POLITICS

Amid the political rancor, love wins

Stephanie Wang
stephanie.wang@indystar.com
Megan Robertson and fiance Katie Blair chat during a dinner date at Tinker Street, Indianapolis, Wednesday, October 19, 2016. Despite belonging to opposing political parties, Robertson and Blair fell in love while fighting for marriage equality through the Freedom Indiana campaign. When asked where their views differ, Robertson said, "we generally agree on the goal we just have different ways of getting to the end solution."

“Who does she think she is?” Katie Blair sputtered.

How, she ranted to her friends, could a Republican possibly be the state’s leading advocate for gays and lesbians?

It was 2013, and GOP strategist Megan Robertson was roiling both Democrats and Republicans as she headed Freedom Indiana’s battle to defeat a constitutional ban on same-sex marriage.

Though openly gay, Robertson’s career highlights included getting same-sex marriage opponents elected to Congress, organizing rallies for Sarah Palin and working for the state Republican Party, which denounced same-sex marriages.

And now she was in charge of changing the minds of those very people?

Blair, a liberal activist, fumed.

“She might be running it,” Blair sniped, “but she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Blair was collaborating with Freedom Indiana as a lobbyist for the American Civil Liberties Union of Indiana. One of her mentors urged her to get to know Robertson.

She’s really going out on a limb to do important work, the mentor said.

Yeah, yeah, Blair said. Whatever.

What she couldn’t know then, before they ever fell in love, was that their work together would be fighting for their future marriage.

***

It’s silly, really, how today’s political rage and rancor would lead many to believe that bipartisanship is impossible — in legislatures and in love.

People spit out party names like dirty words. Behind memes and fake news stories, political beliefs are cast as good versus evil, and anyone who dares to disagree is clearly a bigot!

Maybe that’s why liberal advocates seemed convinced that Robertson was some kind of “awful Republican monster” — her own words — when she took up the same-sex marriage fight.

Such as when she took her staff out for drinks: They called it “mandatory fun.”

“I thought I was being nice,” Robertson said, “but I’m a Republican, so nothing I did was considered nice.”

Slowly, however, they found out she was, in fact, as human as they were. They discovered her dry humor, unshakable loyalty and industrious work ethic. They uncovered her undying devotion for the Chicago Bears and her uncanny talent for karaoke rap songs. They relished in her love for winning campaigns.

For Robertson, too, this was unlike any political battle she had led before. This was a movement. It couldn’t be won with just logic and facts. She had to adapt her blunt, all-business style to touchy-feely storytelling. To win this campaign was to win hearts and minds.

And hers was one of the stories to be told. Here was a proven Republican, the public face of the movement, devoted to her party even as some in it rejected her for her sexual orientation or felt she shouldn’t have the same marriage rights that they did.

Her leadership of Freedom Indiana was a strategic stunner. She made same-sex marriage in Indiana — and later, civil rights for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender Hoosiers — into a bipartisan issue by leveraging her contacts and influence in the GOP. It reshuffled the deck for future political advances on a social issue that seemed tough to move in a conservative state.

But it was also considered an enormous risk to her professional career — not to mention her high personal stakes in the marriage battle. Websites, newspaper front pages and TV reports across the state blared her status as a gay Republican campaigning for same-sex marriage rights.

Some Republicans joined her in saying the tide of social progress demanded the recognition of same-sex marriages — or, at least, the party should stick to government and business issues.

Still, politicians she knew stood up to say they didn’t approve of her life. Volunteers she had considered friends refused to work with her anymore. People made snide remarks that they knew would make their way back to her.

In the eyes of many Republicans, Robertson slipped in esteem. Some saw her social advocacy as treachery, venturing too far outside the party lines.

But one quirky Democrat with a penchant for cat-print dresses and cat-eye glasses started to see Robertson as a feisty Republican woman, brilliant and brave for standing up for what she believed in.

***

In a 2013 file photo, Freedom Indiana campaign manager Megan Robertson speaks at an event to launch the Freedom Indiana campaign that opposes HJR6, at the Artsgarden.

Robertson and Blair texted often about work. And pretty soon the messages included chitchat about personal matters.

During the holidays, Robertson sent Blair photos of a new rug in her apartment. She also sent pictures of her decorated Christmas tree.

Blair didn't know what to make of it at first. “Has she been sending you pictures of her home furnishings?” she asked other people.

Friends teased Robertson about it. “That’s not actually how you make the moves on somebody,” some said.

