The floor-length white Chantilly lace gown, the intricately crafted bouquet of flowers from the first date, the teeny-tiny flower girl tossing handfuls of dried petals onto the path, the hushed giggles of great-aunts, all to the tune of the “Bridal Chorus” played on the piano while I walk down the aisle.
But I’m not wearing Chantilly lace. I’m not walking down the aisle. I’m not getting married.
Since my first real relationship, I’ve loved love. I love to love; I love being loved; I love myself in love. I love how I’m coated in a layer of sweetness. And my most dedicated readers (hey, Gamma and Mom!) might recall my recent article, “Eat the Cheese,” where I explained my apprehension toward standard romance media. Now, all my statements still ring true; I don’t particularly enjoy rom-coms or those books with an adorably drawn figure-skating girl and a six-foot (minimum) hockey player on the cover.
But I love love. I love corny love, old love, lost love, platonic love, first love, brotherly love, tragic love, puppy love, last love, even that strange love you hold for someone you don’t really like anymore. I love love in every form.
In one of my grandmother’s less ideal moments, no amount of tequila shots hidden in a strawberry daiquiri could distract her from asking for “her Papaw” (my Papaw, but something about that makes my heart flutter).
When I think of “love,” I think of that moment. Even with her mind altered, my Gamma called out for the man she’d loved for 34 years. She didn’t call him by the name she met him as, but “Papaw,” the name he was given when I was born. That’s true love. A lifelong romance that continues to flourish as family expands. The idea that I could spend 30 years next to another human and they still instinctively hold me while we sleep is beyond beautiful. But isn’t that what we’ve all been taught marriage is? To me, marriage retains a different connotation.
This is where I usually lose people. It’s hard to define my view of marriage, but I’ll do my best. Like I’ve said, I love love, and I love all the intricate and delicate and messy moments that surround it. There’s just something about signing those legal documents, something about being known as a “wife,” something about marriage, as it’s been presented in our society, that does not sit right with me. Of course, the patriarchal aspect of things is involved in my view of marriage. My existence being reduced to “his wife” fills me with unspeakable rage. Sure, I’m in love with him, but I am not his to own. And he’s not mine either. But we belong with each other.
I think the inherent lack of partnership in what society has historically deemed an acceptable marriage is what I can’t get over. It’s nearly impossible for me to separate the modern “wife” from the history that came before her.
Often, a woman’s legal rights, property, and earnings were absorbed and maintained by none other than (guess who!) her husband — under a doctrine inherited in the U.S, called coverture. The husband and wife were treated as one legal person. That person was, of course, represented by the husband. This English common-law tradition helped me put words to why “wife” has never instinctively made me smile.
Sure, laws have changed, but how much cultural baggage did we leave behind? Women certainly have their own legal and personal identities within marriage today. Yet, in the United States, according to the Pew Research Center, about 79% of women in opposite-sex marriages said they took their spouse’s last name, while 92% of men said they kept theirs. I don’t mean to say that a woman taking her husband’s last name means she’s surrendering herself to the system. I’ve seen with my very own eyes how lovely and natural this sort of coupling can be. Even so, knowing the history makes it difficult for me to see some of these traditions as neutral.
But what about Gamma and Papaw? Does their participation in such an institution make their love somehow less equal? Am I supposed to look at their marriage and see the remnants of a practice built around male authority? My grandmother wasn’t drunkenly asking for her owner; she was asking for her person.
I know legal marriages that don’t resemble the institution I’m critiquing. My dad and stepmom are married, and she’s maintained her concert-going, roller-skating identity. My married aunt and uncle both work full-time jobs while rotating childcare duties. Gamma even hyphenated her last name when she married my Papaw.
Interracial coupling and marriage, the reason my own family can exist as it does today, were prohibited by law in some states until the Supreme Court’s ruling in 1967. For decades, people fought tirelessly for the right to be incorporated into this institution I’m questioning if I even want a part in. So if I can remove the aspects of marriage that I dislike, what am I still resisting?
Maybe some of my discomfort isn’t about what marriage was. Maybe it’s about what I’ve been taught marriage is.
This semester, I’m taking a class called The Hollywood Musical. It sounded interesting, and hey, who doesn’t love a musical?
One of the most fascinating concepts this class has taught me is heterosexual coupling as a narrative resolution. Think of your favorite musical — or almost any classical Hollywood musical. The correct answer is “Hairspray” (2009), but let’s use “Grease” as an example (I was 80% sure this analogy would work with most movie musicals until we watched “Mary Poppins” (1964), so I stand corrected).
Boy meets girl. Boy falls for girl. Boy and girl cannot be together for some, most likely silly, reason. Boy and girl resolve the conflict. Boy and girl fall madly in love, and they ride off into the sunset. The end. We are left with the impression that now, since the boy and girl can love each other freely, everything will be okay. That’s the end of the story, right? Why? Why does their coupling suggest the story is over?
I see this same narrative structure everywhere now. Disney princess movies, rom-coms, even real life.
Dating is hardly seen as a state by itself. It always has to be going somewhere. You start dating, move in together, get engaged, get married, and possibly even have kids. Notice the language we use to describe this “relationship escalator”: “taking the next step,” “settling down,” and “making it official.” These terms suggest anything before marriage is somehow provisional.
If I loved him on Monday, and we got married on Tuesday, was there something that made Monday’s love less legitimate? Obviously, there are legal answers, but I’m interested in the cultural connotation. What about a marriage certificate suddenly makes this love genuine?
What upsets me the most is that I can imagine my wedding. I want my Papaw to make the arch. I want my mom and dad to walk me down the aisle. I want it to be in my grandparents’ backyard (but don’t tell them yet; they love their healthy, vibrant grass). I want my favorite cousin to be in the front row. I want my sisters to be my maids of honor. I want a photographer to capture my good side (the left one, but who am I kidding, they’re both good). I want the world’s biggest pot of gumbo at our reception. I want private and public vows. I want to declare my love for someone I knew at 22 and carry that love until we’re both wrinkly with cold hands. I want that. But I still don’t think I want “marriage.”
Here is where I’ve confused myself. If I can see my future self with all these things, why do I still need to reject the premise of marriage? Why am I even writing this?
I began this article trying to explain why most people don’t understand my take on marriage, but what if I don’t understand it yet?
Somewhere along the way, I think I treated love, a wedding, and marriage as the same thing. They aren’t. And apparently, I only want two of them. Still, that doesn’t feel like a conclusion to me.
Maybe it’s something about the identity marriage seems to assign. What about the word “wife” feels foreign to me? Well, it definitely makes me feel less like an individual, but is that fair? The married women I just described kept their identities. I knew them first as women, not as wives. So why do I trust those women to redefine “wife,” but don’t trust myself to? I don’t know the answer. And maybe that’s for the best. Movies need endings tied up in a bow. I don’t.
So, no. I refuse to end this article with me and my lover riding off into the sunset.
Instead, I want to end with the hope of watching the sun set in a beautiful place with the person I love and admire.
Maybe one day, I will wear that Chantilly lace. Maybe I will have a niece throw fistfuls of petals into one place along the aisle. Maybe “wife” will feel better coming out of my mouth one day. Maybe “partner” will fit best. Maybe I’ll elope and have a month-long honeymoon off the coast, somewhere humid. Maybe I’ll never have any of those things.
But hopefully, I’ll have what I want the most: love. Hopefully, I’ll be drunk off of one-too-many tequila shots (but yuck! I hope not!) and call out for the person I’ve spent decades sleeping beside. Hopefully, I’ll have my very own ‘Papaw’ to reach for.