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Beyond love: The family legacy born from a 63-year lavender marriage

“They knew they had to protect each other at all costs.”

The results of a 63-year lavender marriage? Astounding.

Though decades have passed, the effects of the infamous “lavender scare"—a devastating moral panic that swept across the U.S. during the mid-20th century like a virus, targeting gay men and women—continue to reverberate today. It lives within the daughters, sons, friends, and grandchildren of those who were so cruelly denied the freedom to live life on their own terms. However, despite the rampant homophobia and bigotry these people endured, it would also be wrong to say their lives as nothing but a string of suffering, pain, and sorrow. For Elida Rose, who spent 63 years in what’s known as a “lavender marriage” with her closeted husband, Donald (who passed away in 2021), her story even comes with a happy ending. At the ripe, tender age of 90 years old, the Colombian immigrant and doting grandmother embraced her bisexuality. After six decades of living a double life, no longer held in the shackles of fear, she was finally able to enjoy the sweet taste of freedom that comes with embodying your true, authentic self.

Donald and Elida’s remarkable love story, although strictly platonic, was documented in a touching viral TikTok series created by their granddaughter, Christian Owen. In a flurry of slideshows, she depicts her grandparents’ lavender marriagephotos of the family with their two daughters, her grandfather making moves in Hollywood as an up-and-coming graphic design artist, Elida’s devout Catholicism, and her deep belief that queer people deserve a place in the Catholic church. Their commitment to each other demonstrates how their profound sacrifices paved the way for future generations to live authentically and love freely.


@faultywiring0709

I am so truly blessed. #fyp #TikTokPartner #pridetiktok #lgbt #lavendermarriage #

At the time, being gay was dangerous, and many faced vile social and professional consequences due to their sexual preferences. As a result, many queer people agreed to “lavender marriages,” covert unions typically between a man and a woman, where one or both partners were secretly gay. They wed, promising to keep each other safe. Lavender marriages are often referred to as “marriages of convenience”: a means to an end, a last-ditch survival tactic to conceal their true sexual preferences and avoid facing the potentially catastrophic repercussions.

Elida and Don’s six-decade relationship has swept social media, where their platonic love for each other has captured the hearts of thousands. Christian lovingly chronicles her grandparents’ lives, writing “I am so truly blessed” in a caption. “Despite both of them being LGBTQ, they were each other’s best friends and loved and protected each other fiercely… [and] as a result of my grandparents’ loving 63-year lavender marriage, they had two daughters, four grandchildren, and eight great-grandchildren.”


- YouTubewww.youtube.com

Their story begins in West Hollywood, where Don was a Los Angeles Art School student and Elida was in nursing school. The two met and became fast friends. However, as Don’s career as a graphic design artist began to blossom in Hollywood, working with celebrities like Ansel Adams, Hugh Hefner, and Francis Ford Coppola, he feared that, like many in the industry, his sexuality would get him black-listed. With Elida’s immigration status pending, the two decided to wed. Don found a dazzling gold ring and set the emerald Elida had brought with her from Colombia in it, telling her, “I want you to always carry a piece of home with you.” (Christian would later propose to her girlfriend, now wife, Laura, with the same ring.) And just like that, Don and Elida found themselves in a lavender marriage.

But although Don never got the chance to live authentically as an out gay man, it turns out Elida had a few secrets of her own. Following Donald’s death, as the family lamented the fact that he’d always had to hide his true self, a secret slipped out. Seemingly out of the blue, she announced, “I might be 90 years old, but, well, I like women. I always have.”

Whoa.


Grandmother, lesbian, nongenarian, bisexual, LGBTQ, lavender marriage 90-year-old Grandma Elida is finally able to live her true, authentic life. TikTok @faultywiring0709

"Being able to live as my true self now means more to me than freedom, it is freedom," Elida told PEOPLE. "Please don't get me wrong, I loved my husband so much. We had a beautiful life together, but not being able to be our true selves made us felt like we were in a prison."

