Now I'm one pissed off mother!

Saw this article today about a neighbor who sent this disgusting anonymous letter to the grandmother of an autistic child. It's so bad I thought it was a hoax, but no...it's real.

Here's the text of the letter:

I also live in this neighbourhood and have a problem!!!! You have a kid that is mentally handicapped and you consciously decided that it would be a good idea to live in a close proximity neighgbourhood like this???? You selfishly put your kid outside everyday and let him be a nothing but a nuisance and a problem to everyone else with that noise polluting whaling he constantly makes!!! That noise he makes when he is outside is DREADFUL!!!!!!!!!! It scares the hell out of my normal children!!!!!!!!!

Crying babies, music and even barking dogs are normal sounds in a residential neighbourhood!!!!! He is NOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!

He is a nuisance to everyone and will always be that way!!!!!! Who the hell is going to care for him????????? No employer will hire him, no normal girl is going to marry/love him and you are not going to live forever!!

They should take whatever non retarded body parts he possesses and donate it to science. What the hell else good is he to anyone!!!!

You had a retarded kid, deal with it... properly!!!!! What right do you have to do this to hard working people!!!!!!!!!

I HATE people like you who believe, just because you have a special needs kid, you are entitled to special treatment!!! GOD!!!!

Go live in a tralier in the woods or something with your wild animal kid!!! Nobody wants you living here and they don't have the guts to tell you!!!!!
Do the right thing and move or euthanize him!!! Either way, we are ALL better off!!!

             Signed, "One pissed off mother!"


I can't get it off my mind.

So here's an open letter back at you for what it's worth. I know you won't see it. Even if you do, you won't care. And this probably won't even make me feel better (I'm not a violent person, but short of punching you in the mouth, nothing will), so here goes:

Dear “One Pissed off mother,”

First off, you consider yourself a mother? What woman who has ever given birth would write such despicable, vile, intolerable words about another child? How sick and demented must one be to even think this about anyone, let alone a child? 

Despite my disbelief, it appears you are a mother. I pity your “normal” children, who have the misfortune of being raised by you. I pray they remain healthy and never develop any abnormalities that would render them useless to you, and thus eligible for euthanasia.  I also pray they don’t turn out anything like you, and have enough sense to get as far away from you as possible (and maybe when the authorities find you – and they will find you - they will hurry that process along).

I’m not going to even try to explain to you what it’s like to raise a child with a handicap. I would be wasting my breath telling you that despite their special needs they are actually a GIFT and a blessing. You will never understand or know (thankfully) the beauty of a special child.

Now I’m not a devoutly religious person, but how dare you utter the word God! You have no grace, no mercy, no compassion. You are without heart. You are void of anything good. If anyone should be euthanized, take a long, hard look in a mirror.

There is one thing that you are: a coward. Why don’t you quit hiding from behind a computer and printer and come forward to explain yourself – try to give some credence to your words. Come on, I’d love to hear you try (and oh what I’d give to be there).

How do you know you're gay?

“How do you know you’re gay?” 

That’s the first thing my older brother asked me when I told him.  

“I just know,” I said. 

His second question: “Have you slept with a woman?” 

“No,” I said. That was the truth.  

“Then how do you know for sure?”  

My sister-in-law answered for me. “Geez, Barry. Maybe you should sleep with a man to make sure you’re not gay.”

Ha! Love my sister-in-law. In fact, when I told her before he came home that day, you know what she said to me? “’It’s about time!”  Yep, some figured it out way before I did.  

So how did I know?  

I didn’t come out until the age of 39. It should have happened much sooner than that, but life just took its crazy twists and turns and that’s how it ended up. And that’s okay with me. We all have regrets, but I don’t look back and wish that I would have done things differently. I live by the mantra that everything happens for a reason. I am who I am today because of the winding road I’ve traveled.

There were lots of clues to my being gay throughout my life, but whether it was ignorance, naivety or avoidance, I rejected the notion from the start. Let’s face it; I grew up in the 70’s in Indiana. Not much liberation going on there, back then or even today. I didn’t have any role models to look up to - Ellen and Melissa were my age, just growing up and trying to make sense of it themselves. Oh, I know now there were lesbians out there…ones that I was drawn to like a moth to a flame. I couldn’t wait every week to watch Kristy McNichol on Family. When I was young I thought I was Jodie Foster’s twin. I wore out my Janis Ian records (yeah, I learned the truth at seventeen) and I loved Joan Jett more than Rock and Roll itself. 

