Gay marriage — or my preferred descriptor, same-sex marriage — has become a (the?) defining issue in many LGBTQ communities, so it seems only reasonable that I would weigh in on it at some point. I understand the impetus behind the movement: it feels like a slap in the face to be denied something you’ve likely been brought up to expect as a certain rite of passage. It is not fair that a right exists for some but not for others. But honestly? If getting married is the only thing you’re worried about, you’re doing pretty well. We still can’t pass a law that prohibits firing people solely based on gender identity or sexual orientation, and you’re upset about marriage?

And I know you’re saying (if you’re one of those people) ‘but wait, this isn’t really about marriage, it’s about healthcare and visitation rights and joint adoption and tax benefits; and how are we supposed to have those things without marriage?’ To which I say, ‘how does marriage bring me, a single person with little enthusiasm for life-long monogamous commitment, any closer to those things?’ How about people who have no health insurance to share with a partner in the first place? How about polyamorous people whose chosen partners exceed the requisite two?

What we need is not more marriages, but a better safety net for individuals: universal healthcare. Guarantees to an adequate basic income. The ability to name non-family members as next-of-kin. Comprehensive immigration reform — with sponsorship made easier — and alongside immigration reform, more work done to ease the disparities that make immigration so tempting. Civil partnerships for tax purposes that allow two or more people.

These ideas come out of my thoughts on queering the definition of family. One of the things that I love about queer people is the sense of chosen families. Although I am blessed to have a loving, accepting family, may of my fellow queer folk are not as lucky, and those experiences have shaped our community. But beyond that, I think, is the queerness of the element of choice. Queer identities (as opposed, perhaps, to homo- or bi-sexual orientations) are characterized by intentionality — an awareness that we have no reason to abide by the principles many straight, cis people take for granted: that sex, gender, and orientation necessarily follow from each other; that procreative, monogamous, state- and church-sanctioned relationships are the ideal; that blood is thicker than water. Or that any of these are simple dualities.

So, while I will continue to celebrate wins for marriage equality with my friends who hold that as a gal, I will dedicate my own resources to fighting for the basic rights to keep our families (blood-tied and otherwise) healthy, cherished, and protected.

I’ve always been aware of the power of language, not only to communicate explicitly, but to shape our values and the way we see the world. I was reminded of that fact recently by this post and by my own failures to use language that reflects my values.

Since I was a kid, I’ve known that our assumptions about gender roles are embedded in the pronouns we use. I try not to refer to doctors as ‘he’ or receptionists as ’she’ unless I know for a fact who they are. I recognize that when we use race as a descriptor only for people of color, it reinforces the idea of white as ‘neutral’ or worse, ‘normal’, and I try to regulate my usage accordingly.

When, a bit older, I learned what a blow job was, I worked to strip ‘that sucks’ — and the even more explicit ‘that blows’ or ‘that sucks [insert body part]’ — from my vocabulary. Not only did mentioning sex at all seem awkward at that point in my life, but the politics of that particular sex act and its connotations of power imbalance made me wonder: if I was equating performing fellatio with being incompetent, bad, or worthless, what did that say about the specifically gendered groups expected to perform these acts? Of course, contemporary American slang makes it hard to avoid these expressions, but I’m slowly getting better. I’m learning to say ‘that’s horrible’ and ‘I’m so sorry’, or an ironic ‘rather unfortunate, eh?’ I tell myself broadening my vocabulary and saying exactly what I mean can’t be a bad thing.

Now, I easily avoid the big gaffes, substituting ‘gay’ and ‘lame’ for pathetic and ridiculous. But the smaller stuff is so insidious, it’s sometimes hard to see it matters — unless you’re the one being stung by it. So I avoid saying ‘insane’ when I mean ‘busy’, and I hold off on calling myself depressed when I’m merely sad or bored. But sometimes I slip up, and what hurts even more than my shame at having released hurtful words into the world is the fact that no one ever notices. Ableist, sexist, privileged language is so common that we don’t even blink an eye at it. And yet who can argue that it doesn’t affect us to live in a world where you can cry like a girl or take it like a man, where fair is good and dark is sinister, where cock-sucking is debasing and fucking is an act of aggression? Our words matter, even if we say we don’t mean them.

On the cover of the current Economist: an image of ‘Rosie the Riverter’ proclaiming “We Did It!” with the caption: “What happens when women are over half the workforce.”