Marital Status?

During an informal interview for a substitute teaching position, the conversation drifted into the area of parenting issues, which led to my mention of cell phone rules that follow my daughter from my house to her father's. This became a footnote to be referenced later when I was asked how I was making it, financially speaking, without a full-time teaching contract; was I remarried? Yes. A simple, straightforward question requires only a simple, straightforward answer. Well, at least it could appear that way. The remainder of my time was spent trying to steer the conversation so that this very chatty woman would not find it necessary to have all of my marital details. I wasn't prepared to deal with questions about what my husband does for a living or how we met. I wasn't prepared to explain that I was married but to a wife, not a husband. I wasn't prepared for the possibility of this nice woman's head exploding in front of me. This is the Bible Belt of California, after all, and I can never be certain of the reaction.


I realize the question of marital status is fairly conversational and usually not interpreted as being too personal. I am increasingly trying to answer only the questions posed without seeming too standoffish or overthinking them too much, but I loathe the fact that I have to wonder if my answers could alter my job prospects. Some will say that my personal life should not have to come up, but inevitably it does. Teaching is a personal profession, and hiring agents want to get a feel for a candidate beyond what a resume and letters of recommendation have to offer.



I managed to avoid any deeper questions, took my packet of paperwork that I am to complete and submit next week, and headed home. The questions continued in print, becoming more detailed and contradictory. Being a married lesbian in California, I have two tax statuses to deal with: Married for state, Head of Household for federal. I can't wait for the calls from Human Resources about that. Maybe when they see the name listed for spouse and deduce a gender, they will put it all together, but that's assuming they remember that there are 18,000 married gay couples in the state. I am a minority within a minority.


I resent that I end up considering someone else's comfort or acceptance level before considering my own, which is really what it comes down to. No school district or district employee can legally limit my access to work based on my sexual orientation or marital status, but de facto discrimination certainly exists. I can't help but feel that there will always be a chance, at least as long as I teach in public education in this area, that my job opportunities or longevity could be affected by such personal details.


But it feels wrong to, even for a moment, deny my spouse's existence or her gender. She is my wife and the step-mother to my children. She is the reason I am able to stay for my son's entire football practice or attend Back-to-School Night at my daughter's school without worrying about how I will provide a healthy meal that night. She is my backbone when mine dissolves after exposure to caustic teenage chemicals. She is the much needed comic relief after a day of letdowns and frustrations. She is the second pair of alert eyes and ears a mother needs in the house. She is my balance and sanity. She makes me a better woman, a better mother, a better person. How can I deny that? How is it right on any level that I should even consider such denial? I can't, and it isn't. She is listed as my spouse on my emergency contact sheet and my beneficiary for my retirement plan. I may have still experienced an uncomfortable moment in an office, but when those questions continue to come, I will answer them honestly and without apology. The questioners can deal with any discomfort that may arise, but I'm done considering others' comfort level before my own.