It wasn’t just celebrities I was smitten with; there were quite a few girls and female teachers that made my heart beat fast. I knew I was different; I knew that my girl friends were gaga over boys and I wasn’t, and that I was drawn to girls and they weren’t. They were into makeup and dresses and I was into softball and button-fly jeans. I’ll never forget being at a slumber party - I was probably 12 - where the girls wanted to practice kissing on each other and I wouldn’t do it, because I knew it would mean something entirely different to me than it would to them. I remember the tingles after accidental touches of skin and allegedly innocent displays of affection between friends. I just didn’t know what to make of all that. So I did the only thing that made sense; that was ‘normal’.  I started dating boys. 

I only had two what you would call serious relationships. The first one lasted maybe a year and he never got past second base - I just wasn’t interested (go figure). I married the second one. He was a good guy; he liked the fact that I was into sports, fast cars and fishing. I liked that he didn’t mind me being a tomboy. I can honestly say that I loved him and we had happy years together. But there was always this missing piece of me, this pull towards women that I couldn’t explain. And then along came Melissa Etheridge on my car stereo and Ellen Degeneres on my television, shouting to the world that they were gay. And then I found out that a lot of those girls I was smitten with while growing up were gay too, now living with other women in lesbian relationships. Talk about a wake-up call! I finally realized that the feelings I had for women didn’t make me weird. Although different from the norm, I wasn’t alone.  

Those who say being gay is a choice are right in a way they don’t understand. I did have a choice – I could have taken the easy way out and stayed married. After all, I had a lot to lose: a good provider, a home, perhaps even custody of my son if his father chose to fight for him. Would my family and friends accept it? What if my employer found out? Would I be able to support myself? Where would I live? So yes, I had a choice. And I chose to be who I was meant to be. 

Ending my marriage wasn’t easy. There was guilt – lots of guilt. But coming out freed me. My shoulders felt light. I could breathe. All the little pieces of me finally came together and I discovered the real me. I was 39 and I felt like I was 18, starting adulthood all over again. I relished it. Every minute of it. And I still do. 

How did I know I was gay? Because facing the truth made me feel whole. Being gay makes me normal.

January 20, 2009

Here's another one from the archives:

Today, January 20, 2009, we inaugurated the 44^th President of the United States of America. It is already redundant to say that today is a historic one in America; a day full of emotion, pride and hope for tomorrow. I felt this too, but today was even more emotional for me as it marked the 21^st birthday of my son Bryan, who passed away nearly four years ago.

Bryan was mentally and physically handicapped, but in some ways he was much like our new President: strong and determined, with a wonderful sense of humor and the ability touch the hearts and souls of everyone he met. As I watched President Obama’s speech inspire millions, I realized that today was not a day for me to mourn my son. Rather, it was a time to not only celebrate the rejuvenation of our country, but to celebrate the day twenty-one years ago when God gave me the greatest gift of my life.

After watching the inauguration, I walked out into our back yard and released twenty-one balloons into the air. The wind was light and they soared high, perhaps touching the clouds, but surely touching the heavens. Each balloon was a different color: green, yellow, purple, orange; but most of all I will remember those that were red, white, and blue.

Congratulations President Obama. Happy Birthday Bryan.

A Three Day Walk is More than a Journey

My old desktop computer is about ready to take a crap so I started going through old documents and saving things off. I came across some old writings that I'd like to share.  This first one goes way back, but it's as fresh in my mind as ever. By the way, just so you know, I still don't drink Gatorade.

In the summer of 2000, as my best friend and I rapidly approached our 40^th birthdays, we both had just happened to see an episode of Oprah that focused on breast cancer. Two statistics stood out to us: Women over 40 had a much higher likelihood of developing breast cancer than those under 40, and that 1 woman in 8 would be diagnosed with the disease. We thought of ourselves and of our circle of friends and felt that this horrible disease was likely to touch us in some way in our lifetime. As we stood talking on the 5^th hole of a golf course, we decided we needed to do something – anything – to try to help stop this deadly disease.

