The terms “boyfriend/girlfriend” hardly encompass what Maria Peña and her partner, Matt, are to each other, but they are not legally married. And she’s tired of having to explain why—when they are as committed to each other and each other’s children as any married couple could be.
“How do you refer to each other?” It was almost a whisper. I found myself surprised by the question about my relationship, coming from someone I had just met at a happy hour with some girlfriends. I’ve had to answer a lot of questions about my relationship. For example, when are you getting married? Do you plan to have more kids? Why haven’t you gotten married yet? How long have you been together? Followed by, what’s the hold up? But I haven’t been asked about my relationship in this particular way before.
My boyfriend Matt and I live together. He has a child, Gabe. I have a child, Anyssa. Our children are not biological siblings. But we expect them to treat each other as siblings. While I am not Gabe’s stepmother, I help him with homework, make sure he has a good meal in his tummy every night, and help taxi him around town for his baseball games and social events. Matt makes sure Anyssa has breakfast every morning while I get ready for work. He picks her up from pre-school when I work late, he gives her fatherly attention and love, and the man has played more games of Princess Chutes and Ladders than could ever be considered reasonable for any adult.
We run a household better than a lot of my married friends do. We talk about money, we talk about our emotions, and we discuss decisions about where we will live, where our kids go to school. We argue with the best of them, but we don’t go to bed angry at each other.
We are not married. We both went through horrible endings to mediocre marriages. And for a long time, we weren’t sure we wanted to get married again. Ever. We’ve both lightened up on that, but are still in no rush.
But I have to admit, the terms boyfriend/girlfriend don’t really describe what we are to each other and to each other’s children, and to be shallow for a moment, the terms seem kind of high school-ish. The topic of our “status” comes up in normal conversation on a pretty regular basis with family and friends. I’ve actually got a prepared elevator speech about what we ARE to each other for teachers, coaches, exes, our parents, our friends, our co-workers. The speech varies depending on the situation, and who is asking, but might sound like this for a family member:
We are raising our children together as an intentional family. Anyssa calls him Daddy Matt, and Gabe sees me as a step-mom. We are as committed to each other as any two married people could be. Our family means everything to us, and we work hard to keep it stable.
Matt still gets called Mr. Peña by Anyssa’s teacher, which is humorous because when we do get married, I am not changing my last name. It gets tricky—to not feel pressured to conform to an expectation of what makes our family valid.
I think about the fear of difference that often masquerades as curiosity. When my daughter was born, I was a broke single mother. A friend of mine had a son six months before I had my daughter, and she handed down his old clothes. I dressed my daughter in boys’ clothing and freely told people she was a girl when they asked me what his name was. I enjoyed watching the confusion on their faces as they wondered why I’d dress my daughter in boys’ clothing. I sometimes wonder if the curiosity about my current relationship status is similar. My boyfriend and I have all the classic trappings of two people who should be married. We are a stable loving unit raising our kids together in a nice home in suburbia.
So why NOT get married? I wish to reverse that question. In a society in which I hear people on the radio talking about how your first marriage is meant to teach you how to be married to your second spouse, in which gay families in most states cannot be recognized as legal, in which domestic and sexual violence still occur, in which we are taught about who we should be by a system of institutionalized-isms that permeate our norms and morés, why should marriage be what validates a family?
As a former single mom, I remember the feeling of shame at being single and pregnant. It was as if there was something wrong with choosing to be healthy and whole alone for my unborn baby, rather than being unhealthy and miserable in a marriage because it would have been easier for people to understand. I didn’t understand why I wasn’t being praised for leaving a person who mistreated me. For not allowing my daughter to ever see a man treat her mother badly. It was and is my hope that I was doing something big for her, before she was even born. And even to this day, I hold firm to that, hoping that I am teaching her that she never need let a partner mistreat her. But it feels like none of those things matter if I hang out in this undefined category. I could have been more highly educated, I could have been completely financially self-sufficient and able to raise her on my own. I could have been the world’s best parent. But I know that I still would have felt that shame, even if I was all those things. I still would have gotten the looks of pity from people who would ask about her dad and listen sadly to my response that I am raising her on my own.
Society doesn’t value single mothers. Because I was a single mother once upon a time, I have an inner struggle with the desire to have this formal commitment between myself and this person I love, and the contradictory realization that being married means I voluntarily embrace the status and privilege that the institution allots. Status and privilege that I railed against when I had to go to prenatal visits alone and answer questions about where her father was, and when I had to explain to labor and delivery staff that her father would not be “coaching” me. It feels hypocritical or at least a little insincere to the single-mom-me who resisted the expectation of marriage, resisted the idea that marriage would have made me a better parent, that this not-so-single me is now re-considering the idea. I struggle with this.
Don’t get me wrong. I do believe that marriage can be a sacred promise that two people make to each other. I have witnessed caring and supportive marriages. But when I get married again, I want to do it with an awareness of what it means that I can take advantage of that privilege, when people close to me that I love dearly cannot.
Because the second time around it’s not about the ceremony. It’s not about wearing a white gown and feeling like a princess. The second time around, for me, there are children involved. There are pasts to negotiate. There is no clear slate, and no naïve beliefs.
The second time around, there is the understanding that family is work. It’s hard work. And the time spent building a family should not be downplayed. The work of building a family can be in and of itself a reward, and one that we should recognize and applaud more often—no matter your relationship status, or the legality of your family. To have love and to share love is an amazing thing. I respect and commend any family, no matter what they look like, for putting in the hard work. It’s so incredibly worth it, and ultimately, it’s this great contribution that you make to the fabric of society—whether you’re legal and recognized for it, or not.
So, back to that question: How do we refer to each other? I replied, “I call him Matt.”
Maria Peña is a mother and feminist working in higher education. She serves students with disabilities, is an academic advisor, and participates in campus sexual assault intervention efforts. She has worked in public health, maternal and child health and in the movement to end domestic and sexual violence, which she continues to be involved in currently as a member of a statewide committee to prevent sexual violence in Texas. Maria enjoys writing poetry and prose in her spare time, reading, and spoiling her rescued Great Dane, Mina.
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