But it worked.

The two grew closer through the long lobbying days of the legislative session, which culminated in victory for Freedom Indiana. Most lawmakers still opposed same-sex marriage, but enough Republicans crossed over to block a constitutional ban from moving forward.

“We were all excited when we won — really, really excited,” said Peter Hanscom, the former deputy director of Freedom Indiana. “Megan and Katie were excited maybe for different reasons. As we closed this chapter out, I think they got a lot more than just winning from it. They found each other from this work.”

Blair and Robertson took a post-session trip together to celebrate. Soon, they were moving in together on Indianapolis'  north side and doting on two Boston terriers.

Robertson knew she would likely date someone more liberal, given the scarcity of gay Republicans like herself. But she never suspected she would date someone as politically active as Blair — a former Planned Parenthood activist, enthusiastic wearer of Hillary Clinton leggings and self-labeled bleeding heart liberal (see: arm tattoo).

Until now, Blair had dated mostly men, so she broke the news to her family that she was dating a woman. Her parents were supportive — her father probably liked that Robertson was a Republican like him, Blair said laughingly, and not a vegetarian like that one ill-fated boyfriend she once had.

Her mother, hoping for a grandchild, gushed over Robertson being equally ambitious in her career, equally passionate about causes, equally involved in life as Blair.

Unapologetically sassy, Blair throws herself into women’s rights and other equality issues, taking the reins at Freedom Indiana through the state's explosive Religious Freedom Restoration Act controversy. She found Robertson’s intensity to be exhilarating.

“Being on the other side of the aisle, she really does challenge me in a way that I’ve never been challenged before,” Blair said. “That’s really exciting, and I really love it.”

But one of their first fights exploded over a partisan issue: voting rights.

If you had to show identification at Blockbuster to rent a movie or at the YMCA to get a membership, Robertson argued, you should have to show an ID at the polls to vote.

Blair, who once worked to register Democrat women, called Robertson an oppressor.

Blair left for work that morning still seething. Minutes down the street, she picked up her phone to call her girlfriend.

“AND FURTHERMORE,” Blair shouted into the phone, continuing to tell Robertson how she was wrong.

They learned not to talk about voting rights.

“There are some fights that you just disagree on. And they’re going to come up and whatever. We don’t have to agree on everything,” Robertson said.

They negotiated a balanced ratio of partisan refrigerator magnets. They cut a deal concerning yard signs: for last year’s Indianapolis mayoral race, an unopposed sign for Republican candidate Chuck Brewer, in exchange for an unopposed sign for Democrat Hillary Clinton in this year’s presidential race.

Compromise!

***

In a 2015 file photo, Katie Blair, with Freedom Indiana, writes down a comment card during a forum called Rights for All that serves as a place to debate the issues over Indiana's consideration of RFRA policy, Shelton Auditorium Christian Theological Seminary, Indianapolis.

Blair, 32, and Robertson, 34, revel in political banter. They rib each other almost constantly, good-heartedly, lovingly and often seamlessly shifting to defend each other — an approach that also extends to discussing taste in movies, celebrity crushes and household cleanliness.

Opposites attract, and Blair and Robertson’s magnetic pull brings in everyone around them.

Are they Indiana’s millennial version of the famous bipartisan couple, James Carville and Mary Matalin? Their political commentary is just as entertaining, but it feels more like living room chatter than a cable television crossfire.

“Being a Democrat in Indiana — a liberal Democrat in Indiana — I lose a lot,” Blair admitted. “So a lot of the time I’m sitting at tables with jerks who beat me.”

“Where we’ve just trounced you!” Robertson chimed in helpfully, gleefully.

“Just trounced!” Blair said. “Yeah, you’re usually a winner. Unfortunately not with this last mayor’s race for you, but, um, you know.”

“We’ll be back,” Robertson replied calmly.

At the heart of it all, Blair and Robertson say they still share many fundamental values. As Robertson points out, Blair’s job with the ACLU of Indiana is to defend the Constitution. What’s more Republican than that?

“This is what I’ve always said about Democrats and Republicans: We all have the same goals and ideals,” Robertson said. “It’s just a matter of how you get there.

“I guess on most hot-button issues that people are talking about, we pretty much agree,” she continued. “Our solutions are different, but we agree.”

“Mine are usually better,” Blair interjected. “More puppies and rainbows.”

“Or not feasible and maybe not grounded in reality,” Robertson teased back. “That’s usually how Democrat proposals are.”