The term “lavender marriage” may be unfamiliar to some, especially younger generations. The fact that we now live in a time when this phrase, once synonymous with the oppression of queer people, has begun to fade from our collective memories speaks to the remarkable progress of the LGBTQ+ movement and activists. The concept dates back to the early 20th century, when society heavily stigmatized same-sex attraction. During Hollywood's Golden Age, many stars were forced to covertly enter these unions to protect their careers and public images. This was largely due to "morality clauses" in 1920s actors' contracts that prohibited any behavior considered "a deviation from social norms."

But lavender marriages came with a cost. Although they shielded queer men and women from the harsh realities of social expectations, these romantically void unions were often heartbreaking for all involved. They required immense emotional resilience and trust between partners. Because while Donald and Elida certainly had love for each other, keeping up the facade as a heteronormative family was far from easy. Their partnership demanded constant negotiation, sparking paranoia, fear, and even jealousy. “My grandparents had an arrangement,” says Christian. “When my grandfather was home, he prioritized him, her, and their family… [and] my grandfather worshipped the ground [Elida] walked on.” The two devised a special arrangement where they could date outside of their marriage, as long as they adhered to certain rules.


Men, gay men, sexuality, lavender marriagesLavender marriages, although shielding, come at a cost. Giphy

Christian’s videos have resonated deeply with viewers, who also carry oceans of emotion regarding lavender marriages and their impact on those involved.

"Lavender marriages are so beautiful, but also sometimes have a sense of underlying sadness. They make me feel bittersweet, in a way," one person commented.

“I’m reading The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo. Something about a lavender marriage is so bittersweet,” added another.

Then, from user Holly Danielle: “The only word that comes to mind is love. True, real, raw, unconditional love. Your family is absolutely beautiful. Thank you for sharing with us.”


According to ancient Greek philosophy, lavender marriages exemplify philia, or “friendship love.” Unlike eros, which is associated with romantic love, philia represents a deep bond between friends, a profound platonic connection rooted in mutual respect, companionship, and trust. In these marriages, partners often provided each other with a level of emotional support that transcended typical romantic love. Beautiful, yet sad, like the prettiest songbird stuck in a cage.

After significant demand from fans, Christian is currently crowdfunding on GoFundMe to create Lilac Love, The Story of Elida Rosa, a movie that would chronicle the marriage between her 90-year-old lesbian grandmother and gay grandfather. “Her story has inspired millions,” she writes. “And I know [it] has the potential to inspire millions more. Her story deserves to be told and honored!”

The roots of the senior prom date back to the 19th century, at a time when colleges were separated by gender. The prom—short for promenade—was an opportunity for young men and young ladies to meet and mingle at a formal party. The idea moved to younger ages in the 1920s and evolved into the modern-day prom, complete with tuxedos, limousines, over-the-top "promposals," and, of course, the infamous prom "court."

The fact that students are still being asked to vote among their peers for a "king" and a "queen" of the prom is somewhat baffling. The idea felt outdated when I was in high school decades ago. Am I missing something, or is it really just a glorified popularity contest where the naturally outgoing and beautiful among the student body get the privilege of winning a prize that has no real meaning or significance?

Traditions are odd things when you step back and look at them objectively. Many people aren't able to do that, which is why there's so often an uproar when traditions get broken or messed with in some way. But not all traditions are worth keeping—or at least worth being precious about.


That's the lesson for an Ohio community whose senior class voted in two girls as prom king and queen this year. The couple, Annie and Riley, were chosen by their peers at Kings High School to wear the crowns and carry the titles—a choice that was brought up and discussed at a local school board meeting.

At least one parent at the school board meeting expressed concern over having a girl serve as prom king, but others were supportive.

"I admire this generation for their thirst of knowledge and understanding, their strength to stand up for what they believe in," said one parent.

"Sorry, but I believe that there are still two genders, a male and a female," said another.

The decision, however, was the students' to make, not the parents'.

"This is solely a Kings High School senior class nominated and voted-on initiative," Dawn Goulding, a community relations coordinator for the school district, told WLKY News.

