Marine Staff Sgt. Eric Alva had been in Iraq for all of three hours when he became one of the first Americans injured in the war.

Alva was in a convoy to Basra March 21, 2003, when he stepped on a landmine that broke his right arm and shattered his right leg so badly that it had to be amputated. His hospital bedside quickly became the go-to destination for photo ops with a hero. President Bush and his wife, Laura, stopped by. So did Donald Rumsfeld and Arnold Schwarzenegger.

What they didn't know at the time was the secret at the core of Eric Alva's identity. If he had let slip this one crucial detail about his life, he could have been irrevocably discharged from the military in which he had served proudly for 13 years.

It was only last year, after he'd been awarded the Purple Heart and received a medical discharge, that Alva found the courage to tell the world what he'd known about himself for a long, long time. Last weekend, at a Human Rights Campaign dinner in Columbus, Ohio, he recounted his service to his country and then described a hurt that will not heal.

"I am a gay man who has survived a war, only to return to a battle here at home," Alva said.

His beloved partner, Darrell Parsons, who lives with him in Texas, sat at the table next to me, hanging on his every word.

I can't imagine any American hearing the first part of Alva's story and not feeling that our country owes him big-time for his service. I struggle to understand how anyone could regard the second part of his story as reason to deny him the full rights of citizenship. Alva and Parsons long to be married. How could their marriage threaten anything in traditional American life?

There has been a lot of coverage in the wake of the California Supreme Court's recent decision to legalize same-sex marriage. One of the more poignant images was the photo of Del Martin and Phyllis Lyon, who are in their 80s, as they exchanged vows in San Francisco's City Hall. The women have been a couple for 55 years, and the response was heartening. It was difficult, it seemed, even for those who vehemently oppose gay marriage to demonize two elderly women. Clearly, love had kept them together — and longer than most heterosexual marriages any of us can name.

Another enduring image was the handmade sign stapled to a wooden yardstick that Ellen Pontac held high in the air outside the California Supreme Court:

"LIFE FEELS DIFFERENT WHEN YOU'RE MARRIED."

Pontac and her partner, Shelly Bailes, have been together for 34 years. Even in their joy, there was a sense of time that had been lost.

"This feels good for us," Bailes told the Los Angeles Times. "But I can't imagine what it means for all those young couples with their entire lives ahead of them."

Pontac told the Sacramento Bee that the legalization of gay marriage would start a conversation with those who oppose it, giving them a chance "to think we're just people."

River Mika Coyote harbors similar hopes. She and her partner, Susie, held a commitment ceremony five years ago. They combined their names and their bank accounts and bought a home together. River told The Associated Press that seeing hundreds of gay marriages take place in the months ahead might deter voters from supporting a constitutional ban on the November ballot in California.

What she hopes is that seeing is believing — and humanizing, too.

"It's easy when people think of gay people as 'those people,'" River said. "If you check that box (on the ballot), you're taking away the marriage of River and Susie; it's not 'those people.' We're normal people who want to take care of each other."

Last Saturday, I watched retired Marine Staff Sgt. Eric Alva and Darrell Parsons behave as most other loving couples I know. Darrell brushed off lint from Eric's shoulder, and sometimes they put their heads together to share a joke. During a tender moment in another person's speech, Eric reached over and gave Darrell's hand a squeeze.

When Eric took the stage, Darrell leaned over and whispered, "I've heard him give this speech a hundred times, but I still get emotional."

I looked at his misting eyes and put my hand on his back.

Silently, we shared a moment that every spouse can understand.

Connie Schultz is a Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist for The Plain Dealer in Cleveland and the author of two books from Random House: "Life Happens" and "… and His Lovely Wife." To find out more about Connie Schultz (cschultz@plaind.com) and read her past columns, please visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.

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