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,” Jim 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, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if he meant it. But a month later, he rolled into City Hall, not with resignation but with a cart full of life. Bright daisies burst from little white vases lined up on his cart, their cheerful faces a stark contrast to the 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?” Jim’s voice was filled with new energy. Several of us eagerly signed up, pulling out 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 vases, the fragrance lifting the stale weekend air.

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

On the date of the installation, two elderly men, clearly in their 90s, entered City Hall. Dressed in tuxedos, one man pushed the other in a wheelchair, clutching 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 couldn’t hear her, I watched her mouth the word, “Wait!” She dashed off, returning with Shar and Naomi, who had grabbed flowers from their vases. Together, they handed the blooms, gathered into a nice bouquet, to the old men. 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 50 years. As they left, I caught a glimpse of Kelly’s face, tears softly trailing down her cheeks.

The next day, the Prime computer team had us up and running with our new networked computers, a first for the City. A bell-like tone startled me, and I looked at the screen and received my first ever email notification. I clicked “open,” just as we’d been taught in training.

The email’s subject line read, “The Mrs. Club.” I clicked again, and the message opened like magic. Kelly’s name was in the “to” field followed by the names of every queer woman who worked at City Hall in the “from” 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 remain defiant. 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. Woods. Though society 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….’