10 years after winning same-sex marriage, Jim Obergefell and his legacy both live on

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4 days ago

Nearly 10 years after he changed the lives of every queer person in America, Jim Obergefell sat in a crowded bar on a small island in Lake Erie, watching the close-knit local community celebrate its third annual Pride.
Jim, 58, made history as the lead plaintiff in the landmark legal case Obergefell vs. Hodges, in which the U.S. Supreme Court ruled on June 26, 2015, that same-sex couples nationwide have a constitutional right to marry.
The last decade has diminished the familiarity of his face, once everywhere on cable news, and he appeared to sit anonymously now, sipping a beer in a booth. But Jim's legacy still resonates deeply with LGBTQ+ people all over the country, in both red and blue states and in little purplish outposts like Put-in-Bay, too — as Molly Kearney, the queer comedian on stage, would soon make clear.
Kearney spent years working at island bars and restaurants before making it big and landing a gig as the first nonbinary cast member of "Saturday Night Live." They are something of a legend on the island about three miles off the Ohio coast, and the crowd was loving their set — which was chock full of stories about getting drunk at local watering holes and navigating life and family as a young queer person.
Then Kearney brought up Jim's case.
The day the Supreme Court issued its decision, Kearney was working at a restaurant called The Forge alongside co-owner Marc Wright, who is gay and one of the organizers of Put-in-Bay Pride. Wright immediately told the LGBTQ+ staff their work day was done.
"I just remember that day so vividly," Kearney said. "He's like, 'All right, all the straight people have to work. All the gay people, leave work — we're going out on the town!'"
The crowd erupted in laughter and cheers, and in apparent approval for Wright, the emcee who had just introduced Kearney.
"It was awesome," Kearney said, recalling how the whole town seemed to come together to celebrate. "It was a magnificent day."
Jim, caught off guard, was also clearly tickled as he quietly took in the many smiling faces around him.
A lot of people have told him over the last decade how much his case transformed their lives. Many have cried upon meeting him. Some have said his victory gave them the courage to come out to their families and friends, and even to themselves. One told him she was preparing to take her own life until his win.
Still, Kearney's story might be his "new favorite," he said.
For starters, it was darn funny, he said. But it also was rooted in queer acceptance in a small community not unlike the coastal town a short ferry ride away, Sandusky, Ohio, where Jim grew up — and now lives again.
It captured something Jim has observed in his own life the last few years in Ohio, something that might be his greatest legacy, especially in light of recent political efforts to push LGBTQ+ rights backward and queer people back into the closet.
Kearney's story captured people in an average, not especially progressive American community not just accepting their queer neighbors and friends — but celebrating their right to love.
The night before the comedy show, Jim was in Sandusky, hosting a dinner party in his well-appointed and art-adorned apartment with about a dozen of his closest friends, family and neighbors.
He served some of his own wine — he's a co-founder of Equality Vines out of Guerneville — and ordered a bunch of pizza, including a Sandusky special: sausage and sauerkraut.
There was his older brother and sister-in-law, Chuck and Janice Obergefell, who recalled traveling to D.C. for the Supreme Court arguments. Their kids are also close to Jim.
"The minute we heard you were going to Washington, we just thought, 'Wow, this is too cool,'" Janice told Jim. "We're awfully darn proud of you, but you know that."
Chuck had worked his whole life in local plants, and had known a few gay men there — regular blue-collar guys who also happened to be the "friendliest people I've ever met," he said. So when Jim came out to him in the early 1990s, it didn't bother him much, though he did worry about HIV/AIDS.
"I just told him, 'You're my brother, I love ya, just be careful,'" Chuck said.
"Then he brought John around," said Janice, of Jim's late husband John Arthur.
"And I liked John more than Jim!" Chuck said with a wry smile.
There were several of Jim's oldest and dearest friends, including Kay Hollek, a friend since they were 4; Judi Nath, a friend since 7th grade; Jennifer Arthur, his 1984 prom date; and Betsy Kay, a friend from high school chorus.
There were also newer friends from town, including Marsha Gray Carrington, a photographer and painter whose work adorns Jim's walls, and from Jim's "gayborhood," as he called it — including neighbors Dick Ries and Jim Ervin, a married couple who briefly employed Jim as a Sandusky segway tour guide, and Debbie Braun, a retired Los Angeles teacher who, like Jim, decided to move back to her hometown.
The conversation ranged freely from Jim's personal legacy to local politics in Sandusky, which is moderate compared to the red rural towns and bigger blue cities nearby. The talk jumped to national politics and recent attacks on the LGBTQ+ community, which have made some of them worry for Jim's safety as "an icon of a movement," as his former prom date put it.
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Ries and Ervin, who started dating about 17 years ago, drew laughs with a story about learning of the Supreme Court decision. Ervin was bawling — tears of joy — when he called Ries, who was driving and immediately thought something horrible had happened.
"I think the house has burned down, he's wrecked the car, the dog is dead," Ries said with a chuckle. It wasn't until he pulled over that he understood the happy news.