            Within two weeks we had both signed up for the Avon Breast Cancer 3-Day Walk from Kenosha to Chicago. We felt like we were doing something for the cause - raising money and awareness - and creating a physical challenge for ourselves. But we had no idea what we were truly embarking on. In June of 2001, we drove to Kenosha to begin the journey. I arrived in Chicago 3 days later a changed person.

On Day Zero my friend and I and others we had met while training checked in, just a handful of the 3700 women and men ready to hit the trail. We attended a “mandatory safety video” that was really about thanking us for our efforts and participation; about making us feel that we COULD make a difference; that we COULD end breast cancer, and soon. The message was ‘HUMANkind...Be Both.’ If you didn’t leave that theater wiping a tear from your eye and feeling inspired, then you were neither of those things.

On Day 1 we all wore gray Avon 3-Day shirts to the opening ceremonies. Everywhere you looked, for as far as you could see, were gray shirts. I was pumped up, ready to embark on 18 miles...Then a group of women - all breast cancer survivors – formed a circle by holding hands and walked to the center of the stage, the inner circle representing all of those who had lost their battle with breast cancer. The crowd grew silent; we held hands, too. I watched a walker in front of me burst into tears, obviously remembering someone very special to her that was a part of that inner circle. Two other walkers held and consoled her. I cried too, as many did. It brought it home to me; it gave the event a human face. I was no longer there for the fight against breast cancer; I was there for a friend, for a mother, a daughter, a sister.

Throughout the walk, we saw T-shirts that said, “In Memory Of...” and photos of loved-ones pinned to walker’s backs. People cheered us on from their lawns, telling us of the ones they had lost to the disease as we passed by. We saw breast cancer survivors walking as well as a few being pushed in wheel chairs. I got a blister on my heel at about Mile 11 and my feet started to hurt at Mile 15...Big deal.

That night after dinner a few speakers came on stage including two survivors, and again I was touched and in awe. The first speaker was 39 - the same age as I. She was diagnosed while breast feeding her third child. She had finished chemotherapy just weeks before the event and was there walking the whole 60 miles. My blisters were insignificant.

Day Two - 23 miles ahead of us. I put moleskin over my lanced blister and hoped for the best. It was a beautiful day, but by midday it had turned pretty hot and humid. One of our group (we called ourselves The Hoosier Mammas) was also a Safety Monitor, and she made sure we all kept hydrated...forever saying, “DRINK!” till we thought our bladders would burst. Later that day we came upon a woman in distress. She was by herself and obviously dehydrated or suffering from heat exhaustion. She begged us not to call 9-1-1, so we called the Avon hot line for a sweep van instead. We laid her down, put ice at the back of her neck, poured cool water on her and gave her some salty chips while we waited. She told us she had come to the event with her mother who had just finished chemo but still insisted on doing the walk. She could only do 5-6 miles a day, so her daughter walked the rest alone, carrying the torch so to speak on her mother’s behalf. She was embarrassed and upset that she couldn’t make it and shed some tears. We told her not to worry, that this wasn’t an easy thing; there were lots of people who were struggling in the heat. As the medical crew helped her to the van, we told her we would see her at the closing ceremonies, along with her mother. After that, none of us complained when our Safety Monitor told us to “DRINK!”

After 23 miles we entered camp to the roar (and I mean ROAR) of other walkers and crew screaming, cheering, clapping and whistling at a near deafening level. Talk about inspiring. Did my feet hurt? No-siree.

Day 3. I lanced my blisters, covered them in Vaseline and moleskin, put on my shoes and hit the road for what seemed like a cakewalk after Day 2’s 23 miles. It was a gorgeous day. The crowds grew bigger, the anticipation grew bigger. Our group talked about how Day Zero seemed like an eternity ago, but I believe we all quietly contemplated how we wished it wasn’t going to be over. I made new friends within the Hoosier Mammas; I connected with people I will probably never see again; I also strengthened my bond with an old friend. Did my blisters hurt? Nope.

One mile before the finish we entered camp for lunch to a heart-wrenching display of camaraderie - There was a living tunnel of walkers and crew cheering and high-fiving us as we walked through them. The line stretched on forever. We joined the line at the end, and I saw both joy and pain on the faces that then passed by me. We had walked nearly 60 miles; we had endured blisters and pulled muscles and aching feet; we walked through rain and hot, humid weather; we had raised money to help fight a disease that could strike any one of us at any time - and maybe already had without us yet knowing it. We cheered each other on because of our determination and will, and for the heroes that battle a much bigger foe than a mere 3 day trip from Kenosha to Chicago. I will never forget these moments. Did my feet hurt? Not one darn bit.

