love and marriage and in between
My high school best friend, Chris, got married earlier this month. I was in the wedding party, so I was involved in every aspect of the "wedding weekend," from the rehearsal dinner Friday night to the (albeit cursory) clean-up late Sunday night.
I have never been so close to a wedding before. Not only was I privy, for the first time, to nearly every behind-the-scenes detail, I was also emotionally invested in the groom and his family, since I've known and cared about them now for seven years.
I'm not quite sure I understand what a wedding ceremony actually means, but I nonetheless felt honored to be such an integral part of what my friend wanted to do to celebrate his love for his wife, Davi. Chris asked me to read a passage/poem on love at the wedding, so after much consideration I suggested six pieces, and he and Davi chose Khalil Gibran's "On Marriage," from The Prophet. Essentially, the passage is about making the deepest commitment to one another through marriage, while lovingly allowing each other to continue to grow as individuals within that sacred partnership:
"...Sing and dance together and be joyous,
but let each of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone
though they quiver with the same music..."
Chris and Davi's wedding was a complicated affair. Davi's family is from Cambodia, and her parents insisted that she and Chris have a traditional Asian wedding. Chris and Davi wanted an "American" wedding. (Chris is as American as they come, and he looks like he walked off a California beach.) They ended up having both; the Asian ceremony was on Saturday, and the American ceremony was on Sunday. For the former, they had an elaborate "Tea Ceremony" at Davi's parents' house, designed, as I understand it, to pay the proper respect to the couple's elders before they are officially wed. Then there was a formal dinner at the China Pearl in Boston, complete with an 11-course meal and several outfit changes...Chris and Davi changed from Cambodian robes into "American" formal attire as the night progressed.
On Sunday, they were married again, American-style, at Chris' Mom's house in Sandwich, MA.
Throughout the weekend, I found it interesting to note how formal everything was -- how rehearsed. Of course everything had been planned in advance and was supposed to be rehearsed, but I found this very contradictory to what was being celebrated -- what is thought of, by some, as the highest form of love, something divine that is only truly understood by the two getting married. I don't understand how wearing a certain dress or pledging vows in front of other people makes this love more real, but even still, as I stood a few feet away from Chris and Davi while they were being pronounced husband and wife on Sunday, I felt as though I were part of something beautiful.
On Sunday night Chris asked me to drive one of the groomsmen, Ron, home. Throughout the weekend, Ron made what could be perceived as lewd comments to me; he told me my "butt looked good" in my dress, said he was waiting for a "Janet Jackson" moment, in which, I guess, JT would appear and release one of my breasts from the confines of my dress, and so forth. I felt in my heart that Ron was simply a 32-year-old, socially awkward, rough-around-the-edges type with good intentions, and I found him somewhat amusing, so for the most part I let his comments go and tried to engage him in genuine conversation. That didn't go very well, as our dialogue went something like,
Him: So, what do you do?
Me: I'm a reporter.
Him: Really? Wow, that's cool, dude. What do you write about?
Me: Well, I write about a lot of different things. For example right now I'm working on --
Him: You know what you should write about? The Big Dig.
Me: Actually, I did a piece on the Dig when I was at Bos--
Him: Yeah, the Big Dig really makes me angry. I have a lot to say about that. You should definitely write about the Big Dig, hon.
The obvious electricity between us prompted him to essentially shadow me throughout the weekend, and while I am generally a very patient person, I found that I needed a break from him by Saturday night. When his rather attractive friend Raphael came over to say hello, I escaped to the bathroom for so long that when I returned, Ron had moved on to another table full of conversational possibility. To avoid his coming back anytime soon, I maneuvered my way to the back of the room, where Raphael was, and talked with him for a while. He was 31 and Peruvian, and he spoke with a thick accent that made him a little difficult to understand, which didn't matter because the bit I could understand was so refreshing.
It ended up that I needed someone to walk me back to the parking garage, as it was 11 p.m. and we were in the middle of Chinatown, and he wanted someone to drive him back to his apartment, because he was leaving the reception with two bags of leftover beer. I drove him back and he very politely asked me if he could call me sometime so we could go out for dinner. I said that he could. Then, surprisingly, when we arrived in front of his place, he tried to kiss me, so I turned my head and went to give him a hug. He tried again, pushing his tongue into my mouth as though he were unleashing a caged serpent. Revolted, I pulled away.