The couple had held off having a marriage ceremony because they wanted it to be "real," including in the eyes of their home state, Ervin said. After the ruling, they quickly made plans, and married less than 8 months later on Feb. 6, 2016.
"To me, it was profound that once and for all, we could all get married," Ervin said.
The group talked about what kept them in or brought them to Sandusky: family, the low cost of living, small-town friendliness. They talked about the other queer people in their lives, including some of their children. They mentioned how the only gay bar in town recently closed.
In between the heavier discussions, they chatted in the warm, cheeky patterns of old friends catching up over pizza and wine. At one point, Jim and several of his girlfriends gathered in the kitchen to discuss — what else? — Jim's dating life.
Just the week before, Jim said, he had realized he was "ready to let go" of John's ashes, to spread them somewhere special as John had requested, and finally ready to date again.
"I'm open," he said, as his girlfriends' eyes lit up.
The case that landed Jim before the Supreme Court started during one of the hardest periods of his life, when John was dying from amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or Lou Gehrig's disease. The couple had been together for decades, and in July 2013, three months before John's death, exchanged vows in Maryland, one of the states that recognized same-sex marriages at the time.
However, Ohio refused to acknowledge that marriage, meaning that, when John died, Jim would not be listed as the surviving spouse on his state death certificate. So they sued.
For years after John's death and the subsequent court rulings in their favor, Jim kept busy co-writing a book, traveling the country giving speeches and attending Pride events and LGBTQ+ fundraisers as a guest of honor. He was mourning John, too, of course, but amid so many other draws on his focus and attention, he said.
"It's almost like you didn't get to do it right away," said Betsy. "You had it delayed."
After living in Cincinnati from 1984 to 2016 — most of that time with John — Jim moved to D.C. for a few years, but "missed Ohio," he said.
In 2021, as the COVID pandemic raged, he found himself increasingly lonely, he said, so he decided to move back to Sandusky to be closer to family and friends. Since then, he has been happier, rekindling old connections, making some new ones and even running — unsuccessfully — for office.
Betsy, a mother of nine — some queer — and a ball of energy, said it's wonderful to have Jim back in town. The one catch, she acknowledged, is the gay dating pool in Sandusky, population about 24,000, is not exactly deep.
To make matters worse, Jim is hopelessly oblivious when it comes to flirting, she said. The other women in the kitchen nodded.
Taking the cue, Jim went to his bedroom and returned with a small pin Betsy had given him, which read, "If you're flirting with me, please let me know. And be extremely specific. Seriously, I'm clueless."
Jim looked around his apartment, in his hometown, brimming with fiercely loyal friends and family who not only love him, but want him to find love.
Thanks in part to him, it was a scene that lucky, happy queer people might find familiar nationwide.
Shortly after Kearney's set at Put-in-Bay Pride, Kristin Vogel-Campbell, a 45-year-old bisexual educator from nearby Port Clinton, approached Jim at his booth.
Her friend had just pointed Jim out — told her who he was — and she just had to thank him.
'You've done so much for our community,' she said. 'You put yourself out there, and did the work that was needed to get the job done.'
Jim, not anonymous after all, smiled and thanked her.
A few moments later, Kearney came through the crowd, high-fiving and hugging old friends. When they, too, were told who Jim was, their jaw dropped.
'Are you serious? ... Hold on.'
Kearney ran over and grabbed Wright out of another conversation and explained who Jim was. Wright's eyes went wide — then he reached out and touched Jim on the chest, as if to verify he was real.
Kearney, sticking their arms out to show goosebumps, said, "I have the chillies."
Kearney doesn't often include the story of the Supreme Court ruling in their sets, they said, but thought the local crowd would get a kick out of it, because they knew that day had meant a lot to so many people.
'That day — thanks to you — was a very big day for me,' Kearney told Jim. 'I didn't feel fully comfortable — I still don't — so that day was really important, because everyone was, like, cheering!'
Wright nodded along.
He first came to Put-in-Bay from Cleveland when he was 21 — or a 'baby gay,' as he put it. And initially, it was intimidating. 'It's easy to feel like an outcast in a small community, because you're living in a fish bowl,' he said.
Soon enough, however, the town made him one of their own. People on the island 'knew I was gay before I knew, and everyone was like, 'Yeah, it's OK,'' Wright said.
He said such acceptance, which has only grown on the island since, is thanks to pioneers like Jim — and like Kearney, whose own success has increased understanding of nonbinary people.
'Just to have Molly go out and live their life so unapologetically, it's so validating,' Wright said.
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Introducing Kearney that afternoon, Wright had thanked the crowd — many of them locals — for proving that Put-in-Bay stands for love and equality, especially at such a difficult time for the LGBTQ+ community.
'Put-in-Bay is for everyone — one island, one family," he said.
Now, as Jim praised the event, saying it was just the sort of thing that's needed in small towns all across the country, Wright beamed.
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This story originally appeared in Los Angeles Times.