After lunch we assembled and put on long sleeved dark blue shirts; Survivors wore pink shirts. They called for the Survivors to line up ahead of us, and as these pink shirts made their way through a sea of blue we clapped and cheered them on. I consider myself fortunate to have been in a spot where a pathway formed for these ladies to make their way. I thought the parade of pink going past me would never end. There were older ladies and women that looked like they were in their twenties. They were short, they were tall; they were white, they were of color. There were those that looked determined, proud, happy and joyous; others were overcome with emotion. This too, I will never forget. Did my feet hurt? No way.

We walked the last mile in silence through Lincoln Park, where families were gathered for picnics and men and boys were playing baseball or soccer, but the sight of a chain of over 3500 women and men walking for a cause stopped people in their tracks. We held hands; we waved to crew and signed ‘I love you’ to friends and family members gathered along the route. At some point or another during that last mile, we all shed tears. When they announced our entry into the closing ceremonies, we lifted each other’s hands high into the air; we screamed, we yelled, we rejoiced, and yes, we shed some more tears.  Once again, the Survivors formed a living circle and we honored our fallen mothers and sisters, wives and friends. We heard from women who had made not only the 60-mile journey, but also the biggest journey of all - survival from breast cancer. When it was all over, The Hoosier Mammas hugged each other and then danced in a circle, each one of us taking a turn in the middle. Did I dance? Yes I did. Did my feet hurt? Nope. I felt good on the inside. I felt good about myself. I felt good for everyone there and for the hope of tomorrow.

My blisters soon faded and within a few days I remembered that I was no longer using a Port-A-Potty and began to flush the toilet again. And maybe someday I will forget that I swore to never drink another Gatorade as long as I live. But I will NEVER forget this experience and what HUMANkind can do...Never.

I pledge allegiance to myself

Yes, it's been two months since I've blogged, but on a positive note I have been writing so I'm okay with it. I'm back to working on my book, a story about a woman who came out later in life. Yeah, it's a real stretch, isn't it? They say write what you know...

I've written the whole thing, and then re-written, and re-written again. Part of it is my OCD, the other part is fear. Fear that it's not good enough, not unique enough; that I suck as a writer. I've had enough courage to show it to a handful of friends who of course say it's great, and I've posted several chapters on writer's critiques and have gotten positive feedback. Yet something holds me back from taking it any farther. It's time to get past it.

Here's my declaration: no more pussyfooting around. I'm going to dedicate myself to writing every day for at least an hour, and get through editing each chapter within a week, to complete it all by the end of May. And then it goes off somewhere - contest, agent, editor, self-publish - somewhere.

And that's that.

2012

What a year, eh? Highs like Obama winning the election and more states legalizing gay marriage; Horrible lows like Hurricane Sandy and Newtown, CT. It's kind of hard to say anything good about 2012 after Newtown. I kind of feel the same about my personal 2012...a real roller coaster ride of emotions.

You know that when you get on a roller coaster ride and you hear that tick tick tick of the chain that soon you'll be plummeting to the bottom of the rails at warp speed. That was me, trudging along working way too many hours and putting up with way too much bullshit. I knew the bottom was going to fall out at some point. I finally did the right thing and got out. I've got a job now that isn't trying to kill me or my relationships. And, as you know, I got legally married to the girl of my dreams this year. The coaster made it all the way back to the top. But roller coasters always have at least two plunges, right?

I've been on hellacious roller coasters before. In 2004 we built a house and moved in with big plans and dreams in our heads. My gal wanted a baby, so we started fertility testing. Ultrasounds revealed some growths on her ovaries. It was cancer. Fertility testing actually saved her life, but it didn't save her ovaries or uterus. There was relief because it could have been worse; grief because it was still a loss. Her dream of having a child was gone.

In 2005 we lost Bryan and my partner's mother within a week of each other. Gut wrenching. This was our personal Newtown.

You wonder how you'll get through it. How you'll even find the strength to get out of bed sometimes. But life goes on for the living. You find ways.

