A wedding to remember or forget
So, imagine this, the lovely New Hampshire leaves are turning in all of their October glory, the bright blue sky over the sleepy town is deceptively cold, winter beginning its stealthy descent upon us all. For Miguel, it is all new, his English being limited to “Hi” and “Yes” or equally diminutive phrases. He arrived three days before, swept up in a wave of emotion as I met him in the Philadelphia airport, my firm belly beginning to poke out under the multi-colored sweater, the black pants that I once used to go clubbing, now taking on a different level of discourse. We embraced, our faces almost having been forgotten, his smell absolutely Mexico, in every way, the distinctive Suavitel on his scratchy collar, a smell that provoked something strange in me, nostalgia? His rail-thin arms reaching for me, mouth searching, and my mouth somehow having lost its earlier ardent fervor. Four months of morning sickness can do that to a girl, you know? Hands held tight as the steel bird arched itself into the sky, Miguel’s third take-off in a day and in his lifetime to date, and I, an old hand, having visited my obstetrician on a monthly basis in the interim waiting period.
Back at Bryn Mawr my reality had been quite different, surrounded by brilliant, loving women, fascinated and frightened by my journey towards motherhood. And miraculously, I was not the only one, my friend and cohort, Nikeva was just as pregnant as I after her year in the Dominican Republic, she was not, however, getting married, but rather moving to Georgia with her boyfriend, after the fall semester. I was enrolled in a Queer Theory course, obsessing over questions of sexuality and desire, writing an empowering thesis that described a woman, anachronous, articulating a space for gender dissidents, social deviants, and I, forgetting who I was, embarking on the most mundane and socially “acceptable” of all journeys. Of course, having lost all desire whatsoever for anybody but the baby that was growing inside me, robbing my bones of calcium and my nights of sleep and giving me back a secret, private pleasure, marriage seemed like the responsible, right thing to do.
And of course, back then, Miguel’s eyes glowed when cast upon me, his hands were softness and care… but the seed of discontent was, nonetheless, planted. The urgently dialed phone calls, the rotten, cheating madly purchased phone cards that lasted much less than promised, words and promises whispered, the same conversation over and over and then here he was, and here I was, and there It was. My well-meaning parents swooped down upon us at the airport, their first and epic meeting of this soon-to-be son-in-law that their little girl had irrevocably (irresponsibly?) linked to them. Hugs and the lending of winter coats and an early morning trip to the town office, official documents in hand, a marriage license granted, happily holding hands, blessed with the luck of a seemingly sleeping embassy. Here, and I was healthy and alive, free of dangerous disease, but not dis-ease, and here he was, expectations, doubts and no time to think about anything. Wedding plans were set for the three-days forth, October 12, accidentally, ironically Columbus Day, or día de la raza, the anti-colonization, the reclaiming of lands through bodies and birth? Miguel’s decided lack of enthusiasm for my country was at first liberating, but as the years marched on, the grating criticism, judgment, hate began to wear me down.
The day of the wedding it was warmer than expected, our neighbor, Jane, a woman who could run circles around Martha Stewart came to braid my hair into a golden halo, with bouquets of autumn flowers. I wore the beautiful flowing white dress, purchased at age 13, that I had sworn I would wear barefoot, in the back yard on my eventual wedding day. Lucky me, it had an open split, granting just enough space for my barely bulging belly, the bodice fitted, my breasts firm and beautiful, just as they had been that summer I spent in Spain, parading down the street, wandering alone around the Museo del Prado, brushing off and basking in the attention of droves of beautifully foreign, dark-haired, dark-skinned men. But I was not 13, I was 21, infinitely older and less prepared. My feet were not bare, but shod with Hindu style sandals, purchased in Argentina 5 years before, from a man who thought he might die of love, an intellectual, a filmmaker, an artisan. What twist of fate had brought me to this place? On my back porch, my mother acting as interpreter for the wedding proceedings, our neighbor Mary Anne acting as Justice of the Peace, my father and brother, and grandmother, witnesses, and I the only person present on Miguel Angel’s “side”. I wore a golden silk rebozo around my shoulders, combining with the golden tones of the leaves, still hanging in abundance on the trees. It began, and then it ended, Ten minutes of a lifetime and yet, a significant act.
Did we rush into things? Well, I suppose that goes without saying, embarking on a journey of parenthood is only done by the extremely prepared or the extremely naïve. I would count us in the latter group, reminding myself that Isabella is a true and beautiful blessing. It is just that if we had been somewhere else in the world or at some other point of our falling in love, honeymoon cycle, well, the outcome might have been very different. The plan had originally been for Miguel to come briefly and after the birth, for us to return to Mexico, where his band was to be receiving corporate sponsorship. He decided, after I left Mexico, that the lack of freedom was outweighed by the loneliness and the loss and he left the band, hat in hand, head bowed in my direction. Amazing how you can get caught up in plans that have a life of their own.
