Equal marriage & the passionate mode of politics...

Regular readers may not readily associate my prose with the passionate mode of politics.  Law school is where warm hearts go to be extinguished.  There's a certain truth to that. If you've a mind and disposition kiltered towards abstractions, chances are, it'll tell in your political writing. 

On the equal marriage debate thus far, I've been a more or less cool partisan for the equal marriage side of the spectrum. I've tried to bracket my own sentiments, and take an interest in the reasoning of the other side. As wise women have reminded us, the personal is political too, and the past couple of weeks, I've encountered a couple of things which have gone a long way to hardening my attitude. 

The first was an otherwise inconspicuous conversation with a friend and colleague in an Oxford pub. But for the smoking ban, beards would be brooding over pipes, and fragrant gusts of tobacco smoke.  Wood panelling, ale, a chestnut-eyed black Labrador, his friendliness injudiciously distributed to all and sundry. The usual odorous knot of greying wankers perched at the bar, stooled, guffawing at thin jokes, creasing yellowing tabloids under their armpits, bickering over crossword clues. An abacus line of rheumy eyes for the lassies, taking deep pulls from electronic cigarettes, their only nicotine-fingered gesture to modernity.  Bitterness and honesty dictates the admission: the Men at the Bar usually defeat us in the pub quiz. And great was the rhubarbing, and gnashing of teeth.

In anticipation of the quiz, the usual team (which I habitually christen "Ann Widdecombe's Steel-Reinforced Colostomy Bag", when permitted) nattered away about this and that, supping cheerily. The usual local colour and gossip, of friends, gags, tales, nonsense, flashes of earnestness. We're a motley band. Graduate students, university staff, freelance cooks, theatricals. English and Irish, Dutch and Norwegian, Australian and Canadian. 

The designated political bore, at my instigation the conversation in one corner happened to turn to the second reading of the same-sex marriage legislation in the House of Lords.  Rather to my surprise, an ordinarily almost entirely non-political comrade piped up that he had been following their Lordships' deliberations earlier that day.  He was lightly smarting from the experience, from the words and sentiments he'd heard. In a long-term, happy and committed relationship with another fellow at the table, he'd fired up Democracy Live, and subjected himself to the judgement of faded Barons and dust-lunged Baronesses about his ordinarily thoughtless, joyful, careless sense of himself, his sexuality, his relationship.  

As is perhaps inevitably the case, the contrary statements proved more memorable than the speeches which endorsed the idea of equal marriage. My own impulse is towards intellectual imperviousness, a shrug.  You may very well think that, but regrettably, you're a chronic wanker, and your sentiments are of signal indifference to me. In a small, gentle way, with the diffusing good humour and irreverence which characterises him, it was clear that these shoogly old villains had wounded my friend.  It is extraordinary the thought never struck me before that the debate might. Perhaps I lack imagination. But seeing the small but perceptible injury these doddering old coots had done dug a thumb right into my chest, sounding the heart strings.  A muted, but perceptible note. Whose side are you on? We passed on to other chatter. The old gits won the quiz. We rhubarbed, ordered another round, cursed our losses, and blethered cheerfully on.

The second incident was grander, a marriage. The first of my contemporaries were wed in full fig this last weekend. A curious experience. Before Saturday, I'd been a nipper at my aunt's wedding, and an even smaller nipper in a clip-on tie at some other, forgotten relative's union. Otherwise, I had little to go on. I'm not married. No marriage is in the offing. My parents are happily knotted together, but bred up neither my sister nor I particularly to reverence the wedded state, even on a secular basis. More important than the formalities, than the witnessed names in the book, the rings and ceremonies, was the abiding sense of affection.

As a consequence, I wasn't sure how I would respond to my friends' getting hitched. It was bound to be a lovely day, full of conviviality, generosity, and happiness for the pair. The officiating cleric may have been a republican socialist who favours disestablishment of the Church of England. Despite this beguilingly contrary ideology from a man in a brocade frock, nevertheless, I anticipated the religious bells and whistles to jar somewhat with my godless cynicism. As usual. What I did not expect, however, was how moving the ceremony would be. An absolutely sincere, soft-voiced, avowal of devotion and love. Not for me, and I suppose for many there, in the eyes of some all-seeing, all-judging creator deity, but before the eyes of friends and family, of folk who meant something to each other.

It was lovely to see, truly, and reminded me of a perceptive observation Nicola Sturgeon made about her evolving attitudes towards marriage. I paraphrase, as I cannot find the link to the original article, but from memory, Nicola remarked that her own, recent wedding to Peter Murrell surprised her, and was charged with more emotional power and significance than she had conceived of when they were just bidie ins, mooting the idea.  I do enjoy being emotionally surprised, and Saturday certainly sprung one on me. I think I might, might understand what Nicola means now.  A gentle revision of my notions may be in order.

I'm not suggesting that marriage is for everyone. I've no idea whether it is even for me.  What I do feel, however, more keenly than ever, is that arresting thumb again at my chest, sounding a demanding note. The idea that only some of my friends, only those with the fortune to find themselves emotionally entangled with someone of the opposite gender, should be able to stand in that convocation of their friends, together, in that transporting moment, that day, pleasure etched on faces, unbidden tears gladly stinging the eye.  That thought's now an outrage, even a cruelty.

As today's delightfully serendipitous, lovely wee video from the Scottish Equality Network makes plain, it's time.  Oftentimes, doing the just thing is difficult and costly.  This isn't one of those times.

Let's get this done.