Tuesday, October 26, 2010

The Furthest Step

When I was five, my mother remarried. Through this union I got a step-brother and a half-sister. We were told right off the bat that we were a family unit; that the steps and halves didn’t matter. We were so lucky to have siblings and that was all that counted. My new father became not my step-dad but also dad, or dad 2. The two of them worked to ensure equality among us all and I always accepted us as equal kids in the family standing. I assumed the extended family had adopted the same understanding and I grew up happy to have my larger family. It was nice having seconds of everyone. In my adolescence, I liked some of them better than some of my blood versions of the same. They were kind, funny and easy to be with. I considered myself lucky indeed.

As for my siblings, our unconditional acceptance of each other created confusion for others over the years. We would only admit to the sibling qualifiers if pressed:

“I was just visiting my dad.”

“I thought your sister said your dad passed away.”

“Well, yes and no, that was her dad. I still have mine.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Technically she’s my half-sister.”

We’d gloss over the explanations as if they were an ugly secret. “That stuff doesn’t matter to us,” we’d firmly state. “I mean, he’s my brother and that’s it. The step part doesn’t change anything.” It was as though we feared others expecting us to be somehow less devoted to each other if they knew we weren’t ‘real’ siblings, whatever that means.

Over the years there were some tensions with various family members who believed in the value of bloodlines. But as far as I knew those were long assuaged. We’ve been family for so long at this point, who remembers such petty distinctions?

By an accident of timing and venue availability, my sister and I both got married this summer. We chose very different wedding styles so on many levels there is no comparison. My sister’s wedding was an apple and mine an orange. Given that we’re siblings, however, and given there were only months between, it’s impossible not to take certain measurements. Theirs was held near much of their families making the guest list about five times the size of our remote destination celebration. Not for nothing but that also means five times the gifts which is petty and silly of me, I know, but when you’re trying to create a nice kitchen and your sister opens the appliance you most wanted from your registry it’s hard not to feel a little twinge.

The gift that knocked me sideways was nothing so extravagant. It was from a family member – one who was step to me but not her, not that I’d ever thought of them as anything but blood. As my sister opened various things from them, I didn’t really notice that the volume was far more than what I’d been given. It wasn’t until she pulled the tissue paper off a family heirloom that I felt a punch to my stomach. I’d been given no heirloom. Then the second punch: I wasn’t their blood and somehow that suddenly mattered. I quietly identified the period of the lovely piece for my sister who doesn’t share my interest in antiques and walked outside to breathe.

After all these years, really my whole life, of thinking we were all equal in the eyes of the family, it all suddenly seemed like a farce and I was the only one who hadn’t been in on the joke. I felt like at this adult age I’d only just realized there is no Santa Claus – and that everyone else had known since childhood. Embarrassment piled on the hurt. What a naive, dumb, accepting kid I’d been. The hurt I felt didn’t hit a just-married adult but a very vulnerable little kid part of me. I’d bought the family line I’d been brought up with: that we were all equally loved and accepted as far as family mattered. That was incredibly comforting to a kid who’d always felt like an outcast. As the last piece of tissue wrap fluttered to the floor, I was that kid again, on the outside looking in.

Then I wondered how far back did it go? Did the woman whose heirloom it was think of me as her own, like my sister, or merely as a child who happened to be in her orbit due to my parents’ marriage? Would she have wanted me to have something of hers or was that side of the family just carrying out what would have been her wishes? For most of my adolescence, I adored her as my favorite. She had a bright personality and she accepted me for who I was, tween warts and all. Or so I thought. This posthumous rejection flayed open a numbing gash. I cried for most of the plane ride home.

I want to be clear that I am not ungrateful for the gifts I received. They were generous and thoughtful all around. And I also want to be clear that I don’t begrudge my sister any of it. I would not want to take anything away from her in order to have it for myself. In many ways she’s had a much harder life that I have. She got dealt some rough cards. I can freely say that she deserves beautiful things more than I do and I am glad family and friends shared with her and made her feel special.

Of course it’s not about the stuff. It’s about the sentiments and beliefs that guided its giving. I know the family didn’t do it to hurt me and have no idea that I might have been hurt by the difference in their gifts. I’m sure they are completely justified in their actions: “she’s our blood” they’d likely shrug. I may be family, but not family family. I understand that to most people, most families, the actions of my step-family members are completely normal, acceptable and even expected. But I thought we were different from most families.

I grew up believing that family was who and what you said it was. I think that’s a nice idea and a good thing to aspire to. People may claim to accept and love without reservation but for most people – even some of the best people, in some small place in their hearts, the rules of who and how much still matter.