In August of that year my gal saw an ad in the newspaper for White German Shepherd pups. She nonchalantly commented that she had always wanted one. We already had a dog, one she had bottle fed as a pup because he was the runt of his litter. But he was getting up in years and I thought - if something happened to him that year - well, I didn't think she'd recover. I didn't know if I'd recover. We were hanging on by threads as it was. There was part of me that thought a puppy would be unfair to bring into that old dog's life, and another part of me that didn't want a puppy in my grieving life either. But my gal's birthday was coming up and my friends talked me into at least going to take a look at them. They really didn't have to push too hard.

I went after work one night and drove out in the country to this run-down farm house with several scrap cars in the backyard. Two huge Black and Tan German Shepherds were chained up to their dog houses and barked at me, but in a friendly way. A gaggle of white pups made a bee-line under one of the cars when they realized I was standing there. Well, all of them except for one little fluffball that wagged her tail and came running up to me without an ounce of fear. I was hooked. Any doubts melted away. I took her right then and there and headed for home. She curled up in the seat and fell asleep less than a mile from the farmhouse. So much for separation anxiety. I'll never forget my gal's face when she saw her - she lit up like a Christmas tree. I hadn't seen much of that in the last few years. On the other hand, the old dog was not at all pleased. He sniffed her and then growled like an old man with a grudge. This was not going to be easy.

We named her Maggie Mae, in homage to my gal's mom Margaret. She was the smartest and happiest and bravest and fiestiest pup I've ever seen. She wasn't afraid of the mean old grump who growled and snapped at her - she just kept going back at him until she won him over with her charm and wit. She'd stick her little butt in his face and while he was sniffing she'd steal his ball or toy or bone before he realized what was happening. She'd jump on his back and bite his tail, knowing that he couldn't get his fat old body turned round fast enough to do anything about it. But you know what? It made him young again. That gray-bearded old dog started to smile and play like he used to. Maggie picked up all of our spirits.

Anyone who loves dogs will tell you that their dog is the best dog in the world, so saying that about Maggie seems cliche. I've had lots of dogs in my life and I've loved them all, but none compare to Mags. None. We have two other White Shepherds now and I love them to pieces, but Mags is still the best. (Who says parents don't have favorites?) There are so many stories to tell about Maggie but not enough time or space here to do her justice. I suppose I could write a book, but then that's already been done, hasn't it? I don't know...Here I am, self-proclaimed master of the written word, and I can't find a way to adequately describe what makes her so special. I guess if I had to narrow it down to one thing I'd say it was her smile. Yes, dogs smile.

And now back to that roller coaster ride...

Maggie passed away this year. She was smiling and chasing tennis balls one day, and the next day could hardly get up off the floor. We found out she had cancer and it had spread like wildfire. Within a week she was gone. I know it's not the same as Newtown. I know it's not the same as our personal Newtown. But it hurts bad.

In 2012 we got married. Our family expressed their love and acceptance. I got a sane job. Obama won re-election and marriage equality took more leaps forward. But we lost Maggie. Newtown lost children. How do you reconcile all that?

For auld lang syne my dear,
For auld lang syne
We'll take a cup of kindness yet
For the sake of auld lang syne.


In honor of Maggie:
http://web.photodex.com/view/28wcm28

Marriage and Acceptance

I've been thinking about what to write first in my effort to catch up here, and everything I thought of seemed to be a Debbie Downer (make that ‘Debi with an i’ just to be consistent). I'm really not all doom and gloom; it just seems that I tend to write more often about the trials of my life. I guess when things are good there's no need to lament. I was preparing to write of another bleak time in history, but then it happened...something that brought me to tears of joy, so I must share. First a little history (which, by the way, allows me to share other happy moments):

I met the love of my life twelve years ago. Neither of us was looking for love; it just happened. I think that’s how I knew it was real, because I wasn’t searching for it. It just whacked me on the head and sent me flying. It was a semi long-distance relationship at first, but within 9 months we were living together in Euphoria. We bought matching gold and silver rings and inside our little rented house the two of us promised to love and cherish each other forever. At the time that’s all the ceremony we needed and we really didn’t expect we could ever have anything more. Both of our families were still reeling over the fact that we were gay (gasp!) and that we were in love (yuck!) and that we were living together and sleeping together (horror!). Having a ceremony with friends and relatives wasn’t really in the cards.

