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soft launching my wife while the fascists invade
Saturday, 17 January 2026 07:02 amIn the immediate aftermath of Renee Good's murder, her parents lie about her. Her mother says she isn't politically active. Her father says her young son "has no one else," as if her legal wife who shares her last name, Becca Good, is not there at the scene of Renee's death. They erase her even as she is dying.
"If they kill me," says one of my people, "you have my permission to call my fucking father and tell him to keep my name out of his mouth."
"I was going to say the same thing," I say. "So now, I guess, I'm saying the same thing." As if that's a surprise. As if he didn't tell me to my face when I was thirteen that he would never call a woman my wife.
My partner and I decide to order silicone wedding rings and start calling each other spouses out loud sometime between standing at her vigil and when we realize the news is calling them "partners"; that Trump says, "That woman and her friend."
We can't get legally married, because she is already married, but we are married anyway, in all the ways that matter. Her wonderful extant wife also picks out a ring pair for the two of them, so we all match a little. We work on a little announcement to post to the Internet. We tell our moms.
I know it won't matter. They will tear me away from her screaming, rings or no rings.
I know, in the end, they'd just tear the paper up, too. That my wife's other wife won't be any safer. I know my dad told me how it was 20 years ago while I cried in an Old Country Buffet somewhere outside of Minneapolis:
"I'd have nothing against her. She could be the nicest lady in the world. But I'd never call her your wife, because that's not what she would be. Not in any way that mattered."
"If they kill me," says one of my people, "you have my permission to call my fucking father and tell him to keep my name out of his mouth."
"I was going to say the same thing," I say. "So now, I guess, I'm saying the same thing." As if that's a surprise. As if he didn't tell me to my face when I was thirteen that he would never call a woman my wife.
My partner and I decide to order silicone wedding rings and start calling each other spouses out loud sometime between standing at her vigil and when we realize the news is calling them "partners"; that Trump says, "That woman and her friend."
We can't get legally married, because she is already married, but we are married anyway, in all the ways that matter. Her wonderful extant wife also picks out a ring pair for the two of them, so we all match a little. We work on a little announcement to post to the Internet. We tell our moms.
I know it won't matter. They will tear me away from her screaming, rings or no rings.
I know, in the end, they'd just tear the paper up, too. That my wife's other wife won't be any safer. I know my dad told me how it was 20 years ago while I cried in an Old Country Buffet somewhere outside of Minneapolis:
"I'd have nothing against her. She could be the nicest lady in the world. But I'd never call her your wife, because that's not what she would be. Not in any way that mattered."