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Tuesday, October 12, 2010

A Thank-You Note

A big part of any wedding is sitting down to write all the thank-you notes after. We've dutifully done ours. But as something was missing in our ceremony, something is missing in the soul of the thanking. It's hidden in the previously stated hurts and resentments that I chose to focus on.

There are many who deserve to be acknowledged for their actions over the last year and know that we are eternally grateful for the things they did, large and small, and the love they offered.

In no particular order, Thank You:

  • Dad for footing the bill and for giving me away
  • Giancarlo for footing the other bills, for running all over Tuscany and running up your long-distance bill
  • Ash and Matt for wrangling and Matt for being the default best
  • Joel for the wine labels, honey labels and programs
  • Joel and HBH for coming to LA in the midst of crap-storm 2010
  • HBH for shoe shopping
  • Frannie for the quilt help
  • Bella, Lucie, Dani, Caitlin for helping with the ribbon and tulle on the table and vases
  • Christine for making sure the table cloths and flowers were right
  • Mom for the flowers and for sharing your heirlooms
  • Kristi for the amazing bouquet
  • Cathy for loads of calm support and hands of help
  • Sophie for driving, a dress attempt, band-aids, voice of reason and indispensable help
  • Marco for not losing the rings
  • Elisa for helping me laugh it off
  • Barbara for the dress make-over and days at flea markets and tea
  • Lisa for listening to everything
  • Bob and Sharon for hosting
  • Brian and Richard for the posh shower
  • Ash for planning it
  • Ellen for the cake
  • Sarah for flying me out and nursing me back to sanity
  • Everyone who shared their photos with us
  • Miche for the villa
  • Fernando for the ice
  • Tina and Serena for the Tiramisu and helping hands
  • Marta for the best wedding meal ever
  • Angie, Annie, Felicity for their support in our BSG - The Conscious Bride was essential reading
  • Lindsay/Jennifer for taking care of the furballs
  • Danielle for the walk
  • Don and Sue for coming so far and being easygoing always
  • Lorenzo for finding the photographers
  • Arnaldo and Marco for the most amazing honeymoon hosting ever
  • All the generous gifts large and small
  • Franz for driving at the worst time
  • Everyone who danced
  • Everyone for not spilling on my (grandmother's) dress
  • My new cousins who accept me
  • Eli and Mirco for the legal footwork
  • Camilla for help on the ground
  • Federico for wine recon and bottling
  • Carlo for saying “si” in spite of me – foolish man

What an embarrassment of riches. It’s clear my tone has changed in the last year. I see I am not doing enough to stand in gratitude and that may be a big part of why things have felt darker in my eyes. This is me looking toward the light. The day feels a little brighter.

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Sunday, October 10, 2010

After I Do

My new husband and I sat on the bed in the master bedroom of the ancient villa. We’d been married for about nine hours. The guests had gone save those who were staying in the villa with us. The frenzy of the day finally drifted off and we could breathe the fresh Tuscan night air.

More than anything I felt relief; relief that the event was over and that the day had gone, more or less, according to plan, relief that I had gotten here. I was not out there alone and searching for The One anymore. I had found One and we were legally and emotionally bound. We’d survived the drama and could now focus on building our lives together.

I petted the ivory satin of my grandmother’s 1940 dress that a talented friend had made over for the occasion. I looked out of the windows set in the thick stone walls of my favorite place on earth. I smiled at the presents we’d just opened and cataloged for thank-you notes. My husband hugged me and we sighed in agreement: we should have eloped.

In many ways I got my fairy tale wedding: a select group of friends and family in Italy, incredible food prepared by a local chef friend, a relaxed party that lasted all afternoon and into the evening. That morning, I’d walked down the cobble-stoned main street of my favorite Tuscan hill town escorted by family and my girlfriends. Tourists out for their morning cappuccinos Ooooed and snapped pictures of me. Some had clapped or shouted congratulations. It was surreal.

We’d climbed the steps of the stately stone palazzo on the main piazza where I’d seen countless other brides ascend in my years of visiting this place. We stepped into the city council room where weddings have been preformed since 1435. A town official in a sharp black suit and Italian flag sash presided over the ceremony that was all in Italian much to the consternation of my mono-glot family. In the end we signed the certificate and stepped out into the sun a married couple.

