EXCERPT – “BIRTH OF THE MRS. CLUB”

“I’m done. I can’t handle it anymore—the endless deadlines, the ‘other duties as assigned.’ I need something more creative, less stressful. I need to breathe again,” he said, his face a canvas of exhaustion and relief.

I wrapped him in a tight hug, not wanting to let go. “Promise me you’ll keep in touch,” I pleaded.

“Oh, I will,” he replied.

I wasn’t sure he meant it. People always say that.

But a month later, Jim rolled into City Hall not with his sad, resigned face, but with a cart full of life. Bright daisies burst from little white vases on a flower cart, the cheerful petals bringing instant happiness to our office surroundings. Jim’s friends gathered around, curiosity and joy pulling them in.

“Three dollars a week for a fresh flower arrangement. Who’s in?” His voice was filled with new energy.

Several of us eagerly signed up, pulling out crumpled bills to bring a touch of color and joy to our workstations.

Mondays became my favorite day, no longer just the start of another week but fresh flowers day. Jim would stop by twice a week, picking up the vases on Fridays and returning on Mondays with new blooms from L.A.’s downtown flower mart. Delicate yellow pansies, paper-white narcissus, and gentle purple petunias peeked out of the vases, their fragrance eliminating the stale weekend office air.

Around this time, the new computer system was installed, a change so mundane yet pivotal it went unnoticed—except by those of us who led with our hearts, like Kelly.

On the day of the installation, two elderly men, clearly in their nineties, entered City Hall. Dressed in tuxedos, one man pushed the other in a wheelchair. The disabled partner clutched an official domestic partnership certificate. I was about to step into John Heilman’s office to do some filing when I saw Kelly at City Hall’s front door, her hand outstretched to stop the men from leaving.

Though I didn’t have superhero hearing, I watched her mouth the word, “Wait!”

Kelly dashed off, returning with Shar and Naomi, who had grabbed flowers from their vases. Together, they handed the blooms, gathered into a bouquet, to the old men. Then they began singing, “For They Are Jolly Good Fellows.”

The men were visibly moved, their eyes glistening with tears. Later, I learned they had been together for over fifty years. As they left, I caught a glimpse of Kelly’s face, tears softly trailing down her cheeks.

The next day, a bell-like tone startled me. I looked at my computer screen and saw my first-ever email notification in my lifetime. I clicked the “open” button, just as we’d been taught in training.

The subject line read: “The Mrs. Club.”

I clicked again, and the message appeared like magic. Kelly’s name was in the “from” field, followed by the names of every queer woman who worked at City Hall in the “to” field. The names formed a pattern, a sisterhood hidden in plain sight.

The message read:

“Although we will never see gay marriage in our lifetimes, we must keep striving. Even if marriage seems like a wild pipe dream, we can’t give in. We must live the lives we dream of, exactly the way we want to live it. We must try to shape the future, even if it’s a future we will never get to experience.”

“From now on, when you see a woman from this list, you won’t address her by her first name. Instead, you’ll use the honorary and illustrious title of ‘Mrs.’ I’m not Kelly anymore; I’m now Mrs. Martin. Though our nation may never properly honor our relationships or confer on us the title of Mrs., we will bestow it upon each other. We have that power, and we will carry it with pride. You are now a member of the Mrs. Club.”

“As part of our duties, we will drop everything at a moment’s notice when a couple is signing domestic partnership papers at the City Clerk’s Office.”

“When you get an email, grab the flowers from your vase to present to the couple. We will sing, throw confetti, and turn this bureaucratic process into the celebration it deserves to be, more like a wedding—and we can do that because now we are all Mrs.”

I no longer needed to search for my posse, my tribe. I had found them.

And I was now Mrs. Penn.

A few feet from my desk, Councilmember Albert’s aide, Judy Abdo,  sat beneath a poster that read, “Think Globally, Act Locally.”

On that day, those words became more real to me.