We’re Just Here for the Chicken

I used to stick a pin on a map and go. Pack a bag. Be there in a day. New life, new start. That was my little segment of white privilege. Sure, I wasn’t always safe as a woman. I was born poor and short. And Welsh. I could, if I so chose, bugger off to wherever. Whenever. Teach the language of my closest living relatives, all because the English white dispensation had made it possible. Through blood and rape and tears. Not something I’m proud of. But not an opportunity someone like me was going to pass up either. Bottom line is I could. Because they did.

You came as much of a surprise as when I got a gallstone stuck in my bile duct. I turned yellow and nearly died. It was a shock to the system. But holy hell, I was glad to be alive. And even gladder (ha bladder) still to be alive with you.

The visa things seemed straightforward enough, as bureaucracy always does on paper. But our love wasn’t on the drop-down menu. I flew across an ocean to watch you suffer. Just to see the pain in your eyes. But then, when it was done, when time had elapsed, I got to be with you, next to you, as you slowly became. Getting to know the body that matched you. The you that you had always been. It was like watching the moon grow into itself, away from the glaring light of the sun. I left you when the blood had stopped and the drips had been removed. That goodbye has left the scar of your heartbeat on my chest. Pain may not be visible, but it is traceable. And you see it. Every day.

I flew one more time. Forty-eight hours from London to New York. We were married at the town hall. We flew back. Our honeymoon in the sky.

You moved 3,384 miles. Away from family, from friends, from all that you had known, to start this little life of ours. Our love. A white collar with a moustache put a price tag on it. And we were priced out. First, pay up. And then, "prove it." Prove your love with the dollar. Prove it with savings, with jobs, with documents from three different countries and a sponsor who can vouch for your humanity. We didn’t have any of those things. Just a marriage certificate and an unwavering knowledge that this was who we were born to become. An us.

We didn’t qualify. Not for a visa. Not for permanence. Not for peace. And if you know either of us at all, peace is all either of us have ever craved.

We didn’t cry. We didn’t bemoan the system. Because there was no way on this earth, in this life, we wouldn’t be together.

I left my life. I bring my stories and my friends and my past with me. But you are my home.

The realisation that neither of our countries would take us was like a ton of bricks. The numb feeling when we just knew is one of the few low points we’ve weathered together.

What the hell? We’ve braved planes and hospital beds and tears and emotional honesty and pain and love, and we can’t be together?

The UK was going to be too expensive and extensive and would lead to a long time apart. And we are both female-bodied (I, River, am nonbinary), left-leaning, and queer, so the US didn’t seem like a good plan. And this was before all the kidnapping and deportation.

Stick a pin on a map.

Not so simple anymore.

Labelled Queer. Other. Personae non gratae.

We made lists. Charted maps. We researched immigration law like it was the second coming of the axolotl. We learned things we didn’t want to know. Like how being gay is still illegal in over sixty countries. How safety is rationed to the straight side of the spirit level. How marriage means nothing if the wrong flag is flying overhead. How they could throw stones at us in the town square if someone so felt inclined.

Three countries in the whole of Asia. Three.

We had to tackle where we were legal. Which countries are safe for us. Where we’ll be treated like humans.

There are large swaths of this earth that turned red when we put in that parameter. There are only thirty-seven countries that have legalised gay marriage. We were ready to go, but we had to be careful not to give up our rights as a married couple.

I had never left my country. I had roots so deep they were entangled. My friendships and family are incredibly important to me. They just weren’t you. Not once, from the moment we made the decision to the moment I waited in the car park for your flight to land, did I doubt us. Still to this day, I’ve never had a reason to doubt us. You are a breath of fresh air and fuel to my fire. I’d say you came out of nowhere, but there’s a part of me that thinks ‘meant to be’ is a real thing.

There was so much uncertainty while we looked for our new home. All the while, our love grew. It was always all-encompassing, but it became about teamwork, respect, and communication.

It’s difficult to really express how much our little life means to me, even though it still feels like we’re holding our breath. Sitting out in the garden, writing together. Yes, we’ve got some big battles to come, and we’ve fought some big battles already. We are always on each other’s side.

We decided on Thailand. We are tired of Western culture. We would like to experience something different. To learn about the world for the first time, for me, while you are a veteran traveller. To experience something like this together is going to be special.

Thirty-seven countries have legalised our love. That’s too low. We have to fight to exist even in a culture that supposedly accepts us. Imagine what it’s like when your government refuses to recognise you.

Our love is so much stronger than that, and we worked it out. We’re also lucky when it comes to my wife’s career, which allows us to go. Not everyone is that fortunate.

We love each other and will love each other through everything.

We’re still here. We’re still together.

That’s enough. For now.

Love is love.

Mai pen rai.