Our first act as marrieds was to head to the gelateria next door for a celebratory gelato despite the fact it was only noon. We strolled the town with our friends and photographers for some unique wedding shots. Then we trundled back to the villa for a country buffet at the villa’s forty-foot, pergola-shaded picnic table in the back yard. Eventually there was cake (heavenly tiramisu made by the villa’s motherly caretaker) and dancing as the party faded into the dark of a rural summer night filled with fireflies. All the elements had been what I wanted from the wedding favors of local honey to my bouquet picked from the villa’s grounds. I’m proud that by and large we truly managed to avoid the American wedding industrial complex and do an out-of-the-box event.

And yet. At the end of it all our prevailing feeling was that of disappointment. The year of planning was fraught with such dramas and other stressors we could have done without – both financial and emotional.

As women we are told that in being a bride we are queen for a day. As much as I tried to downplay that, there was still a latent expectation to be catered to and adulated. Playing the wedding/bride card didn’t get me anything. Every flight we had, at the car rental, every hotel or restaurant I made sure to mention that we were traveling to our wedding. Yes dammit, I expected some special treatment, upgrades, squeals of sisterly delight from the gate agents, something. In general I got blank ‘so what’ stares. One bitter, single flight attendant seemed to actually treat us worse. So much for queen for a day.

We know our choices upset many friends and family. Some perceived our destination wedding as a financial boast or a chance to exclude them. It was actually cheaper for us to do what we did than to plan a standard ballroom wedding here.

Still we knew we were asking a lot financially for folks to make the trip. We decided doing a unique celebration in a place we loved was worth the risk. As we’d planned the event, I’d pictured certain friends there with us, sharing in our joy. One by one the NO RSVPs came in. Many cherished friends and family couldn’t make the trip. Some had understandable financial reasons. Some didn’t care to travel or couldn’t get off work. In many cases they were friends whose weddings we’d gone out of our ways to be part of because we knew how much it would mean to them. We found ourselves struggling to hold on to our understanding as the wedding approached. At the end of the day the reasons didn’t seem to matter. All that will be remembered is that they weren’t there.

In an effort to entice friends and family to make the expenditure, we’d planned a week’s worth of activities for our guests so we could share our favorite place with them. “Make our wedding your vacation this year, it’s worth your while,” we crooned. The problem with that was that we got a bunch of lovely guests and family who expected a vacation. And with us as the knowledgeable ones, the ones who spoke the language and knew the area, they needed our help. Instead of us getting pampered and assisted in the final prep days, we ran around taking care of them and still needing to manage last-minute derailments and obstacles such as ice.

Though well-acquainted with the fact that ice is not a standard beverage feature as it is here, it hadn’t dawned on us that large quantities of ice were not readily available. The husband of the villa’s caretaker finally volunteered to take time out of his fields, cart a giant wine cask he had in his tiny, ancient truck to another hill town an hour away the morning of the wedding so we could have ice for the white wine and water to chill in. As something Italians just don’t do, it meant a lot to us that he would take his precious work day, break with community norms and do this heavy, tedious job for us crazy Americans.

It’s actions like that that make me feel like a cad in whinging at all. I had some amazing friends who stepped up and helped me with both last-minute details and keeping my sanity. They were willing to sacrifice their vacation recreation for my well-being and I can honestly say I wouldn’t have gotten through the week without them. But they were the exception.

Most of our families were either too sick to help or more interested in sight-seeing than in helping us with the preparations or bonding with their soon-to-be in-laws. We both grew angry and resentful as we herded our friends through their fun activity days. “I’m not having fun,” my husband-to-be growled. “This is my favorite place, I wanted to share it with them and I thought it would be fun. I’m not having fun.” I agreed with him. We were drained and stressed while many people found our planned activities too demanding or not interesting enough. Instead of “we’re here for you” the vibe seemed to be “we came all this way and paid all this money for you, now entertain us.” Not one person offered to buy our lunch or even a coffee on our group outings. We hadn’t really expected it, but when we noticed it never happened we were hurt.

No one at the villa ever broke through their jet-lag to join me on what I’d envisioned as family morning walks filled with laughter and wedding advice. I walked alone along my favorite country paths as the sun took the night’s chill away.

Having now felt the incredible mix of tiny disappointments and drama, pressure to be lovely and kind, plan everything perfectly, not to mention the emotional journey of the larger picture: giving up our single identities once and for all and actually getting married, I have every sympathy for the creature known as bridezilla. I never thought I would be that girl but one’s nerves gets pulled so tightly by so many forces going in different directions I don’t really see how it’s possible not to have at least one meltdown. I’m happy to say I only had one. It involved screaming at my father-in-law to-be at the rehearsal dinner which was nearly two hours late, had many of us including myself getting lost en route, and friends with kids begging off before dessert exhausted by the long day. I’m not proud of my meltdown, and I’m not saying it’s justified. But I defy a modern bride to get through without one. Thankfully my father-in-law was understanding. Despite his wounded pride that night, he waved away my apology on the palazzo steps the next morning with a hug and cheek kiss.

