Last semester on a weekend visit home, my mom and I browsed the toy aisles in my hometown Target.
We passed a baby doll crib that was nearly identical to the one my sister and I played with growing up. My mom made an innocent comment about how she couldn’t wait to give her grandkids the same kinds of toys that I played with in my childhood.
Growing up, I spent most of my time playing basketball and volleyball. I fought my mom every time she tried to dress me in a skort.
The one “feminine” thing I did love was my baby dolls.
I’d play house where I, a six-year-old mother of 10, would drag all of my dolls from my bedroom to the living room couch to entertain myself for hours every day.
What my six-year-old self didn’t know was by the time I was 11, I’d realize I was gay — a shock to virtually no one but me.
Now, eight years later, I know that my parents love both me and my girlfriend of three years dearly. What I don’t know is if I’ll ever have the heart to tell my mom that I will likely never get to start a family like she and my dad did.
The infamous “Don’t Say Gay” legislation flooded national headlines for censoring classroom discussions of LGBTQ+ identity in 2022. Just a few weeks ago, Gov. Ron DeSantis ordered that rainbow street art, including the Pulse nightclub memorial crosswalk in Orlando, be painted over. My state is already actively trying to erase queer history – who’s to say they won’t try to stop my future family?
In 2008, the state of Florida added a definition of marriage to its constitution. Article I, Section 27 of the Florida constitution currently states that marriage is defined as, “the legal union of only one man and one woman as husband and wife.”
It’s not hard to imagine same-sex marriage being torn away in Florida, as it’s literally already written into our constitution.
In 2015, a 5-4 Supreme Court decision in the Obergefell v. Hodges case ruled that the 14th amendment’s due process and equal protection clauses. This ruling guaranteed same-sex couples the right to marry, overturning state level bans, including in the state of Florida.
The Supreme Court was formally asked to overturn the landmark ruling this August. While this does not necessarily mean the case will even be considered, it’s terrifying to think about. To revisit Obergefell, four of the nine justices need to vote to reconsider the case. The ruling requires only five votes to overturn it.
Of the nine justices in the Supreme Court, six lean conservative. Two of these conservative justices, Clarence Thomas and Samuel Alito, have already expressed interest in reconsidering Obergefell.
“We should reconsider all of this Court’s substantive due process precedents, including Griswold, Lawrence, and Obergefell,” Thomas wrote in the concurring opinion on Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization, the case that overturned Roe v. Wade in 2022.
With the conservative majority, the risk of Obergefell being overturned isn’t just a hypothetical. If the Court overturns it, marriage rights would ultimately be left up to the individual states.
If federal protections disappear, my home state could outlaw same-sex marriage. This means that my ability to marry the person I love depends not just on nine justices in Washington, but on politicians in Tallahassee who have already proven they don’t have my rights in mind.
For straight couples, marriage is a given. It’s a milestone their parents expect, their communities celebrate and their government protects. For queer couples, especially in a conservative state like Florida, the right to marry is seen as a political issue.
That disconnect is what makes my mom’s comment about her grandkids so bittersweet. I know she meant it lovingly, just like I know she loves me. But it is complicated knowing my conservative parents’ own votes don’t align with my right to have the life they dream for me.
The truth is, I would love to have a wedding one day and I would love to be a mother. When I was six, playing with my baby dolls, I imagined a future that looked a lot like my parents’ present. I didn’t know then that my young adulthood would be defined by uncertainty about whether my government believes if I deserve that future or not.
While my mom dreams of passing toys down to her grandkids, I’m stuck in a nightmare wondering if I’ll ever get the opportunity to start my own family.