Just partnered

Reprinted from the Daily Southtown.

The diamond ring I wear on my left hand doesn't mean I am married.
It means I'm committed.
This week, I made it official.
On the first day Cook County offered domestic partner registration, my partner of three years and I were the 60th couple to visit the clerk's office to sign on the dotted line.
The affidavit stated that we are in a mutual "relationship of financial and emotional support" -- far from romantic and legally worth less than yesterday's news.
Our signatures won't automatically trump hospital visitation policies, allow us to adopt from China or make it less awkward to ask if our two-woman household qualifies for family health insurance, which it doesn't.
The piece of paper means much more and much less than that.
Hopefully, it means at some point in my lifetime, when I fill out a form at a doctor's office or a bank, I won't have to pick between "single" or "married" because there will be a box for our life together.
I can ponder wedding etiquette with some assurance that I will have to decide whether two white dresses is too much for my same-sex civil union ceremony.
And I can rest knowing that when I die, the funeral home and local newspaper won't edit out the existence of my life's partner to avoid shame on me or my family. We've already made it public, and the county gave us little blue carrying cards to prove it.
A domestic registration certificate is not a marriage license, and we are not tempted to pretend it is one. But Wednesday was our chance to stand up, pay the $30 fee (the same as a marriage certificate) and be counted.
Before I descended the escalator into the basement of the Cook County Building, I equated registering with casting a vote for civil rights, same-sex marriage legislation and anti-discrimination laws. Recording our relationship would be a nod to lawmakers who support domestic partnerships at the risk of alienating voters who don't differentiate between civil and religious unions.
But the directional signs pointing us to the marriage license and domestic registration counter stirred some personal sentiment inside.
In the 42 months Kelley and I have shared, we've charted many milestones without ceremony or recognition. There was the trek halfway across the country to make a home in Chicago and the raising of a puppy into a bed-hog of a dog. On my left ring finger is the family heirloom Kelley gave me on my 26th birthday when she couldn't afford to buy a gift. On her finger is the platinum band I gave her for Christmas when I could.
It was as though through all those times, we were out of the closet but locked in the guest room. This week was the first time we were allowed to push open that door.
It was spine-tingling to see gay and straight couples cross the same threshold, stand at adjoining counters and chit-chat with notary clerks. The gestures consumed all of five minutes, but counteracted generations of secrecy and hate.
Who knows how many years it will take for Illinois to allow civil marriages as Canada does or to create a separate-but-equal category of civil unions like in Vermont. For now we can celebrate this baby step toward a time when a same-sex couple will stand before a justice of the peace and be declared husbands or wives.
Sitting at Petterino's restaurant, sharing our first meal as official "domestic partners," I propped up the letter from Cook County Clerk David Orr that was tucked inside the manila envelope with our registration certificate. It read, "Congratulations! You have made history today."
Next time, I said as we clinked glasses, may it be in front of all the friends and family we love.