarantee the look on her face when she gets it in the mail will be priceless!

Susan Green, Phoenix


After I wrote this blog post, KPHO our local CBS station interviewed me for a story on my Letter to My Mother project. Thanks, Miguel, for helping to spread the word:

  CBS 5 - KPHO

Alster in her happy place

Alster in her happy place, originally uploaded by RobinJP.

OK. Really. Does this photo need any description? Isn't this Perfect Moment enough?

Well, alright. Alexandra, aka Alster, is at Lolo's Chicken and Waffles in Phoenix. Most people there feel like this.

I remember exactly what I said to make her grin like this. "Last time we were here, you had the Stupid Fries," I reminded her. She had actually turned Stupid Fries -- lots of goopy, tasty stuff piled high on French fries -- into what we called Stupider Fries by adding sausage.

PM2: This was a Perfect Moment, as we remembered an earlier Perfect Moment.

Oh, and me? I always study the menu and ALWAYS order Betty Boop.  A juicy chicken breast nestled next to a waffle.

Robin (and Alster), Phoenix

Smells take me right back to a perfect moment from childhood

This street scene in Fairbury, Nebraska, looks a lot like the town I remember driving into one dawn in the 1960s.

Twice this week as I drove to work - past Matt's Big Breakfast in downtown Phoenix - I smelled a smell from childhood.  This smell was not like remembering Pixie Sticks or Sugar Daddy's or mom's meatloaf.  I smelled something that took me back to one particular day on one particular family road trip.

As I cruised by Matt's Big Breakfast, the air was filled with what I can only describe as the smell of burnt coffee mixed with maple syrup.  

When we were little, my brothers and I had a 5-year stint in Bellevue, Nebraska, a suburb of Omaha right next to Offutt Air Force Base, aka SAC Headquarters, where my dad spent his days.  We spent our days running wild, playing in a big open field at the end of the runway, riding bikes, going to school and listening to The Beatles and The Supremes.

 Every once in a while my Mom would drive us nearly 500 miles from Bellevue to Aurora, a suburb of Denver, to visit my aunt, her sister.

There we would sit in the kitchen listening to stories about the family, my aunt smoking Kents, playing a fast game of solitaire. Or we'd sit on the back porch, shelling peas. My aunt and uncle were transplanted farmers who had the biggest, bestest vegetable garden in this suburb.  

But that smell...  that smell came much earlier. 

On the morning of our drives to Colorado, my mom woke us up way before daylight. She'd hustle us into the car, pile us into the big back seat and hand us a box of donuts.  The donuts were not necessary; we fell fast asleep, the car and the world were still dark and we knew there were pancakes in our future.

  

That smell...   On this one trip, in this one small Nebraska farm town that has stayed so vividly in my mind, I was already awake as we pulled in. It was daylight, but only just. We were quiet in the backseat; we hadn't started any competitions yet; counting windmills, spotting cows, thumb wrestling. 

We pulled up on what felt like the edge of a town so small it really may have been the center. We were headed to a coffee shop for breakfast, such a big kid thing to do.

As we pulled in, my chest was filled with the excitement of an adventure ahead, the comfort of being in Mom's big boat of a car and heading to see family. We'd hit the road and now we were stopping for breakfast. All was right with my world.

And the air was filled with the smell of burnt coffee mixed with maple syrup.

To this day I have no idea what the smell really is. It doesn't matter.  That smell is love.

Robin, Phoenix

Photo project creates comfort between strangers

On the Road: Photographer proves strangers are friends you haven't met yet.

As part of CBS News's continuing series "On the Road," Steve Hartman meets a New York photographer who asks strangers on the street to pose as though they're couples, friends or family.

I dare you to watch this and keep from melting just a little.

 


 Here's more about Richard Rinaldi and his project at the Kickstarter page where he sought funding for a book version of Touching Strangers.

Absolute favorite Tweet this week

My absolute favorite Tweet this week ... and I've seen a lot!

This Perfect Moment shared .. well, you know, that passes on the perfect nature of it. Compound interest.

Harvey and I strode recklessly into the wilderness today. http://t.co/uvNOh631jv
— Ryan V Lower (@beautyislikeyea) September 19, 2013

No one knows you're a dog on the radio

I've spent many lovely moments lately looking at photos on Instagram. This comes from the Morning Edition pages. Want a real treat? Check out this little cutie: Morning Edition, baby.

Searching for the Boston Bombing site

Searching for the Boston Bombing site, originally uploaded by RobinJP.

My friend Karen and I walked and walked around Boston. We had lunch. We saw old churches. At one point, we looked for the marathon bombing site. We knew there were two locations. We had an eye out for damage.

When I got back home and looked closely at my photos, I saw clearly that the aftermath of the 2013 bombings near the finish line at Boston Marathon is not destruction. The legacy of that day is clearly renewal and recovery.

Boston Strong is everywhere. Recognition, renewal, recovery. Boston Strong.

Robin, Boston

Sept. 11 - 12 years on. I'm still OK

sept. 11 12 years on, originally uploaded by RobinJP.

Wow. This 12th anniversary of the World Trade Center destruction snuck up on me.

I was walking to work this morning, a Friday-morning lift to my gait, and 'wham!' 

There it was. An event coming up on "September 11."
Oh, yeah, that date sounds familiar.   I'd forgotten all about it.

For years, I've dreaded the date as it approaches.  The 10th anniversary was killer: way too much. Way too many stories were revisited.