After being accused of trying to circumvent immigration laws, and paying a large sum of money, Miguel was granted permanent resident status in a country that he would never have chosen for his own, immediately at a disadvantage, and I, finishing my stellar undergraduate career. My success was once attractive and exciting, but it soon became a burden, an insult, a constant reminder of all that had been left behind. But that day, our wedding day, it was wonderful, no alcohol for me, Luna di Luna for everyone else, and a strange organic fruit concoction with sparkling water, called Mimosa de amore… The linguistic choice of beverages as apropos as it was hopeful. After the very American “Mexican” wedding cookies that Mimi prepared and the toast, we, like all good American Jews descended upon our favorite Chinese restaurant, Chen Yang Li, the scene of many important events with visiting dignitaries (ie in-laws) and a truly wonderful culinary experience. I don’t remember if we made love the night of our wedding, which in the forgetting speaks volumes. I do remember, however, that my cats peed in Miguel’s suitcase the morning of the wedding and we were forced to race out at the last minute to buy a new shirt for him. The rings he had purchased, with the help of my mother, at a huge discount, K-mart…and truly what is the difference, both of us being decidedly unceremonious people. Only now does it occur to me that all the labor and agony that go into a “typical” wedding may be filters to ascertain the worthiness of the endeavor. Conversely, I suppose if you spend thousands of dollars on a party, you might feel even worse if the ultimate result does not have the desired effect. Either way, it was what it was and it is what it is, Miguel’s ring, too large, in order to accommodate the cactus spine that had become lodged in his finger, and was subsequently removed was lost 2 years later, long after the surgery to remove said spine. He misplaced the ring, taking it off every night in the hot Yautepec summer, perhaps the lovely magpie named Isabella, absconded with it and we will find it someday, or someone will anyway. I bought a new one for him several months later… he seemed unenthusiastic. We always do get gifts full of hope for ourselves.
And once again, each year, it seems that the joke gets older, the laughter more tinged with hysteria rather than joviality. What is a year, two years, three years, five? A lifetime? Enough time to make plans and break plans and want more than you can take and take more than you can give back. Tonight I sleep alone in the king-size bed we finally purchased, one more attempt at happiness mediated by our need for more space, I say alone, but of course I mean alone with my constant companion, the gazza, Isabella The joke is on me, of course, five years on Tuesday, and this is the first time that I didn’t want to give Miguel anything, there is no celebration in my heart, just heaviness, weakness of the flesh or of the mind, sadness at what is left behind
Back at Bryn Mawr my reality had been quite different, surrounded by brilliant, loving women, fascinated and frightened by my journey towards motherhood. And miraculously, I was not the only one, my friend and cohort, Nikeva was just as pregnant as I after her year in the Dominican Republic, she was not, however, getting married, but rather moving to Georgia with her boyfriend, after the fall semester. I was enrolled in a Queer Theory course, obsessing over questions of sexuality and desire, writing an empowering thesis that described a woman, anachronous, articulating a space for gender dissidents, social deviants, and I, forgetting who I was, embarking on the most mundane and socially “acceptable” of all journeys. Of course, having lost all desire whatsoever for anybody but the baby that was growing inside me, robbing my bones of calcium and my nights of sleep and giving me back a secret, private pleasure, marriage seemed like the responsible, right thing to do.
And of course, back then, Miguel’s eyes glowed when cast upon me, his hands were softness and care… but the seed of discontent was, nonetheless, planted. The urgently dialed phone calls, the rotten, cheating madly purchased phone cards that lasted much less than promised, words and promises whispered, the same conversation over and over and then here he was, and here I was, and there It was. My well-meaning parents swooped down upon us at the airport, their first and epic meeting of this soon-to-be son-in-law that their little girl had irrevocably (irresponsibly?) linked to them. Hugs and the lending of winter coats and an early morning trip to the town office, official documents in hand, a marriage license granted, happily holding hands, blessed with the luck of a seemingly sleeping embassy. Here, and I was healthy and alive, free of dangerous disease, but not dis-ease, and here he was, expectations, doubts and no time to think about anything. Wedding plans were set for the three-days forth, October 12, accidentally, ironically Columbus Day, or día de la raza, the anti-colonization, the reclaiming of lands through bodies and birth? Miguel’s decided lack of enthusiasm for my country was at first liberating, but as the years marched on, the grating criticism, judgment, hate began to wear me down.
