Marriage certificates include the father's name, but omit the mother. Photo: Getty
Show Hide image

Why I refuse to get married until we have equality on the certificate

Marriage certificates only include your father’s name – to reinvent marriage as a twenty-first century institution, this must change.

A few months ago, my boyfriend proposed. I have dubbed his proposal the “nonposal”, a label he vociferously rejects. The words “marry” or “marriage” were not mentioned, making it hard to grasp what he was getting at. The next stage I entered into was denial, because the nonposal came off the back of a pretty intense argument. But eventually, I accepted that his casual “Well shall we get engaged then?”, was in fact his lovingly inelegant way of telling me he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me.

I said yes.

And then the doubts set in. Not about my boyfriend – I know I love him, I know I want to make a commitment to him. The doubts were about the institution of marriage itself – and they took me by surprise. On the few times I'd vaguely thought about getting married, my concerns had been with the ceremony. I didn't want to “obey” anyone; I didn't want to be “given away” like I was a chattel. Having always considered marriage to be no more than a public declaration of commitment, by two people who love each other, I held no reservations about the institution.

But having got engaged, my concerns now were with the state of being married itself. Suddenly all I could think about were the hundreds of years where marriage was little more than an oppressive means of exchange, where women were worth no more than the property they represented and the children they could bear, where consent had no meaningful status. History weighed heavily on my mind. I felt deeply uncomfortable about the whole thing. I felt dishonest. I didn't want to pledge my allegiance to such an institution. I didn't want to assimilate my private love into a system that represented everything I hate about society. To get married, no matter how equitable and loving our own relationship was, felt like a betrayal of all the women who had gone before me, who had been sold into a system with no way out, who had been abused, beaten, killed. Whose names had not mattered, only those of their fathers, husbands and sons. How could I, in good faith, take part in such a charade? I thought seriously about giving up my embarrassingly traditional dreams of a church wedding with beautiful vows and a drunken champagne-soaked bash to follow.

But, over time, I became used to the idea. I talked away my concerns. I convinced myself that I was being ridiculous. I thought of all the marriages that I admire, that made me think “that's what I want”. I told myself that I, along with all the other people who get married today in full awareness of marriage's oppressive past, could reinvent marriage for the twenty-first century. And I knew that, for me, the central part of the whole event, the public declaration of commitment, was something I wasn't prepared to give up. It felt like such a beautiful and sacred thing to do.

I haven't really thought about marriage much since those early weeks. The actual wedding is over a year off, because there is no way either of us have time to plan anything before then. So we've just been muddling along, being happily engaged.

But this week, I read an article by Holly Baxter about civil partnership. Apparently, our revered prime minister, our dear leader in all things moral, has been expressing concerns about allowing civil partnerships for heterosexual couples. Such a step would, he gravely claimed, “undermine the sanctity of marriage”. And therefore he intends to veto such a step.

To be honest, I've never really considered a civil partnership – and not just because I can't have one. The term sounds so bureaucratic, so soulless. It seems totally at odds with the type of relationship it is meant to honour. For the same reason, despite my reservations about the patriarchal nature of the Church of England, I would never consider having a civil wedding. It is no doubt illogical, and obviously many people feel differently, but I personally find something comforting, awe-inspiring, about repeating words that are centuries old, in a building where thousands of couples down the ages have done the same. It reminds me how small I am, it reminds me of community, of the stretch of history. It feels solid – like I want my marriage to be.

But then Holly started explaining what the differences were between marriages and civil partnerships: “Civil partnerships also include the names of both parents of each partner on the certificate, rather than merely the names of the fathers,” she wrote. I read this simple sentence with horror and felt all my reservations rush back, with a new intensity. I can deal with the “walking down the aisle” thing – I can simply choose not to do it. But this? This was a legal document. And it would have a space for my father – and nothing for my mother. Like the woman who has brought me up, who has been an inspiration and rock for me all my life, who has taught me how to pick myself up, dust myself off and keep going, no matter what life throws at me, doesn't matter. Like she doesn't exist.

I cannot, in good faith, take part in an institution that, in the twenty-first century, thinks this is an acceptable state of affairs. I will not take any vow issued by a system that is complicit in the symbolic and cultural annihilation of women. I cannot sully a relationship that means so much to me, by associating it with an institution that renders my mother worthless, invisible, surplus to requirements.

In the meantime, kind friends have informed me that I have the option to draw up an agreement with a solicitor, which is what I'm currently looking at. But I still have hope. There is a petition on change.org asking the equalities minister to change this antiquated and needlessly discriminatory state of affairs. I have hope that, given we are in the twenty-first century, given there can be no possible objections to such a simple change and given, as I said, my wedding is a while off yet, we can change this before then, and I can stand up in front of my friends and family, and publicly pledge to spend the rest of my life with the man I love.

