Mother of the Bride
Like all nice Jewish girls of my era, I was supposed to marry a doctor or lawyer, have a fancy wedding orchestrated by my mother, then entertain my husband’s colleagues and send my kids to the best schools. Instead, decades later when Massachusetts became the first state to legalize same-sex marriage, my partner and I stood in line at City Hall, among the first in the nation to apply for a marriage license as a lesbian couple.
Several years prior, upon announcing our plans for a commitment ceremony, both my parents argued, “Must you? Can’t you just invite your people and leave our family and friends out of it?” Those people were my friends and family too. So, no.
I somehow managed to live with the fact that my parents loved me but didn’t unconditionally approve of me. Our phone calls became stilted. Neither asked how the plans were going or how they could help. I never suspected Mom was warming to the whole idea. Her sister, however, mentioned that Mom had enjoyed their joint shopping trip to find “commitment ceremony” outfits.
I hoped my mother would come around when she saw the depth of the commitment my partner and I had made. But she never expressed deep feelings. I knew she wanted me to be happy, though, and admittedly, until then, I had failed at that task.
My partner and I knew Mom would appreciate the setting because we emulated her elegant, understated style: We hired one of the best caterers around, decorated the tables with simple bouquets of roses and baby’s breath, and enlisted our son, niece, and nephew as flower children and ring bearers.
But even before the big evening, Mom must have evolved in a way I couldn’t have predicted. Maybe she was just being polite. Or perhaps she noticed the excited chatter among her friends who had always embraced our commitment. And it could have been Mom’s attempt to compensate for my father’s overt displeasure about the whole matter. At least one of them had to step up.
Whatever the catalyst, Mom arrived at the venue glowing. She immediately expressed delight that she and I were both wearing celadon. Later, Mom gave a toast that began: “I’ve never seen such a love fest.” And throughout the evening she flitted about the space like this was a normal night for her. Her exit line to me was this surprisingly insightful comment: “I didn’t know that I didn’t know you.”
The wedding took place eight years later. By then, my father had died. Though it was a small gathering, a buzz overtook our otherwise sedate synagogue. Temple staff fought for the empty seats. A string quartet played Bach as people assembled. The wedding canopy was held up by poles covered with white tea roses, lending a mildly sweet fragrance to the sunlit room.
Suddenly, there was a hush. And the rabbi began the ceremony. “We’re gathered here to witness one of life’s greatest moments . . . . ”
In addition to the requisite prayers and vows, the rabbi opined on the historic significance of the event. When he got to the end where they say, “I now pronounce you...” he paused, beaming, and then said, “MARRIED.” Unbridled joy broke out in the chapel. To our surprise, the gentile members of the string quartet burst forth with strains of a traditional Hebrew wedding song that hadn’t been on the play list.
When we all walked across the hall for a reception of bagels and lox, my 85-year-old mother kvelled. “I’ve never seen anything like this. I’d march in the gay pride parade if I didn’t have to use a walker.” To be sure I’d heard right, I grabbed my brother, sister-in-law, and wife and had Mom repeat what she’d said. Each of us paused to let her astonishing comment sink in.
Four years later, along with her many accomplishments, that quote appeared in Mom’s obituary in The Boston Globe. So I know she’ll never be able to take it back.