The day of the wedding it was warmer than expected, our neighbor, Jane, a woman who could run circles around Martha Stewart came to braid my hair into a golden halo, with bouquets of autumn flowers. I wore the beautiful flowing white dress, purchased at age 13, that I had sworn I would wear barefoot, in the back yard on my eventual wedding day. Lucky me, it had an open split, granting just enough space for my barely bulging belly, the bodice fitted, my breasts firm and beautiful, just as they had been that summer I spent in Spain, parading down the street, wandering alone around the Museo del Prado, brushing off and basking in the attention of droves of beautifully foreign, dark-haired, dark-skinned men. But I was not 13, I was 21, infinitely older and less prepared. My feet were not bare, but shod with Hindu style sandals, purchased in Argentina 5 years before, from a man who thought he might die of love, an intellectual, a filmmaker, an artisan. What twist of fate had brought me to this place? On my back porch, my mother acting as interpreter for the wedding proceedings, our neighbor Mary Anne acting as Justice of the Peace, my father and brother, and grandmother, witnesses, and I the only person present on Miguel Angel’s “side”. I wore a golden silk rebozo around my shoulders, combining with the golden tones of the leaves, still hanging in abundance on the trees. It began, and then it ended, Ten minutes of a lifetime and yet, a significant act.
Did we rush into things? Well, I suppose that goes without saying, embarking on a journey of parenthood is only done by the extremely prepared or the extremely naïve. I would count us in the latter group, reminding myself that Isabella is a true and beautiful blessing. It is just that if we had been somewhere else in the world or at some other point of our falling in love, honeymoon cycle, well, the outcome might have been very different. The plan had originally been for Miguel to come briefly and after the birth, for us to return to Mexico, where his band was to be receiving corporate sponsorship. He decided, after I left Mexico, that the lack of freedom was outweighed by the loneliness and the loss and he left the band, hat in hand, head bowed in my direction. Amazing how you can get caught up in plans that have a life of their own.
After being accused of trying to circumvent immigration laws, and paying a large sum of money, Miguel was granted permanent resident status in a country that he would never have chosen for his own, immediately at a disadvantage, and I, finishing my stellar undergraduate career. My success was once attractive and exciting, but it soon became a burden, an insult, a constant reminder of all that had been left behind. But that day, our wedding day, it was wonderful, no alcohol for me, Luna di Luna for everyone else, and a strange organic fruit concoction with sparkling water, called Mimosa de amore… The linguistic choice of beverages as apropos as it was hopeful. After the very American “Mexican” wedding cookies that Mimi prepared and the toast, we, like all good American Jews descended upon our favorite Chinese restaurant, Chen Yang Li, the scene of many important events with visiting dignitaries (ie in-laws) and a truly wonderful culinary experience. I don’t remember if we made love the night of our wedding, which in the forgetting speaks volumes. I do remember, however, that my cats peed in Miguel’s suitcase the morning of the wedding and we were forced to race out at the last minute to buy a new shirt for him. The rings he had purchased, with the help of my mother, at a huge discount, K-mart…and truly what is the difference, both of us being decidedly unceremonious people. Only now does it occur to me that all the labor and agony that go into a “typical” wedding may be filters to ascertain the worthiness of the endeavor. Conversely, I suppose if you spend thousands of dollars on a party, you might feel even worse if the ultimate result does not have the desired effect. Either way, it was what it was and it is what it is, Miguel’s ring, too large, in order to accommodate the cactus spine that had become lodged in his finger, and was subsequently removed was lost 2 years later, long after the surgery to remove said spine. He misplaced the ring, taking it off every night in the hot Yautepec summer, perhaps the lovely magpie named Isabella, absconded with it and we will find it someday, or someone will anyway. I bought a new one for him several months later… he seemed unenthusiastic. We always do get gifts full of hope for ourselves.
And once again, each year, it seems that the joke gets older, the laughter more tinged with hysteria rather than joviality. What is a year, two years, three years, five? A lifetime? Enough time to make plans and break plans and want more than you can take and take more than you can give back. Tonight I sleep alone in the king-size bed we finally purchased, one more attempt at happiness mediated by our need for more space, I say alone, but of course I mean alone with my constant companion, the gazza, Isabella The joke is on me, of course, five years on Tuesday, and this is the first time that I didn’t want to give Miguel anything, there is no celebration in my heart, just heaviness, weakness of the flesh or of the mind, sadness at what is left behind
posted by ilana at 1:27 a.m.
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