 

Caroline Criado-Perez is a freelance journalist and feminist campaigner. She is also the co-founder of The Women's Room and tweets as @CCriadoPerez.

Photo: Getty
Show Hide image

The Liverpool protest was about finding a place for local support in a global game

Fans of other clubs should learn from Anfield's collective action.

One of the oldest songs associated with Liverpool Football Club is Poor Scouser Tommy, a characteristically emotional tale about a Liverpool fan whose last words as he lies dying on a WWII battlefield are an exhalation of pride in his football team.

In November 2014, at the start of a game against Stoke City, Liverpool fans unfurled a banner across the front of the Kop stand, daubed with the first line of that song: “Let me tell you a story of a poor boy”. But the poor boy wasn’t Tommy this time; it was any one of the fans holding the banner – a reference to escalating ticket prices at Anfield. The average matchday ticket in 1990 cost £4. Now a general admission ticket can cost as much as £59.

Last Saturday’s protest was more forthright. Liverpool had announced a new pricing structure from next season, which was to raise the price of the most expensive ticket to £77. Furious Liverpool fans said this represented a tipping point. So, in the 77th minute of Saturday’s match with Sunderland, an estimated 15,000 of the 44,000 fans present walked out. As they walked out, they chanted at the club’s owners: “You greedy bastards, enough is enough”.

The protest was triggered by the proposed price increase for next season, but the context stretches back over 20 years. In 1992, the top 22 clubs from the 92-club Football League broke away, establishing commercial independence. This enabled English football’s elite clubs to sign their own lucrative deal licensing television rights to Rupert Murdoch’s struggling satellite broadcaster, Sky.

The original TV deal gave the Premier League £191 million over five years. Last year, Sky and BT agreed to pay a combined total of £5.14 billion for just three more years of domestic coverage. The league is also televised in 212 territories worldwide, with a total audience of 4.7 billion. English football, not so long ago a pariah sport in polite society, is now a globalised mega-industry. Fanbases are enormous: Liverpool may only crowd 45,000 fans into its stadium on matchday, but it boasts nearly 600 million fans across the globe.

The matchgoing football fan has benefited from much of this boom. Higher revenues have meant that English teams have played host to many of the best players from all over the world. But the transformation of local institutions with geographic support into global commercial powerhouses with dizzying arrays of sponsorship partners (Manchester United has an ‘Official Global Noodle Partner’) has encouraged clubs to hike up prices for stadium admission as revenues have increased.

Many hoped that the scale of the most recent television deal would offer propitious circumstances for clubs to reduce prices for general admission to the stadium while only sacrificing a negligible portion of their overall revenues. Over a 13-month consultation period on the new ticket prices, supporter representatives put this case to Liverpool’s executives. They were ignored.

Ignored until Saturday, that is. Liverpool’s owners, a Boston-based consortium who have generally been popular on Merseyside after they won a legal battle to prize the club from its previous American owners, backed down last night in supplicatory language: they apologised for the “distress” caused by the new pricing plan, and extolled the “unique and sacred relationship between Liverpool Football Club and its supporters”.

The conflict in Liverpool between fans and club administrators has ended, at least for now, but the wail of discontent at Anfield last week was not just about prices. It was another symptom of the broader struggle to find a place for the local fan base in a globalised mega-industry.The lazy canard that football has become a business is only half-true. For the oligarchs and financiers who buy and sell top clubs, football is clearly business. But an ordinary business has free and rational consumers. Football fans are anything but rational. Once the romantic bond between fan and team has been forged, it does not vanish. If the prices rise too high, a Liverpool fan does not decide to support Everton instead.

Yet the success of the protest shows that fans retain some power. Football’s metamorphosis from a game to be played into a product to be sold is irreversible, but the fans are part of that product. When English football enthusiasts wake in the small hours in Melbourne to watch a match, part of the package on their screen is a stadium full of raucous supporters. And anyone who has ever met someone on another continent who has never travelled to the UK but is a diehard supporter of their team knows that fans in other countries see themselves as an extension of the local support, not its replacement.

English football fans should harness what power they have remaining and unite to secure a better deal for match goers. When Liverpool fans walked out on Saturday, too many supporters of other teams took it as an opportunity for partisan mockery. In football, collective action works not just on the pitch but off it too. Liverpool fans have realised that. Football fandom as a whole should take a leaf out of their book.