Newlyweds Tim and Nick Platanitis-McKee are forging a normal life together, despite a political climate that seems determined not to let them

By Rachel Brahinsky for the Advocate

The two men ambled out of the restaurant slowly. One, a big man in a black trench coat, moved like a steamship, his body rocking from side to side with each step. The other had greased his hair into curls that drooped, Elvis-like, on his forehead. He was thin; he moved quickly to the door and then stopped, holding it for his companion, who paused to examine the Christmas decorations to the right of the cash register. When he was ready, they passed through the glass doors, arms touching lightly, and stepped out into the West Springfield night.

Minutes earlier, they'd sat together on one side of a booth telling stories. Tim McKee, the thinner man, reached his hand out to brush against the side of his neighbor's cheek. His eyes softened so that the early signs of crow's-feet grew more distinct. Nick Platanitis felt the touch and blinked slowly. As the finger on his face trailed down his neck and strayed to his shoulder, his eyes turned to the glass of soda on the table in front of him.

McKee was done with telling tales about his cruel co-workers and his lost connection to his mother, and Platanitis had finished recalling how the two had met through this paper's personal ads last May. He listened as McKee repeated his earnest assertion: "We're just two regular guys."

With his black clothing and pierced ear, Platanitis is the kind of man you might peg as gay, if you were pressed. When you learn that he once was a cabaret singer, that he spent years working as a bridal consultant, you understand that he has a particular taste for drama. But his face twitched in discomfort when McKee delved into the details of what two "regular guys" do when no one is watching.

McKee was explaining the litany of annoying questions that curious acquaintances frequently pose. "People ask so many questions, like 'what do you do in bed?' Actually," he said, "we probably have a better sex life than most straight people because the roles are not as obvious. We're more attentive to each other's needs."

Platanitis steered the conversation back to the reason they were sitting in the restaurant booth with a stranger late on a Monday night. He wanted to say that they were normal people, that they did not live a mysterious life and were not bearing some secret sin, but that, as two guys who had just been married by a Catholic priest, they felt compelled to share their story with the world.

The wedding took place on the Saturday after Thanksgiving in Edward's Congregational United Church of Christ in Northampton. As the crowd gathered and filled the pews, there was no evidence that anything unusual was about to happen. At the far end of the sanctuary, a gold cross shone with an ethereal glow. Two clusters of gold and burgundy balloons on either side of the altar were the only decoration. Organ music filled the hall, and guests spoke in hushed voices, waiting for the processional.

The day came and went without fanfare in the rest of the world. And, once it was over, the two men's lives carried on much as they had before. The difference was that they no longer needed to devote so much of their time together to planning for a party, as they had nearly every day since they became engaged six months earlier. "We knew that we wanted to be together forever," Platanitis said. "I felt that we had every right to be married like everybody else." Just because they are both men, he explained, did not have to mean that theirs was an unusual union, or a particularly political event. To make it so would have been against his nature. "I've never been a flag waver," he said, "unless I'm backed into a corner."

But no matter how firmly the two insist that theirs is a marriage just like any other -- and that their wedding and the act of discussing it with a reporter are not political gestures -- it is not entirely up to them to make that determination. They were married at a time when gay marriage is in the spotlight both nationally and in the Valley.

Just days after the Platanitis-McKee wedding, a court ruling in Hawaii improved the prospects for the legalization of gay marriage. First Circuit Court Judge Kevin Chang decided, in a case involving three gay couples seeking marriage licenses, that the state of Hawaii cannot deny those licenses to same-sex couples. Immediately after announcing the decision, Judge Chang issued a stay; the case is being appealed to the state Supreme Court. The appeal is expected to take about a year.

In anticipation of the Hawaii decision, 18 states have passed laws that will deny married gays the rights accorded other married people, even if they have a legal license from another state. Lending support to those 18 states and others that might want to join them, President Clinton signed the Defense of Marriage Act in August. The DOMA gives federal approval to states that pass anti-gay marriage laws.

And, just over a year ago, voters in famously gay-friendly Northampton rejected a proposed Domestic Partnership Ordinance, which would have extended to same-sex couples some of the rights straight couples enjoy.