"I'm impressed," he said.
"I'm sorry?"
"That was impressive." I thought it was impressive that my jaw did not become unhinged. He tried to kiss me again; I said goodnight.
The next night, as I said, I drove Ron home. The ride took about an hour and he talked the entire time, mostly about how much he wanted a relationship.
"It's just so hard to find a cool girl, you know?" he said. "But you're cool."
"Thank you."
"You're single, right?"
"Mm-hmmm."
I thought about going into how I thought I had been in love a few times, but it's so hard to quantify a feeling once it's gone. And how I had talked with more than one boyfriend about marriage, but more as some faraway entity that somehow increased the value of our present relationship than as an imminent reality.
Instead I mentioned that after getting out of my last "serious" relationship last August, I decided that I wouldn't get into another one without considerable thought. "I don't believe in being in a relationship just to be in a relationship," I said.
"You don't?" he said, sounding genuinely surprised.
I have spent too much time in my life being with someone so that I would not have to be alone, which is not to say that I have not had meaningful relationships, but I think that I have not yet had a mature relationship as I was not personally at a point where I had any idea what I wanted or deserved. I didn't tell Ron this; I let him talk and tried to offer some advice, then I gave him a hug and was on my way.
So much random reality happened within that perfectly planned wedding weekend, and somehow, everything was meaningful. On Sunday night, before Ron and I left, Chris' father leaned back on the kitchen sink, a glass of white wine tipping dangerously in his hand. He stood inches from Chris' mother, whom he divorced two decades ago, and had been following with his eyes for three days, whenever his current wife wasn't looking. Suddenly, he put his glass safely on the counter and went outside with Chris' Mom so they could "take care of" the fish; Chris had set up an oversized glass bowl with dozens of Betas on a table with wedding favors and the like. His parents disappeared for a while and returned slightly breathless. When Chris asked his mother what she had done with the fish, her eyes crinkled and she blithely said she had dumped them on the grass. Chris' father laughed lustily.
I imagined so many colorful Betas spread out among the wet grass, their blue and red bodies quivering from that stolen, forbidden moment. What an odd picture of love, I thought, but how beautiful.
I have never been so close to a wedding before. Not only was I privy, for the first time, to nearly every behind-the-scenes detail, I was also emotionally invested in the groom and his family, since I've known and cared about them now for seven years.
I'm not quite sure I understand what a wedding ceremony actually means, but I nonetheless felt honored to be such an integral part of what my friend wanted to do to celebrate his love for his wife, Davi. Chris asked me to read a passage/poem on love at the wedding, so after much consideration I suggested six pieces, and he and Davi chose Khalil Gibran's "On Marriage," from The Prophet. Essentially, the passage is about making the deepest commitment to one another through marriage, while lovingly allowing each other to continue to grow as individuals within that sacred partnership:
"...Sing and dance together and be joyous,
but let each of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone
though they quiver with the same music..."
Chris and Davi's wedding was a complicated affair. Davi's family is from Cambodia, and her parents insisted that she and Chris have a traditional Asian wedding. Chris and Davi wanted an "American" wedding. (Chris is as American as they come, and he looks like he walked off a California beach.) They ended up having both; the Asian ceremony was on Saturday, and the American ceremony was on Sunday. For the former, they had an elaborate "Tea Ceremony" at Davi's parents' house, designed, as I understand it, to pay the proper respect to the couple's elders before they are officially wed. Then there was a formal dinner at the China Pearl in Boston, complete with an 11-course meal and several outfit changes...Chris and Davi changed from Cambodian robes into "American" formal attire as the night progressed.
On Sunday, they were married again, American-style, at Chris' Mom's house in Sandwich, MA.
Throughout the weekend, I found it interesting to note how formal everything was -- how rehearsed. Of course everything had been planned in advance and was supposed to be rehearsed, but I found this very contradictory to what was being celebrated -- what is thought of, by some, as the highest form of love, something divine that is only truly understood by the two getting married. I don't understand how wearing a certain dress or pledging vows in front of other people makes this love more real, but even still, as I stood a few feet away from Chris and Davi while they were being pronounced husband and wife on Sunday, I felt as though I were part of something beautiful.