But this year, it seems, I was forgetting the significance of 9/11 .. or else I just haven't been carrying it so close to the skin as before.

But 'wham!' This sign, this morning, pushed sweat to my palms, snatched at my breath, spun me around to take a closer look.

Yep, Sept. 11 is coming. The employer panel they are advertising has nothing to do with Sept. 11, 2001.  But I don't think I'd have used the shadowy image of an airplane to draw a crowd to an event on that day.

Here's to a peaceful week and a fine Wednesday, Sept. 11, 2013.   Each year gets a little better.


Robin, Phoenix

Robin Thicke Made My Day, as well as my Mom’s

Moments with my mom are very special, especially since she has Alzheimer's.

I know that as her memories begin to slip away, I am frantically trying to create new ones that I can hold on to in the years ahead.

This week, I had a perfect moment with my mom, one I will cherish forever. In our house, growing up we always had music. My first ever album was the Jackson 5 ABC. (Still have it!) But my parents would play music all the time, everyone from the Temptations, to Mahalia Jackson, to Tom Jones. A bit eclectic, but we liked it.

And I always remember my mother and father dancing together, even though my father didn’t have much rhythm! Believe me, I danced with him a few times myself and he was dancing to his own beat sometimes! But I wouldn’t give up those moments for anything.

Anyway, back to my mom. So, the other day I picked her up and was going to take her out with me to run a few errands. Anything to get her out of the house and get her some stimulation. What I didn’t realize is the stimulation for her brain would begin right as we jumped in the car and turned on the radio. All of a sudden Robin Thicke’s megahit, Blurred Lines started pouring into the car.

I don’t know about you, but I can’t help but bob my head when I hear this song. The next thing I know, mom is bobbing right next to me! I start singing, she starts smiling, bobbing a little harder and says ”This reminds me of the old days!” She was able to pull back one of her old memories that had disappeared into that alzheimer’s cloud! I almost started crying, instead I started singing louder!

So on this day, Robin Thicke made my mom smile, and he made me smile, giving me a memory I won’t soon forget! Thank you!

Sue
Phoenix, AZ

Reflections on a therapist's office

Therapist's office commentary, originally uploaded by RobinJP.

'y r u here'

This message is scratched into a table at an office where my weekly meditation group gathers. It's the office of a therapist.


The first few times I saw this, I didn't look too closely, but thought it said 'you are here.'

True, you are here. But it's not a 'Kilroy was here type of message.' It's much more profound.

'You. Are. You. Here.' is a great reflection on therapy. And a great message to carry daily.

I like to think the angry child, frustrated spouse, bored teen sitting in the waiting room was passing on a message of comfort to us all.

y r u here.

.... wherever you are.


UPDATE inspired by my friend Kate who said on Facebook: 'I thought it was a question... why are you here?"

Now that she says that, I remember thinking that also when I first saw this a few weeks ago.  But last night when I saw it again, my mind just stuck on the optimistic side.  I guess I hoped the carver had left a positive lesson for us all.  And besides, the grammarian in me just didn't see the invisible question mark!  


Robin, Phoenix

Rest is good for her - Sedona Smile

Rest is good for her - Sedona Smile, originally uploaded by RobinJP.

We don't have big vacation plans this summer, so we took a quick staycation to Sedona.

This smile is the result of three nights in a lovely cabin next to a beautiful quick-flowing creek.

It was a good week.

Robin, (back in Phoenix now)

Yafit: We don't mind if you stick around a little longer

One year ago this weekend, my friend Yafit Butwin and her three children - Malissa (16), Daniel (14) and Matthew (7) - were killed. 

The brutality of their murder was devastating to those of us who knew them and shocking to the rest of our community. They were mourned by hundreds, if not thousands, and eventually their bodies were taken to Israel where Yafit was born and lived until she moved to the United States at 20 years old.

But to a small band of women who meet weekly in Chandler, Arizona, to meditate and touch base about our lives, Yafit hung around. Her spirit stays with us. She is one of us. Yafit came to meditate when time allowed. She brought excitement, energy and the type of turmoil that can only embody an active, loving mother trying to build her own career. 

I knew Yafit for only about 18 months and I never saw her outside of our weekly gatherings, but she is still a powerful force in my life.  I sometimes feel her in the room while we sit quietly.  At other times, I feel a rush of sadness and loss over her death - not just for me but for all of us.  But more often than not, I am comforted by the fact that I knew Yafit, that she gave me a glimpse into her crazy, chaotic life so filled with love and promise.  

I am better for having known her.  

Robin, Phoenix 


Here's a news report about Yafit's death. Look at it or not. It's really nothing to do with her now.  

Cactus flower: Careful what you throw away

Cactus flower, originally uploaded by RobinJP.

Cactus flower.
Steel magnolia.
Gloved fist.
Yin yang.
Such beauty in the contrast.

I walked out the door, heading to work right into this absolutely breathtaking beauty this morning.

These flowers bloom on two of the ugliest plants I've ever lived with. When we moved into our new home in December, two gnarly cacti were on the front porch. They are planted in old, wooden pots and kind of shoved into the corner.

I often look at them as I come and go, thinking, 'I should toss those old plants. What can I replace them with?'

Hallelujah!!

Thank goodness I procrastinate. These plants are going nowhere! I'm told the blooms may be gone by the time I get home. And the plants flower very infrequently. I will gladly salute those ugly ass cacti every day until they bloom again.

Lesson to us all: Be careful what you throw away.

Robin, Sonoran Desert, Phoenix