To say that living an openly gay life and seeking religious sanction of that life is not political is to deny the power of the virulent anti-gay forces in America today.

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When Pachelbel's Canon began to trill and swell from the mouth of the organ in Edward's Church, the crowd rose and the processional began. One by one, McKee, Platanitis and their three attendants walked in measured steps toward the cross at the other end of the room.

The Bible reading began.

But it was not the usual Catholic ceremony. The priest, Father Dominic Biltcliffe, is a Sarum Rite Catholic. He obeys the laws and rituals of the Catholic church as it existed before 1054 AD, when the church split, creating the Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox churches. As he explains it himself, the church is fairly progressive. The Sarum Rite allows its priests and bishops to marry; the church is considering allowing women to join the priesthood; and it is beginning to allow same-gender couples to receive the wedding sacrament.

When Biltcliffe talks about the wedding, his eyes scan the room. He is proud of having performed the ceremony, but he is nervous about the exposure it will bring. In an interview after the wedding, he sat in Bickford's in West Springfield and acquiesced to three cups of coffee in less than an hour. "I can't do decaf," he said, opening the conversation by declaring his distrust of reporters and his initial intention to use a pseudonym. Now that the ceremony was over and he had not been harassed, he was willing to be open about his decision to marry the two men.

Since he had chosen to call the marriage a sacrament, and not, as some do, a commitment ceremony, more than a few people approached Biltcliffe in the months before the wedding, asking, "'How can you do this? How can you call this the sacrament of marriage?'"

His response was always the same: "This is two people in love. How can we not?"

Inside, though, it wasn't quite that simple. Although he is now able to say confidently, "I don't fear any adverse consequences," he admits to having had doubts. In the end, he determined that it was a matter of justice. "At heart I'm not a radical," he said. "I'm a traditionalist at heart. There are people who would question the virgin birth. I don't have these radical notions of questioning theology, [but] Jesus always lived justice, and I felt that justice wasn't being served."

If Biltcliffe were a member of the Roman Catholic church, he would have performed the ceremony at the risk of excommunication. But the Sarum Rite do not believe in the infallibility of the pope, which freed him to make his decision independently. What this meant for Platanitis and McKee was a wedding complete with all of the elements of a Catholic Mass. More than an hour long, the ceremony moved from Bible readings to song to marriage vows and communion.

At the close of the ceremony, a friend read from a letter McKee had written to Platanitis, in which he reflected on his coming-out process. "When I finally discovered who I am," he said. "I resigned myself to a life of disease ... loneliness." He expressed the pain he felt when some of his family and friends rejected him. His mother and sister -- both Jehovah's witnesses -- refused to attend the wedding.

As he sat in Bickford's restaurant a week later, he spoke about other experiences that had brought about these feelings. Before Platanitis, McKee had never had a relationship with a man. He didn't know what kind of reaction his coming out would evoke, particularly among co-workers at C&S Wholesale Grocers, Inc. in Hatfield. In the end, many were supportive or simply withheld their opinions. Others made their revulsion clear. One man came to work wearing a T-shirt that read, "Silly faggot, dicks are for chicks." Another passed McKee's desk and spat: "Faggot."

Telling the story in Bickford's, McKee's face grew taut. "Some people make it very easy to hate them," he said. "We will probably need to change our phone number, change the locks." He reached out to touch Platanitis on the arm, the leg. "I hope our relationship is strong enough to overcome all the ugliness," he said. Nodding, Platanitis breathed deeply and reflected. "I do think," he sighed, "there are a lot of people who will support us but who will never take us seriously."

And there's the rub. Despite the fact that their priest treated their marriage as a sacrament, and no matter how well received they may be among Sarum Rite Catholics or their friends, Platanitis and McKee cannot share health benefits, file joint tax forms, or persuade many in this country to treat their union with respect.

If they want to adopt a child, every inch of their lives will be scrutinized and questioned; in comparison to a straight couple, their chances of adopting are slim. "A straight couple can grab a bottle of 12-cent [booze], get in the back seat of a car and do it, and have a kid and ruin that kid's life," McKee said bitterly. "It's going to cost us a whole hell of a lot more than 12 cents in the back seat of a '62 Dodge to have a child."