When I was a teen, post World War II, there were a lot of DPs-“displaced persons.” It was an abbreviation in common usage at the time, but we don’t hear much about DPs anymore. Perhaps that’s because displaced persons-those of us displaced geographically, physically, emotionally or spiritually-are now in the majority. But the times change and so does the language descriptive of the times. “Awesome” used to be a religious term meaning “filled with awe.” “Gay” used to mean “frivolous and happy,” not homosexual, and “DP” no longer means displaced person. Now it’s an abbreviation for “Domestic Partner.” Howard and I recently became DPs.

In Broward County, Florida, with Fort Lauderdale as the county seat, a 1999 County Ordinance allows residents living together as domestic partners to officially register and be documented. For county employees this means access to benefits previously only available to married couples. For those of us not county employees it means an official designation recognized as “family status” by local hospitals and emergency workers. It doesn’t carry the weight of Vermont’s civil unions, but it’s a move in the right direction.

Howard and I had more curiosity than anxiety as we went downtown to the Broward County Recorder’s Office. Our original concern, understandably, was what to wear. I wanted something plain and simple, the old “basic black and a string of pearls” routine. Howard wanted a strapless with frills and a boa, but he’d never manage walking in heels on a marble floor. And while I know events like this call for white as a symbol of purity and virtue, it seemed more realistic for both of us to settle for gray, with some lavender trim. In the end we both wore bland non-descript shorts and tee shirts that blended into the surroundings beautifully. I did, however, treat this as a formal occasion. I put on underwear. For me, in South Florida in the summer, that’s formal.

There was no pomp or ceremony, no organ music or kiss the bride. We simply filled out a short form with pertinent data (no questions about size, thank heavens) and got in line with those filing for building permits, chicken coop renovations, and dock extensions. It was only a short wait before we were directed by loudspeaker to go to window 20. I must confess I had a tinge of dread that the receptionist would call out over the loudspeaker, “Will the fags who want to get hitched go to window 20.” But, the handling of all applicants, for whatever purpose, was professional and efficient-a surprise in any county government.

At window 20, however, we found a male clerk, using a rainbow colored mouse pad, who, as we gave him our completed domestic partnership application, smiled sweetly and said, “Oh, I have one of these too.” I wanted to reply, “Oh honey I never would have guessed,” but instead we returned the smile and remained silent-consistent with the solemnity of the occasion if not with our character. Well, not consistent with Howard’s character. He talks to a lamppost if it stays still long enough.

It all took about fifteen minutes and we left with an official “Domestic Partnership, Certificate of Registration,” and a wallet card for each of us stating we are registered as domestic partners. Before we left, however, we did ask our friendly clerk what the standard dress code was for such an event and he replied, “Oh man, I’ve seen everything.” And I’ll bet he has.

When we returned home I took a framed print that the Florida sun had faded and taped the official certificate into the frame. The frame was the best part of the package anyway. But I must confess that I look with pride on our certificate frequently and I’m glad that we’re DPs.

Jon Kernodle, a local contest-winning author, recently wrote an article on IDPs in which he expressed his dread of filling in the background questionnaire that’s standard for doctor’s office, insurance application, employment or whatever. The dread comes with the “marital status” question. The usual choices are limited to “Married,” “Single,” “Divorced,” “Widowed.” Should two men or women who have been living together and sharing chores, bank accounts, bed and bath for years or decades check “Single”? He proposes an additional box for IDP, “In Domestic Partnership” and suggests that the Human Rights Campaign, ACLU and others supporting gay rights begin pushing for an IDP box as the next step in the evolution of our civil liberties.

It was more than one hundred years from the signing of the Constitution before women gained the right to vote, and another hundred years elapsed between the Emancipation Proclamation and the Civil Rights Act. Now more than a generation has passed since Stonewall. Must gays and lesbians endure another hundred years of checking “Single” before we’re recognized?

Kernodle’s conclusion is that: “Ultimately, a box on a form that is “our box,” could be the first real advance for Gay Civil Rights in America-perhaps equivalent to the abolition of slavery, or women’s suffrage, or laws requiring public access for handicapped persons. Let’s move this to the front burner, HRC, and other gay leaders. The time has come for a box for IDP-on a tax form, on an insurance application, on a doctor’s questionnaire, whatever.”

At first thought, moving out of the closet and into a box didn’t impress me as much of a move. But the more I look at my Domestic Partnership, Certificate of Registration, the more I realize that, “Yes,” I’d like a box to register who I am. I’d like to be counted accurately and correctly. As a divorced senior, now in a domestic partnership, I could honestly check “single” or “divorced” on any form and both would give misleading information. Only IDP captures and records my current state. I’m ready to join the “boxers.”