A few months ago my mother-in-law picked up one of the free newspapers at her grocery store, thinking it was a local town paper. She got it home and then discovered that it was actually the regional GLBT newspaper.
Now, I can remember first seeing a copy of that newspaper when I went to my first gay pride march 24 years ago (!), and back then nobody could have mixed it up with the hometown paper. One look at the photos on the front page, and you could tell it was not covering elementary school science fairs or garden club festivals. You also couldn’t even get the newspaper way out in the suburbs where my mother-in-law lives, or the suburbs I lived in as a teen. Instead, getting hold of GLBT reading matter meant taking a bus 25 miles into the city, which is why the papers were highly prized items to be passed around amongst the few gay and lesbian kids I knew at school. But now, the newspapers are right there in the suburban grocery store, looking mainstream enough to blend in with the Super Shopper.
I was recently clearing out a cupboard and ran across a short story that I wrote back in high school. It was so embarrassingly sentimental that I have no intention of letting it ever see the light of day again. (Ha, can’t most of us say that about some things we wrote in high school?) But something really jumped out at me.
Back then, I couldn’t even imagine a day in which two women would be able to marry each other legally.
And now, I’ve got a wedding ring on my finger and a marriage certificate in the file box. And I’ve got a 73-year-old mother-in-law who picks up the gay newspaper each week at her grocery store, reads it, then passes it along to us.