Thursday, February 03, 2000
Clerks must ask if you're marryin' kin
BY KAREN SAMPLES
The Cincinnati Enquirer
COVINGTON — Welcome to Kentucky, where marriage is cheap, easy and not permitted between first cousins.
County clerks are the state's designated gene-pool protectors. When newlyweds-to-be show up for their marriage licenses, the clerks are required to ask: “Are you related?”
Gee. No tired Kentucky stereotype in that question.
“Most people just look at you like you have three heads,” says Deanna Mahan, a deputy clerk in Kenton County.
Others roll their eyes. “Only in Kentucky,” they say, or, "Yeah, we're brother and sister.”
“They all think they're so funny,” Ms. Mahan says cheerfully. “It's like, "Yeah, we've only heard that five times today.'”
Here's the best part: This goofy inquiry into the lineage of the bride and groom isn't heard only by Kentuckians. About 2,400 couples get licenses in Kenton County every year; clerks estimate more than half are from other states, usually Ohio.
Marriage in Kentucky has its advantages. The license, for instance, is $8.50 cheaper than Ohio's.
But advantage No. 1 has to be Kenton Justice of the Peace Stephen Hoffman, who not only marries people without appointments but also runs the parking lot across from the courthouse.
This makes him just the guy for the impulsive, the impatient and the possibly intoxicated.
It's a little tougher in Ohio. There are no justices of the peace, so people who want a civil ceremony must make arrangements with mayors or judges. And in many Ohio counties, couples must wait a few days for their licenses to be issued. (In Hamilton Coun ty, the waiting period has been waived by a judge.)
Both states forbid marriage between first cousins or closer kin. The difference is that Ohio clerks don't ask. Instead, couples simply sign under the fine print, certifying they aren't related, drunk or infected with syphilis.
It's tough to say how many read the statement before signing, says Jonathan Ring, supervisor of marriage licenses in Hamilton County.
On occasion, he has encountered couples who signed despite evidence they were “already celebrating a little bit,” as he puts it.
In Kentucky, inebriation is not a disqualifying factor.
As for kinship, Northern Kentucky clerks say they almost never encounter relatives trying to marry. The rare exception breezed into Newport last fall: a pair of first cousins from Michigan.
Their lawyer had told them Kentucky allowed such unions, says Jeanette Rothe, a Campbell County deputy clerk. The couple was not happy to learn otherwise.
Most people just laugh when they get the question.
Then they run back to Ohio and tell all their friends.
I suppose I should be concerned for Kentucky's image. Years ago, in the most isolated parts of the state, people's worlds were pretty small, and some probably did marry their kin.
But not in Northern Kentucky. We're more like Cincinnati than Stinking Creek, which is why the question is such a gas.
I say keep it. No matter how close we become to the big city across the river, we can't get too high and mighty as long as “Are you related?” remains on the marriage form.
Such oddities keep us humble. They make people laugh. They remind us that we're not, thank goodness, a carbon copy of the bland Midwest.
Look at it this way: At least Kentucky clerks don't bring up syphilis.
Karen Samples is Kentucky columnist for the Enquirer. Her column appears Thursdays and Sundays. She can be reached at 578-5584, or by e-mail at ksamples@enquirer.com.
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