Marriage Marriage

In Michelle Obama’s book, Becoming, she details the story of how Barack Obama proposed marriage to her. Without spoiling the fun of the story, here’s a brief overview: Michelle was surprised by the proposal, because they had often argued over the merits of marriage. She, a traditionalist, thought it was a given, but he, a revolutionist, believed it was enough to love each other and live together; why would you need the rings, the paper, the ceremony? Mrs. Obama recalls how he taunted her with the fight right before proposing, enjoying the irritation it caused her, because he was in on the joke that he had given in and wanted marriage too.

My own partner, Tyler, had asked me if I had gotten to the proposal part of the story yet, because they already knew how it had happened, just the day before I heard it in the audiobook version of Becoming. The sly smile they had given me suddenly clicked as I realized that this sounded familiar: enjoying an argument, the irritation it caused, the big joke--if Tyler were ever to propose to me, I imagine it would go something like that. They would laugh, and I would be so mad that saying no completely out of spite would seem very tempting.

Of course, these reflections simply caused more reflections, as now I could not help but to consider the idea of marriage, not just as a possibility between Tyler and I, but as a whole concept and how the institution related to me, personally.

Similar to Michelle Obama, growing up, marriage had always felt like a given to me. Of course I would get married, of course I would have kids; it had honestly never occurred to me that there were other options in life, another path I could follow. It wasn’t that I felt a sense of duty, I didn’t even feel like I had to do it; it just felt like the natural path that life takes and would take me.

As a child, I would frequently plan out my future life, usually by planning out various houses, naming future children, and, of course, planning a wedding--I am, to this day, a big planner and day-dreamer, though now I often browse house listings or play Sims 3 rather than draw a house (that was typically a full-on animal farm) with colored pencils.

When I would plan a wedding, the groom was never the important part. I didn’t sit around day-dreaming about my knight in shining armor or my one true love finding me. There were never any Disney-esque musical numbers where I dreamed about someone special. I mean, I assumed I would get married, and for most of my childhood I assumed it would be a man I would marry--though discovering my sexuality is another essay entirely--it wasn’t the person I was planning, it was the wedding.

Even after I was a teenager and had a secret Pinterest board for my wedding dreams, I didn’t really care about the person I was to marry. Even when I was dating someone and I assumed it was them I would be marrying, the knowledge of who it was just was to insert the names of groom and other people who would stand with us at the wedding. They were names on the lists and faces to imagine over wedding pictures I found on Google.

It wasn’t until I was twenty that I began questioning the idea of marriage and my desire for one. After having moved across the country for a boy I met online, and who I was, for better or worse, completely in love with at the time. For the first time in my life, I was living in a big city, I wasn’t living with my parents, and these concepts were turning into concrete questions that deserved real time and consideration.

I had a miscarriage in February of that year, which had effected me more than I realized at the time. It had, anyways, brought the idea of children to the frontmost of my mind, for the week or so between knowing I was pregnant to losing the pregnancy. There was a moment, however brief though it may have been, when the reality of parenthood sunk in.

I’m going to be a mom, then 19 year old me thought. I am surprised to say that my initial reaction was not dread, like would be three years later when I got pregnant again. In my naivety, there was only this sweet sort of euphoria, because I loved babies, there was a man who loved me, and we were going to be a family.

While there are many bad things one can say about my now ex-, let's call him JD, who I moved to Philadelphia for, he did not hesitate a second when I told him that I was late and I was nauseous. Instead, he did two things: he began budgeting for a baby, and he picked out names. This comforted my fears, but, in the end, made the miscarriage harder to bear.

It was a Tuesday. I was sitting in my favorite class in my second year of college, when a sudden pain hit my gut. I cried on the bus ride home, because of the pain and because of what I was afraid it meant. I sat in the bathroom sobbing, later to call JD and tell him between my sniffles and tears the upsetting truth: I flushed Gwedolyn or Dominick down the toilet that day. They were gone, before I had comprehended that they were there, and I couldn’t do anything to save them or get them back.

As I began questioning my life and my choices around the age of 20 to 21, the exact time these thoughts began occurring to me I don’t know, I came to the ugly realization that it was, objectively, a good thing I had lost the pregnancy.

