Trump: A Love Story
by Sydney F. Lewis
The night of the 2016 election I sat in a bathtub and cried. Submerged in cloudy water, I wasn’t exactly sure what I was crying for; I just knew that life as I knew it was about to drastically change. I also knew that I was definitely going to get married.
I, along with a slew of queers of color that I know, had a Trump wedding. Though we had a public ceremony later, my official wedding occurred in my living room on 1/16/17, four days before Trump’s inauguration. Chris and I joked how easy it was to get married, go downtown, pay $30, get a paper, have an officiant sign it, mail it in and, boom, you’re married. No need for blood tests, waiting periods, or even witnesses. Maryland made marriage easy.
Before Trump, I never thought I would get married. I had long term relationships and built families, but never felt the need to “get the gov’ment in my bizness.” I had read the queer and feminist critiques of marriage, and for the most part agreed that it was an outdated contract, rooted in patriarchy and white heteronormativity. Queer people had bigger battles to contend with, such as healthcare, trans rights, homelessness, and violence. “Gay marriage” was a white bourgeoisie concern, and though I might be bougie I was definitely not bourgeoisie.
What I was on November 9, 2016 was scared. I knew as a queer black woman I was already teetering on non-citizenship, and I desired, no I deserved, whatever privileges I could gather. I was scared that the small cache of rights queer people had gained would be stripped away. I was scared of being forced into the closet. But most of all I was scared of being sick and alone.
I have been seriously ill and hospitalized twice since 2016. Each time, my spouse makes sure to pack our marriage certificate with my hospital things. That way we have evidence that Chris is authorized to make important decisions should I be unable to make them myself. I don’t know if we have to have the certificate with us, but it makes us feel safer.
Now, with the probability of sickness from Covid-19 looming over all of us, an administration which is, at best, negligent, at worse genocidal, and fear in the very air we breathe, I am quarantined with my spouse. We darkly jest that we got married in anticipation of the apocalypse and here we are. Our days are spent in mostly separate rooms, Chris watching marvel movies, and me watching my court shows. Chris gets involved in a project and I pretend to work from home. I’m always grading papers. We eat dinner together and laugh at TikTok before bedtime. Every night we say I love you. Lather, rinse, repeat. It’s not the apocalypse we expected but it’s the one we got.
This isn’t an essay to extol the benefits of marriage. I still think it’s an archaic and patriarchal institution that ignores an array of family structures. But I did it anyway, because I was scared and in love. Three years later. I’m still scared and in love. I’m scared that my health isn’t good enough to beat the virus should I contract it. I’m scared that doctors will ignore my symptoms, like they ignore countless black women. I’m scared that there won’t be enough ventilators and my fat body will have to be sacrificed. But most of all I’m scared of losing Chris.
Chris, who makes me coffee with real cream every morning. Whose laughter echoes down the hallway. Chris, whose charisma I envy but whose loneliness I don’t. Whose crooked smile makes me catch my breath. Chris, who makes cigarettes and CK1 smell like home. Whose kisses I crave, and whose cuddles I require. Chris, who is smarter than he’ll ever believe and more stubborn than I’ll ever be. Chris Jay, the photographer, the drag king, the podcaster, the event planner, the creator, the Baltimore queer icon. Chris, my Leonine partner in crime. My safety. My home.
In the end, this essay is a love story. A story of fear and loss, but ultimately about two people, bound together, weaving happiness from the rubble around them. Queer Love in the time of Covid-19. Queer Love in the time of Trump.
Sydney F. Lewis is a Baltimore-area native who, despite living in Seattle, the Bay Area, Chicago and Hawaii, keeps returning home. She is a performer and show producer but most of all she is a teacher. Sydney received her Ph.D. from the University of Washington, English Department in 2012. Her teaching emphasizes Black feminist theory and praxis in contemporary art and culture. Despite completing graduate training, Sydney is a shy writer who is “sensitive about her shit.”