The school shared a photo of the girls on their Facebook page with no extra fanfare—just a simple message of congratulations. "Congratulations to Kings High School 2021 Prom King and Queen, Annie Wise and Riley Loudermilk! #KingsStrong." Though there was a mix of comments on the post at first, they grew more supportive.

"The queen and king that were nominated and won were thrilled, they were so excited and they feel so supported at school, Gould told Fox 19 News. "What is great is it shows a lot of the character of our students at Kings High School. They're inclusive and they get it."

The Facebook post now has more than 2,000 comments, most of which are words of celebration and support for the students.

Let's just step back a second. For parents to raise a fuss about a prom court in any way shape or form is just silly. "But a king is by definition a male! But the point is to have a boy and a girl!" It's a prom court, for the love. It means nothing in the big scheme of things, regardless of who wears those crowns.

The students of Kings High managed to at least give it some fleeting meaning, using an archaic prom tradition to make a statement of solidarity and an expression of inclusivity. And the school district has stood by the students as they've endured criticism from certain parents and community members.

The students have spoken, and what they've said is, "We're turning traditions on their heads and celebrating our friends just as they are." Seems like a fitting coming-of-age milestone for young adults heading into an increasingly diverse world.

Photo by Jose Pablo Garcia on Unsplash

Editor's Note: Raleigh Van Ness is a pseudonym used by Upworthy in order to protect the anonymity of the author.

It's hard to pinpoint the moment I knew I was queer. Growing up, I knew I was different. I liked boys because I was told I should like boys. I chased Chris for a kiss in Kindergarten on a whim and a dare—not out of any true want or desire. In fifth grade, I dated Brandon for his ball cap. It was a status symbol. It got me clout with the hip kids—the cool kids, you know, the girls who wore cropped sweaters and acid-wash jeans. While I had a steady stream of boyfriends in middle school, I did so to appear normal. To be normal. Plus, I couldn't possibly go to the Halloween dance alone, so I didn't.

I held Tyler's shoulders and swayed to Savage Garden.

Terrance sang every word of Boyz II Men's "I'll Make Love to You" in my ear.

But the truth is my eyes weren't for them, not at 10, 12 or 17. I was—and always have been—attracted to women.


The first girl I recall liking was my best friend, Kathlyn. She was a sweet girl. A kind and loving girl. She was also beyond smart. The bookish type. Her long, brown locks regularly covered her eyes. But there was something about her gap teeth and freckled skin that enticed me. It entranced me. I wanted to be more than good friends.

I began having fantasies which would make you blush and would make my mother ashamed.

In high school, I scoured the scenes of scrambled porn—which, for those unaware, is how kids watched X-rated films in the pre-internet days—for curved lips and hips. For breasts and bare buttocks. I became obsessed with women's reactions and the sight of their satisfaction. I wanted to know that feeling. I wanted to share it with another.

On occasion, I've flirted with my desires. I've kissed and caressed some amazing women in my life, but no one knows it. Well, besides a few drunken college encounters caught on camera. But no one knows it because I am living a double life.

I am married to a man.

I am not alone. According to the Williams Institute at UCLA, 4% of adults in the United States identify as lesbian, gay, transgender or bisexual. This means there are approximately 9 million LGBTQ individuals in America, and many more live like me, in silence and in secret. While living in the closet can be isolating—scratch that: it can be upsetting, enraging and (some days) it fills me with shame—during Pride Month, I am humbled. I am thankful. I am accepted and understood.

You see, when I see a rainbow banner or flag I smile shyly, coyly because I feel seen. Even though I am closeted, I feel a sense of community. I feel like I belong and I am understood.

During Pride Month, I feel I am able to celebrate myself completely. Fully. I've spent my whole life ashamed of who I am—of what it is I feel, want, need, who I love and what I deserve—but seeing others embrace LGBTQ individuals makes me love myself and embrace myself. Seeing others celebrate Pride makes me value myself.

