Getting married at the international food court

I am getting married in a few months to another Steemit devotee. Don’t worry, we didn’t meet here or anything, and we do have several other things in common. Neither of us likes pina coladas, but only one of us likes walking in the rain, and yes that gives you some idea how old we are. We generally prefer beer. And while keeping my Born in Oregon card valid requires an occasional amble in the damp, he is a couple of notches saner and stays inside by a toasty computer when its wet out, thank you very much. But I digress.

So, after six years together we are getting married, a second marriage for both of us. In each of our cases, wedding number one was traditional. I think he liked his wedding more or less, but mine was awkward, a pig in a polka dot dress. My parents’ church, my parents’ religion, mostly my parents’ friends. I made it all about them, an obsequious whimper for their approval in my 25th year. I wince when I think about it, not for having had unresolved parental love and approval issues, but for having made a circus of them. Ick, just ick.

So now we come to wedding number two. My guy is very much a guy and doesn’t have many preferences where weddings are concerned. He did place one item in the non-negotiable category. He wants to be married by a judge, not one of my friends with a mail order marrying permit from Hannah’s House of Butterfly Love, a judge, a real person with some real authority to join us together, an authorized gluer. Since neither of us is religious, that leaves sea captains and judges. We’re going with a judge. We don’t have any oceans around here.

So the wedding is up to me and I want to get it right this time. Since I didn’t like my first wedding, and since it was many years ago, I have had a lot of time to consider what I would do differently if I were to get married again. Small rather than large, relaxed rather than formal, just family and a few friends, in a house probably, with a nice meal and a nice piece of pie after, maybe some fairy lights in the trees. These musings are gelling into a plan for a cozy little wedding I think I’m going to like, assuming I can figure out what to wear. More on that in a moment.

I was back in Portland recently for a visit and had dinner with my dear old besty from high school, Luisa. She and I lead very different lives, she an actress and teacher on the west coast, and me a techy sort of analyst in the suburbs of Minneapolis. She is almost as weird as I am and twice as beautiful and four times as talented, yet I am wonderful enough not to resent her for it. It works. We have some odd crossover in our lives, unexpected little coincidences. We drive the same car for example, same model, same year, even the same color. We don’t talk about cars or live in the same time zone so had had these vehicles for a couple of years before we realized it. The latest coincidence is that we are both getting married this year, both for the second time, both to men we have been test driving for several years. Our weddings on the other hand will be quite different, hers larger and whiter. Since she and her honey are both actors, with a love for the theatrical, she is concerned that their wedding attire might be leaning perilously close to the costume category (kilts were mentioned). And here too, we found common ground. I don’t want this getup I am considering for my wedding to look too much like a costume.

I’m wearing a dark purple dress, long sleeves, knee length, not a wedding dress at all. It is elegant, simple, by a designer I like for her graceful acceptance that not all of us girls get tiny in the middle. Many of us in fact carry around several important organs in that convenient space between ribs and hips, and we appreciate a designer who leaves space for them in a garment. The dress, this much is certain. What is in question is what I’m going to wear on my head.
I want bling. I want sparkle. I want something that says, if not “here comes the bride,” then at least “hey, look over here, yes here.” When I look at Indian bridal dupatta scarves, my eyes get big and round and shiny like an anime character, and I know I have found what I want. In case you are not familiar, dupatta scarves are several feet long. Drape it over your head like a veil, around your shoulders like a stole, across your body like saree, express yourself! Wispy and sheer on the one hand, but gussied up with bling on the other, some dupatta are so heavily embellished with twinkling doodads that swinging them too quickly over your head could seriously endanger the health of your groom. Dupatta come in every color possible, from caviar to champaign, and every gold, purple and peacock blue in between. They are stunning and mysterious and infinitely varied. Indian brides are some of the most beautiful in the world, and if I can’t have their gorgeous skin or riveting eyes, I am seriously considering nabbing their scarves.

Couple of problems. Number one, the whole costume question noted above. Don’t want to look like I’m playing dress up. Number two, I am not at all, not even a little bit, Indian. My people come from all the coldest parts of Europe, and I have the lack of skin pigment and eye color to prove it. I love Indian food and Bhangra music, but I’ve certainly never traveled there, and the “Indian” movies I watch aren’t real Indian movies made solely by Indians. They are India as interpreted by its former oppressors, the English, or by English and Indian partnerships that paint portraits of the whole East meets West theme that I eat up enthusiastically, with salt and melted butter, like popcorn. You get it.

So, do you have to be Indian to wear a dupatta at your wedding? I’m going to argue not. If you wear it in its capacity as a pretty thing and a bringer of bling, in other words, not as representative of Indian culture in any way, then I’d say yes. Its OK. I am not trying to have an Indian wedding, nor am I trying to say something about myself through the use of someone else’s culture. It isn’t like eating at the trough of the international food court, sucking up un-mexican burritos and un-japanese teriyaki. It isn’t a bastardized thing represented as an authentic thing, rather it is an authentic thing used for its essential purpose outside its original cultural context. Who knows, this may work out ethically yet.