On Sunday night Chris asked me to drive one of the groomsmen, Ron, home. Throughout the weekend, Ron made what could be perceived as lewd comments to me; he told me my "butt looked good" in my dress, said he was waiting for a "Janet Jackson" moment, in which, I guess, JT would appear and release one of my breasts from the confines of my dress, and so forth. I felt in my heart that Ron was simply a 32-year-old, socially awkward, rough-around-the-edges type with good intentions, and I found him somewhat amusing, so for the most part I let his comments go and tried to engage him in genuine conversation. That didn't go very well, as our dialogue went something like,
Him: So, what do you do?
Me: I'm a reporter.
Him: Really? Wow, that's cool, dude. What do you write about?
Me: Well, I write about a lot of different things. For example right now I'm working on --
Him: You know what you should write about? The Big Dig.
Me: Actually, I did a piece on the Dig when I was at Bos--
Him: Yeah, the Big Dig really makes me angry. I have a lot to say about that. You should definitely write about the Big Dig, hon.
The obvious electricity between us prompted him to essentially shadow me throughout the weekend, and while I am generally a very patient person, I found that I needed a break from him by Saturday night. When his rather attractive friend Raphael came over to say hello, I escaped to the bathroom for so long that when I returned, Ron had moved on to another table full of conversational possibility. To avoid his coming back anytime soon, I maneuvered my way to the back of the room, where Raphael was, and talked with him for a while. He was 31 and Peruvian, and he spoke with a thick accent that made him a little difficult to understand, which didn't matter because the bit I could understand was so refreshing.
It ended up that I needed someone to walk me back to the parking garage, as it was 11 p.m. and we were in the middle of Chinatown, and he wanted someone to drive him back to his apartment, because he was leaving the reception with two bags of leftover beer. I drove him back and he very politely asked me if he could call me sometime so we could go out for dinner. I said that he could. Then, surprisingly, when we arrived in front of his place, he tried to kiss me, so I turned my head and went to give him a hug. He tried again, pushing his tongue into my mouth as though he were unleashing a caged serpent. Revolted, I pulled away.
"I'm impressed," he said.
"I'm sorry?"
"That was impressive." I thought it was impressive that my jaw did not become unhinged. He tried to kiss me again; I said goodnight.
The next night, as I said, I drove Ron home. The ride took about an hour and he talked the entire time, mostly about how much he wanted a relationship.
"It's just so hard to find a cool girl, you know?" he said. "But you're cool."
"Thank you."
"You're single, right?"
"Mm-hmmm."
I thought about going into how I thought I had been in love a few times, but it's so hard to quantify a feeling once it's gone. And how I had talked with more than one boyfriend about marriage, but more as some faraway entity that somehow increased the value of our present relationship than as an imminent reality.
Instead I mentioned that after getting out of my last "serious" relationship last August, I decided that I wouldn't get into another one without considerable thought. "I don't believe in being in a relationship just to be in a relationship," I said.
"You don't?" he said, sounding genuinely surprised.
I have spent too much time in my life being with someone so that I would not have to be alone, which is not to say that I have not had meaningful relationships, but I think that I have not yet had a mature relationship as I was not personally at a point where I had any idea what I wanted or deserved. I didn't tell Ron this; I let him talk and tried to offer some advice, then I gave him a hug and was on my way.
So much random reality happened within that perfectly planned wedding weekend, and somehow, everything was meaningful. On Sunday night, before Ron and I left, Chris' father leaned back on the kitchen sink, a glass of white wine tipping dangerously in his hand. He stood inches from Chris' mother, whom he divorced two decades ago, and had been following with his eyes for three days, whenever his current wife wasn't looking. Suddenly, he put his glass safely on the counter and went outside with Chris' Mom so they could "take care of" the fish; Chris had set up an oversized glass bowl with dozens of Betas on a table with wedding favors and the like. His parents disappeared for a while and returned slightly breathless. When Chris asked his mother what she had done with the fish, her eyes crinkled and she blithely said she had dumped them on the grass. Chris' father laughed lustily.
I imagined so many colorful Betas spread out among the wet grass, their blue and red bodies quivering from that stolen, forbidden moment. What an odd picture of love, I thought, but how beautiful.