Pride month reminds me of how far I've come. Sure, I haven't "come out" to my friends and family, but I have come out to myself, and that is worth celebrating. Acknowledging my true self is half the battle.

Pride makes me feel backed. Supported. Like I have a family and home.

I also feel an immense sense of gratitude during Pride. I am thankful for the voices of others. For the strength of others. For the fight of others, and hope one day I can join them. I hope one day I have the courage to be myself. Loud and proud.

Make no mistake: There are days I still struggle. I hate myself. I am angry with myself. I feel like a failure and a fraud. On these days, I convince myself I have no community. Until I am open and honest, I am neither straight or queer. But while closets hide things, they don't keep secrets. Silence does not take away my identity. I am a wife, mother, runner, and a writer.

I am also a proud queer woman.

Photo by Anthony Intraversato on Unsplash

Nervously, I reached into my purse and pulled out my ID, flashing it to the bouncer. It was 6 p.m. and I'd just come from work. My roommates were supposed to meet me, but they were always late, and tonight was no exception. So, it was with a pounding heart that I faced the crowd alone, trying to find the least threatening person to approach.

It was my first Democratic Socialists of America (DSA) meeting, specifically for those in the LGBT community, and I thought I'd found my people. Queer and political, sign me up. But as I took a closer look at those milling around, I realized that the space didn't look that different from what I was used to. I was still in the minority, because of both my race and gender. I was still being talked at by men who thought they knew more than me. I was still around people who seemed to assume that everyone wanted sex.

One of the only other women in the group came up to me and said "It's good to see another one of us here." "Another what?" I asked, a bit confused. "Another lesbian," she replied easily, as if it were obvious.


But that was not true. I'm not a lesbian. I'm asexual. And I had thought that coming to a group geared toward LGBT individuals—the full acronym being LGBTQIA+, where the A stands for asexual (also known as "ace")—would have allowed me the opportunity to meet others who identified similarly.

After figuring out that I was asexual, I thought finding community would be easier

I'd done all the hard work of figuring out that I was ace—I thought that finding a community would be easier. After years of internalizing heteronormativity, of consuming various movies and books where sex and relationships were presented as the ultimate goals, it was no wonder that it took me such a long time to realize that I didn't want that. And even longer still to accept and embrace that part of my identity, to realize that there were others who felt the same way. There was a whole community out there if I could just find them.

With the DSA LGBT event, I finally thought that I had. It turned out that it wouldn't be that simple. I kept attending events with queer and LGBT+ labels attached to them, hoping that I'd find someone who would understand. But I was realizing that just because we shared the queer label did not mean that we shared experiences. Many understood being different, sure, but not the difference that I felt. They still experienced sexual attraction, just not of the heteronormative variety. Sometimes, these spaces were even more sexualized as people felt comfortable expressing themselves in ways they couldn't in everyday life.

To find other ace people, I had to look elsewhere

When I was unable to find the community I was searching for by going to in-person events, I turned to the internet. Once I knew the terminology, I was able to search on various social media sites. I started following a blog on Tumblr that posted about ace topics. I began to see others post about experiences that mirrored my own.

It was on Instagram that I found a community of ace individuals in New York, where I live. They posted various resources for asexuals and even hosted monthly events. What I'd so desperately wanted earlier, an in-person community, was suddenly within my grasp. The page posted about a new support group for asexuals, and I decided to go.

What struck me first was that the room was diverse—there were a lot of non-cis men and a lot of POC folks. The organizers were women of color. As people began to share their stories, I felt a sense of calm envelop my body—I had found people who understood me. They had been uncomfortable in high school because they didn't understand everyone's desire to have sex. They had faced challenges navigating dating when sexual intimacy was something that may not even be on the table. They were older and wiser and made me feel like it was all going to be alright.

I may not feel like I belong in all queer spaces, but I've found a queer space that fits me. This space, and the people in it, provide me with the confidence to live my life authentically, to embrace the ace part of my identity. And when I inevitably encounter those who don't understand me, I know I've got a place to go for support.