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Vermont's "Happily Ever After"

Yes, anti-gay marriage robocalls urged me and thousands more voters to contact, well, my wife, who is a Vermont state representative. Then love won.

| Wed Apr. 8, 2009 4:38 PM EDT

The Vermont State House was packed and overflowing. Inside the 152-year-old building, a drama was reaching its climactic act. Nine years after Vermont became the first state in the nation to legalize civil unions between gay and lesbian couples, the Vermont Legislature was about to vote again on whether to legalize same-sex marriage. The House and Senate had overwhelmingly approved same-sex marriage a week earlier, only to have Republican Gov. Jim Douglas veto the bill within 15 minutes of receiving it on April 6, 2009.

On the morning of April 7, 2009, Senate President Pro Tem Peter Shumlin rose to address his colleagues. "This is our moment. This is our chance," he declared in the packed Senate chamber. And with hardly any debate, the Senate swiftly overrode the governor’s veto, 23-5. All eyes turned to the tall Senate clerk wearing a dark green blazer as he walked the bill down the hall to the overflowing chamber of the House of Representatives, where 100 votes—a two-thirds majority—were needed to override the governor's veto.

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The Vermont Legislature has only overridden a governor's veto six times in its history. (The last was 19 years ago.) The vote for same-sex marriage the previous week was five votes short of the necessary supermajority. Shap Smith, the boyish-looking state representative from a working-class town who had become Speaker of the House just three months earlier, had been working the phones to persuade reluctant colleagues to override. He was taking on a popular four-term Republican governor who had regularly outmaneuvered the Democratic legislature. By this morning, everyone knew the final vote would be razor thin; no one could confidently predict the outcome.

In the mundane rituals that belie the historic significance of the moment, the roll of the House was called by the clerk as it has been since the American Revolution, one by one. One hundred and forty-nine times (one legislator was out sick), a name rang out, and was greeted with a "yes" or "no." As the last of the names was called, a swell of murmurs rippled through the galley. Finally, Speaker Smith, his voice cracking with emotion, announced, "Those voting yes, a hundred. Those voting no, 49. A hundred needed to pass; you have voted to override the veto."

A swing of the gavel, an explosion of emotion from spectators in the galley and from members of the legislature who rose to their feet to clap, and same-sex marriage was legal in Vermont. It's the fourth state in the country to allow same-sex marriage—Massachusetts, Connecticut, and Iowa legalized it as a result of court orders—and the first in the country to do so through a vote of its elected leaders.

As I walked up the long, grassy lawn in front of the Vermont State House on the chilly, wet morning of the historic override vote, I had a sense of déjà vu. Large signs stood in front of the gold-domed building. "Believe in Our Common Humanity." "Override for Love." A lone "Take Back Vermont" sign, the slogan of gay-marriage opponents, stuck in the soft, wet spring earth.

Nine years ago, I covered the battle for civil unions in Vermont for Mother Jones. In 1999, the Vermont Supreme Court ruled in Baker v. Vermont that gay and lesbian couples were entitled to the same legal rights and benefits of marriage as heterosexual couples. The court ordered the Vermont legislature to craft a law that would satisfy the ruling, either by legalizing gay marriage or by creating an equivalent partnership structure. The decision, wrote Chief Justice Jeffrey Amestoy, "is simply a recognition of our common humanity." In April 2000, the Vermont legislature passed civil unions, the legal equivalent of heterosexual marriage. Gov. Howard Dean signed it into law the next day.

That winter of 2000, the debate over civil unions raged for four months. I vividly remember arriving at the State House in the midst of a blizzard for the public hearings. Inside, thousands of Vermonters in down jackets and snow boots were camped out in the halls and in the chamber of the House of Representatives. Opponents of civil unions warned that God’s wrath would come down upon the state if "the homosexual agenda" was enacted. Southern Christian churches bused in activists to oppose the effort. But Vermont political leaders barred out-of-state residents from speaking, ensuring that the discussion over gay rights would take place among neighbors. I witnessed one result of this when I came across fanatical anti-abortion leader Randall Terry, founder of Operation Rescue, reduced to shouting himself hoarse on the windswept and icy steps of the State House, unable to make his case to the legislators inside.

This time, the debate was different. For starters, the sky hasn't fallen in the nine years that Vermont has allowed same-sex unions. Gay and lesbian couples have had civil unions, raised kids, and some have divorced, just like straight couples. A cottage industry for civil unions has flourished in the state. A recent study of the economic impact of legalizing same-sex marriage in Vermont projected that it would boost the economy by more than $30 million, generate $3 million in local taxes and fees, and create about 700 new jobs. For a cash-strapped state whose governor recently proposed reducing the state work force by roughly the same number of jobs, it was another compelling argument.

The Vermont Legislature held a public hearing about gay marriage on March 18. There was no blizzard this time. Thousands of Vermonters came to the State House, and the event was notably civil. Marriage supporters wore bright yellow buttons that declared, "From Legal Rights to Equal Rights." Opponents sported white stickers that stated, "Marriage: A mother and father for every child." The opponents' choice of slogan was telling: With roughly half of heterosexual marriages ending in divorce, their rallying cry seemed to be more nostalgia for a bygone era than about the ragged reality of modern family life.

Outside the chamber, I spoke with William Moore, a carpenter from Cambridge, Vermont. "As a Christian man, the word 'marriage' is defined by God," he told me. "They are seeking to co-opt the word and redefine it. They are going to strip all meaning from the word for their political desires. It's not a civil rights issue." I then asked him what he thought about civil unions. "I don't have a problem with civil unions," he replied quickly. "It doesn't dilute or add to the institution of marriage in any way."

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