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'S' is for 'Single'?
by Michele Forsten
Family lore has it that when I
was 4 years old, I used to be my grandfather Misha's little nurse — I knew exactly which pills to give him and when. We lived in the same building, and I've been told I spent a lot of
time with him. My only personal memory of that time is of standing across the street from a hospital and seeing the faint image of someone at a window high up in the building waving to
me. "That's grandpa!" my mother said to me. And I waved and waved until the person disappeared.
A fat, jovial man who loved eating smoked fish and herring and anything my grandma cooked, my grandpa had grown gaunt with advanced heart disease. He died
when I was in kindergarten. I was kept out of school the day of his funeral but not taken to it — one of many of my family's decisions that I now see as misguided.
Thirty-five years later I sat in the National Archives in Manhattan, searching for evidence of his life. Bleary-eyed from scrolling through microfiche of
the 1920 federal census, I perked up when my grandpa Misha's name jumped out at me. The excitement turned into perplexity when I noticed that an "S" clearly appeared in the box for his
marital status; I had his marriage certificate to prove that he had been married to my grandma for about eight years by then. It is true that in 1920, my grandma and her infant daughter
Rose were not in the United States. They had traveled back to my grandma's shtetl in what is now Belarus in 1914 and got stuck there during the First World War. They didn't return home
until 1920 or 1921.
The census data showed that my grandpa Misha lived with his sister Sonya and her family. Their marital status boxes were all accurate. My aunt thinks the
census taker just made a mistake on my grandpa's entry. I, being more paranoid, think that the lie was told to cover up that my grandmother was in the newly formed Soviet Union. My
partner speculates that anger or despair over his abandonment by my grandmother fueled his response. Maybe there was a prolonged silence from overseas and it was thought that my
grandmother and aunt had perished. Maybe the census taker just made a mistake … or maybe not.
Questions remain with nobody left to answer them, but that "S" still lingers on as a historical record; its significance all too apparent for documents I
have filled out throughout my own life. I've checked off "single" on health insurance claim forms, job applications, new patient forms at doctors' offices, and other official documents.
Legally, I am single. But for the most of the past 23 years I've been in committed relationships. Perpetuating the half-lie/half-truth affects me in subtle and not-so-subtle ways.
Some years ago, for instance, when a gynecologist asked me if I was sexually active, I blurted out, "No, I'm a Lesbian," and turned red with the realization
of my own homophobia when she didn't miss a beat and said, "Ohhh-kay, but are you sexually active?" I was so ashamed by what I had said, I wished I could make myself invisible. And, in a
way, I had.
Slowly, over the past two decades, I have made the effort to become more visible as a Lesbian, participating in marches on Washington, the Gay Games, and
New York City's annual Heritage of Pride march. My partner and I signed up to be domestic partners and a few years ago participated in a commitment ceremony on board a Lesbian cruise to
Alaska. Rainbow chatzkes tastefully decorate my office and my partner's photo sits on my desk.
At times, though, the ancient, reflexive protectiveness kicks in. When a work colleague I don't know well asks me to identify the woman in the photo, I say,
"She's my sister, in a manner of speaking," and change the subject. Participating in the shipboard commitment ceremony and signing the domestic partnership certificate were not real
meaningful to me.
I know it must seem hypocritical--on the one hand I'm complaining that my intimate relationships are not taken seriously and, on the other, I'm a chief
perpetrator of that perception. I suspect that years of not receiving the official recognition that heterosexual married couples take for granted have taken their toll.
On the "gay marriage" issue, I am clear that I personally don't want to get "married" but think it's fine if other queers do. What I want is the same rights
that married people have and a universally used designation of "life partner" (LP) under "marital status." Being in a partnership, as opposed to a marriage, seems to be less about
possessing someone and more about being on equal footing. Besides, those of us who came of age before the CD era and bought records know that LP also stands for "long-playing," which is
an apt way to describe my pattern of intimate relationships. It is certainly more descriptive and accurate than the Census's designation of "unmarried partner."
I began doing genealogical research some years ago, partly hoping that fleshing out more of my grandparents' lives would strengthen my sense of self and
give me a firmer foundation from which to venture forth into the world. Instead, it's the omissions and innuendo I have bonded with.
My branch of the family tree is ending with my sister and me. But if a distant descendent were to someday ferret out information about me — from the day I
was born in 1954 to the foreseeable future — one "fact" would show up over and over on my official papers. It's the same "fact" that appeared in my grandpa's 1920 census listing: the
"S" for "Single." I cheer the encouraging development in Vermont and I hope in my lifetime I will see a few "LPs" next to my name for posterity.
© Michele Forsten 2000
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