The first time I heard the term “polyamorous” was at a Valentine’s Day party in 2001: lots of scented candles, lots of guacamole, and lots of cheap red wine. Nearly everyone there was a graduate student, which meant that the conversation tended toward a mix of intimate details and politically correct abstractions. I was sitting next to a woman I hardly knew, recounting what I hoped was an amusing story. Midway through, I realized I'd gotten myself into a bit of a jam: the words “boyfriend” and “husband” had just appeared cozily side-by-side in the same sentence, and now I had no choice but to confess. “We’re not especially committed to the idea of monogamy,” I said, nervously reaching for a tortilla chip. I had been rolling that line around in my head for months, mentally practicing a matter-of-fact tone, but this was the first time I had uttered it aloud. Her reaction to this news was not what I expected.
“Oh, so you’re Polly!” she said, as if that explained everything. “Polly,” she repeated, “You’re Polly – so am I!”
Polly? As in, Pretty Polly wanna cracker?
I’ll never forget that moment of identity confusion, the mad mental scramble as I tried to make sense of what I'd just heard. I’ll also never forget the sudden rush I felt when my new friend, clued in by my deer-in-the-headlights stare, explained that she meant Poly – as in polyglot, polyhedron, and polyamorous. Amazing! I had spent the last two or three years thinking there was no way to sum up the complicated plot in which I found myself entangled -- when, in fact, there was a word that fit my situation to a T. Not just a word, but also a dating site, a magazine, a bunch of listserves, heck, a whole entire underground culture!
Now, almost a decade later, I'm not entirely sure how I feel about identifying myself as polyamorous. When I look at the poly community in aggregate, I don't see how I fit the demographic: I'm not a member of the Society for Creative Anachronisms, I don't play World of Warcraft, I'm not really into BDSM, and I don't own a motorcycle. My husband and I still have children at home: a daughter running headlong out of toddlerhood and a son slouching headstrong into teenagerdom.
But everyone must have a label, so I'll go ahead and slap that polyamorous sticker on my chest and do my best to mingle. At least it beats stitching a scarlet "A" and being an outcast.
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