“Megan Robertson!” Blair said, fake-aghast. “She’s evil.”

***

The secret is that it's not despite their diametrical politics that Blair and Robertson make a complementary couple, but that they're better together because of those differences.

In the mornings, they hold mini strategy sessions as they get ready for work and talk about the day ahead. They swap tips for working with high-profile people and proofread each other’s emails.

Like any couple, Blair and Robertson didn’t get into the relationship hoping to change the other person.

“We’re not together so that we can convert an operative,” Robertson said, laughing at the ridiculousness of the thought.

And like any couple, getting along is a give-and-take.

“I’ve only ruined one dinner party,” Blair said proudly.

“Um ... is it one?” Robertson asked.

“Maybe two,” Blair conceded.

“Yeah, they were ruined,” Robertson confirmed.

“There are some events that you go to that I’d rather stab my eyes out than go to,” Blair said. “And same with you. Sometimes people say, ‘Oh, Megan didn’t come,’ and I’m like, no, I didn’t bring Megan, much like I wouldn’t want her to make me to go to a luncheon with insert-Republican-name-here.”

“Why would you bring a Republican to a big party with Democrats, when you guys just want to talk politics and trash Republicans?” Robertson continued. “Which, by the way, we want to, too. There are times when she doesn’t go to things because it would not be appropriate.”

“My clothes aren’t as boring,” Blair quipped.

***

Katie Blair, left, and Megan Robertson, right, form a bipartisan couple.

On June 26, 2015, the day the U.S. Supreme Court legalized same-sex marriages across the country, Robertson put a deposit on a diamond.

“Why are you not here yet?” Blair texted her from the celebratory festivities.

Weeks later, Robertson secretly drove to Blair's family farm in a tiny Illinois town to ask Blair's father for his blessing. She showed him the engagement ring that she had quietly picked out with the approval of Blair's mother and best friends.

Oblivious to it all, Blair asked Robertson one night: “Do you even have a plan? What’s your timeline for getting engaged?”

Robertson tried not to chuckle.

She planned a surprise proposal at a fancy restaurant. Before dinner, she handed off the ring to a nervous waiter who agreed to deliver it with dessert. When Blair said she would be late, Robertson scrambled to keep the plan in line.

The romantic dinner was a blur. Then a pianist began playing their song, and dessert arrived, strawberry cheesecake.

“I didn’t order that!” Blair said.

Then she saw the ring beside it.

“What’s this?” Blair asked frantically. “What’s going on! Are we getting —? Is that a ring? Are we getting engaged? Is that our song? Are we getting married?”

“If you stop asking questions for long enough to say yes,” Robertson said, “then yes, we’re getting married.”

This is what they had fought for: the right to marry whomever they loved.

But they say their work isn’t done yet.

On a weekend getaway to Dollywood to celebrate their engagement, they felt scared to hold hands in public in rural Tennessee. They turned down wedding vendors who seemed overly self-laudatory for being open to same-sex marriages. They hunted for wedding trinkets that said “hers and hers,” crestfallen when their favorite guestbook was designed only for “the bride and groom.”

On the nearly two-hour drive to Rochester to shop for a wedding gown, Blair worried that the store could turn her away because she was marrying a woman — even though the dress consultants ended up being just fine with it.

As two of the state’s leading advocates on LGBT rights, Robertson and Blair worked campaigns earlier this year for statewide nondiscrimination laws, so that nobody could be fired from their jobs, denied housing or refused service because of their sexual orientation or gender identity.

A legislative proposal made it further than many would have dreamed just a few years ago, but it ultimately failed. So the fight continues.

On Friday, Nov. 11 — after Election Day, of course — Blair and Robertson will walk down the aisle. And, as they always do, they will be bridging the political aisle, too.

Hanscom, now the coordinated campaign director for the Indiana Democratic Party, will stand alongside GOP consultants in Robertson’s wedding party.

The wedding will intermingle some of the state’s most influential Republican leaders, liberal feminists and apolitical types. Blair and Robertson say they won’t let their day become a partisan party.

“Hopefully the two of them can make things more meet in the middle,” said Blair’s mother, Cindy. “I think people get too one-sided in their beliefs. If you know someone and love someone who has similar but different views, maybe you’re more likely to try to understand the other side.”

Love, as people say, conquers all. Even politics.

Call IndyStar reporter Stephanie Wang at (317) 444-6184. Follow her on Twitter: @stephaniewang.