As what we thought would be our festive pre-week with our friends and family came to a drained and drama-filled end, all we could think was “this was a huge mistake, we should have eloped.” Too late to turn back now, we went to sleep way too late on the wedding eve.

All in all, the day itself went smoothly. All the things that went “wrong” were comical and somehow involved dessert. One friend waved a gelateria’s card in my face as we reached the bottom of the palazzo steps, post-ceremony. She insisted she knew where we had to go for gelato because they had her one favorite flavor – never mind that I may have put some thought into planning where we’ll go and for chrissake, I’m the bride, we’re going where I want to go. We led the wedding guests to our gelateria of choice, which was the same one our friend had wanted, thank goodness, and she boldly strode right in front of me up to the counter to order her scoop. I stopped, an incredulous “really?” dying in my throat. I looked back at my girlfriends in line behind the groom and I. “Really?” one grinned at me, her eyes twinkling. We laughed at the line-cutting friend still completely oblivious to her faux pas.

After the delicious lunch, we made our way to the dance floor and picked up the mike to thank our guests for making our dream of an Italian wedding come true. We we’re going to have the first dance and then cut the cake and here was the mike if anyone wanted to offer a toast. We looked over to see my father-in-law with a heaping plate of cake he was thoroughly enjoying.

“Dad! We haven’t cut the cake yet!” my husband moaned.

“What? It was out,” his dad reasoned. We laughed and helped ourselves too.

We laughed less when the evening wore down and no one toasted us. Not one person stepped up to the mike as I had imagined and said kind words about us, wished us well, told funny, heartwarming or embarrassing stories. No one. Had the language barrier intimidated people (half our guests were Italian and half American)? Was there nothing anyone wanted to say to honor us? We were deeply stung.

We sat on our bed that night, relieved it was over. Awash with contentment and love mixed with disappointment and hurt. I was sad that I’d never had the family bonding moments I’d so hoped would be part of this gathering. I’d wished for heart-to-hearts, advice, stories, quiet moments shared in this lovely setting. I had wanted to feel closer to everyone. I didn’t think those were unreasonable or selfish expectations. But it hadn’t turned out that way. Instead we were thrilled that with the dawn we could kick them all out of our beloved villa and hit the road for a few days on our own mini-moon.

It was the final coup de grace when our wedding photos finally arrived from the photographer. They were all vaguely blueish and cold-looking. None of the fizzy joy or radiant beauty I’d hope to have captured from the day. There were a few nice ones but I felt like so many photos showing connection and love were just missing. I guess that’s fitting and truthful in the end.

As the summer wore on, we took part in several other weddings. Often I saw examples of the selfless toiling of friends and family, shared sweet bonding opportunities, and pampered bride moments. I tried not to compare these to the absence of my own such moments but bitterness grew. In one instance I was the one who took off from work, traveled and did the toiling. I couldn’t help wondering “where was mine?”

I felt that in spite of all the lovely things my wedding was, there were many emotional things it wasn’t – things I hadn’t realized I’d expected from it. My husband and I compared notes and he felt the same way. We talked over our resentment and tried to let it go. We resolved that no matter what, we’d never do that again. One big lesson I took from it all: no one truly gives a crap about your wedding but you. I don’t say that to downplay the efforts of friends or family who stepped up during the year or took care of things at the event. We did see much generosity and love and for that we are grateful. In retrospect I just wish we could have channeled that generosity and love into something different; an event with less built-in expectation.

The funny thing is, several of the summer brides I’ve spoken to this year feel the same way. It was much ado about nothing and left them feeling empty and exhausted from hundreds of little dramas. So why do we as couples continue to subject ourselves to this costly, emotional, draining ritual?

As autumn approached, my husband and I realized something important was missing about the day. With the secular nature of our ceremony, there had never been an opportunity to exchange vows. Aside from agreeing to uphold the legal obligations of an Italian marriage, we hadn’t promised each other anything. We agreed that was an empty spot that needed filling. So we are writing our vows now. We are planning a short get-away where we can be by ourselves to exchange them and feel our commitment to each other become true for us. It will finally be like we ran away and eloped. I can’t think of a better way to connect.

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