With time came our family’s acceptance of our relationship. But ‘acceptance’ is a relative term. I know there are members of the family that love us unconditionally and could care less that we’re not one man and one woman. They get that we love each other, and they love us, and that’s all that matters. Others outwardly appeared to accept our relationship, but at what level? For example, my mom has said on more than one occasion, “I don’t understand it, but you’re my daughter and I love you.”  Is that acceptance? I’m not so sure. It’s hard to tell what’s really in someone’s heart, you know?

Anyway, the years go by and we watch family and friends get married left and right, and it begins to irritate me. We should be able to stand in front of our family and friends and show them our commitment to each other. We should be able to have that perfect white wedding with lace and flowers and organ music and whatever…We should be able to have a big reception bash with a toast from the best man and maid of honor, and have a first dance and shove cake in each other’s face. We should be able to do all that. But Marriage is between a man and a woman don’t you know…

So I tried to talk my partner into a commitment ceremony to do all those things we should be able to do, even though it wouldn’t be ‘accepted’ by the state because political groups and religious right ringers decided it shouldn’t be. But being the realist that she is, she saw no point in doing something that means nothing. I get that, but I still wanted to do it, because I wanted family and friends to get it (us). I wanted true acceptance and this was how I thought I’d get it.

Then New York legalized same sex marriage, and was the only state in which you didn’t have to be residents to do so. BINGO! My love asked me to marry her. We started to plan. I called my best friend, she called hers. Mine said yes, she’d be my maid of honor. Hers said no, it was against her beliefs. Really? Wow, what a shot to the chin. You’ve been BEST friends with someone for over twenty years and then you find out you’re not really ‘accepted’ after all. That’s what was in her heart. Then…you have a brother (who has been married 3 times by the way) that says it’s against his beliefs as well. He loves you and wants you to be happy, but… That’s what was in his heart.

We decided to hold off on the wedding – not because of them, screw them – but because we wanted to save up for that perfect white wedding and big bash reception. Then happenstance; we were going to a dog show in Massachusetts, which meant traveling through the state of New York. How could we possibly travel through the state and not get hitched? So we did; kind of a spur of the moment thing. We really only told a handful of people, and off we went. We got LEGALLY MARRIED in the State of New York by a Clerk in a courthouse in front of two witnesses (people that love us unconditionally and could care less that we’re not one man and one woman). We didn’t wear lace; we wore shorts. She forgot her gold and silver ring and I couldn’t get mine off my finger, so we bought $8 rings at a tourist trap and placed them on each other’s pinkies. I wrote vows and cried through all of them. She sang Amanda Marshall’s “Marry Me” and I cried through all of it. And you know what? It was perfect.

A month later we traveled down state to my wife’s (I love saying that) Dad and Stepmom’s house for the annual Thanksgiving family shindig. As usual it was a packed house; young and old, babies and teenagers and elders. We had the big dinner and then some started asking to see the wedding video. Everyone piled into the living room. I was more than a bit nervous to tell you the truth. There we were on a big screen TV, holding hands and kissing after the clerk announced we were partners for life. How many of them were going to be accepting of that? When the video was over some applauded, some “awwwed”, some smiled, some came and hugged us and said congratulations. At least no one gasped or stormed out of the room, so I thought it went pretty well. We started to show more video of our trip, but I noticed that the crowd started quietly thinning out. Okay, it was your typical boring vacation video, but in the back of my head I was thinking that they were leaving because they really didn’t accept what they just saw and wanted to get the hell out of the room to gag or puke or pray.

And then…when we left the living room we were greeted by bubbles floating in the air and two rows of family clapping and shouting “Congratulations!”  – Our very own reception line. And after we made it through the line, there sat a tiered wedding cake with flowers in our favorite colors, and champagne, and wedding cards from everyone. We were floored. Flabbergasted. Overwhelmed with emotion. My wife did something she rarely does – she cried. And of course I cried. We somehow managed to choke out a toast and tried to tell everyone how much it meant to us. My Father-in-law and Mother-in-law hugged me and told me that they had always considered me a part of the family and that they loved me. My Brother-in-law (the one that said it was against his beliefs) hugged his sister and with tears streaming down his face told her that he loved her and that he was happy for us. Our surprise wedding reception was perfect.

So I finally got what I wanted. I married the love of my life. We had a wedding and a reception and some cake shoved in the face. We were able to stand in front of our family and friends and show them our commitment to each other. We got to see what was in their hearts. We were accepted.