Before I truly realized that I was in an abusive relationship, I decided that I did not want to have kids with this man. I watched as he punched the wall in a drunken rage, screamed obscenities in public, broke his own computer desk out of frustration, and threw the house keys at me, telling me to go home by myself because he was mad at me and needed a drink.

I feel I should mention that during that key incident, we were on the edge of not-very-nice part of Philly, it was late at night, and I was scared to walk home by myself. But I did it. I went home, I showered, I did the dishes and cleaned the apartment so it wouldn’t upset him when he got home, and I went to bed, pretending not to be upset, not to be worried, not to feel alone.

For the next few months or so, I tried to come to terms with the idea that I would never have kids. Perhaps it was this that really prompted the soul-searching I did, or maybe it was the newly discovered world of alternatives to the norm that going to a liberal arts college in a big city on the East Coast afforded me access to. In any case, I was obsessed with the idea of my own gender.

I don’t want to say that I questioned my gender, because I didn’t. Not once did I think that maybe I’m not a woman. Even as I met trans and non-binary people for the first time, I never felt that I was one myself. I didn’t question my gender; I questioned my gender role.

I found myself looking at the life society had planned out for me with distaste and horror. Did I want the things I wanted because I actually wanted them or because society wanted me to want them? Were my desires for marriage and motherhood real, or was it merely the spoon-fed patriarchy I had internalized? I had always pictured myself as the homemaker, but is that really the life I wanted?

Let me share the plan JD and I had for our lives: I would finish school and graduate, he would leave the military, we would move to where he wanted to go to school (Michigan, he had picked, though I would later learn that, despite my efforts to persuade him not to at the time, so that I would be closer to my family), he would get a degree while I worked, we would settle down, get married, have a couple of kids, and do the normal, traditional American family thing, white-picket fence included.

My planning and day-dreaming were beginning to solidify. I had the groom, I knew the best man, and I even had dates in mind. It would be in October, so we could have Autumn leaves in the background of wedding pictures. The venue would be modern, rustic, and urban: exposed brick and pipes and wood. Baby’s-Breath and old, vintage books (maybe type-writers!) on the tables. A dance floor. No bouquet or garter toss, no dollar dance. Men and women would stand on both sides during the ceremony. No scripture would be read, nothing that traditional or religious. But my dad would walk me down the aisle, and we would both cry.

But then, I realized that I didn’t want to bring kids into this life I had chosen with this man.

When I finished the semester of the spring before I turned 22, I went home to live with my parents for the summer, because my mom had gotten me a summer job at the office where she worked. I had kissed JD before getting on the plane to go home, sure that these months apart were going to be so, so hard--that was such a long time to be away from my one true love. Instead, it turned out to be the space I needed to really see how toxic the relationship was.

I realized two major things: 1) I was utterly heartbroken by my current decision to never have children, because I really, really did want children someday. Even if that was giving in to the patriarchy, even if that desire was placed there by the patriarchy, I did not care. I wanted babies of my own to love and to raise. 2) If I thought this man I was planning to marry was too violent, too unpredictable, too angry, too drunk to be around children, why was I putting myself around him? I thought I could save him. I thought that if I was there, to love him and support him, he would be happier, healthier, and better. Hadn’t he told me he would be?

The final push I needed to end things with him came in the form of meeting Tyler. So long had I been in a toxic and unhappy place, that I had forgotten something very simple: I could be happy, wanted, and loved. And while the experiences of the past continue to haunt me and follow me into my present life and relationships, I continue to be amazed at the patience and forgiveness Tyler shows me.

Sure, our relationship has its own problems, and sometimes it feels all hopeless to me. But I can bring my worries to my partner without fear. I can express wishes, hopes, and fears and spread out all my anxieties and trauma before them, and they respond with kindness, helpfulness, and hopefulness.

But I’m not planning a wedding anymore, and I don’t expect Tyler and I will ever get married. Maybe we will, in a legal sense for the legal benefits that allows, but I don’t think we’ll ever have a wedding, a ceremony, a show for other people. Why do we need to have a performance for others to signify what we already know?

Besides, I never did care about the partner or the marriage part of the wedding itself. What I always wanted, I realize now, is to have a really pretty party that I get to be bossy about.