Again, reading lots of books reviews (and sometimes even books) and articles and blogs about marriage and thinking… why even try to write about marriage? Its meanings and forms – beyond the “wedding,” which remains quite traditional and predictable in our society, it seems – are myriad.  Marriage almost defies definition.  What works for one couple might seem appalling or counter-intuitive or just plain boring to another.  I have friends who married because they got pregnant.  I have friends who married because they wanted to get pregnant.  Both of these situations seem geniunely old-fashioned, don’t they?  I have friends who are in gay marriages (legally recognized or not), open marriages, sexless marriages, unhappy marriages, and long-distance marriages.  And I have friends who refuse to get married, but live together and raise kids, and dozens of friends (and family members) who have been divorced. 

Which, I suppose, is the very point and/or problem of modern marriage, as defined and/or lamented in so many of these recent book reviews, books, and articles I’ve been reading – i.e., that postmodern marriage has no single definition (no longer, in our day, even as simple as one man, one woman).  What was once a fairly straightforward, if confining, economic and procreative agreement is now not only a “right” to be pursued, but a path for personal fulfillment, even spiritual growth.  

And just try to define “personal fulfillment” in a way that could be codified in the Constitution. 

Not only have sex and procreation been separated – but even marriage and children no longer automatically go together.  I suspect this is why the anti-gay marriage arguments that focus on “the raising of children” hold so little cultural currency except among ultra-conservatives.  Children are beside the point.  Children can be and are conceived and reared and loved in all kinds of families and arrangements.  Marriage is something else entirely, it seems.

And so this is less a memoir of my marriage, I suppose, and just a regular memoir of my personal fulfillment and spiritual growth.  In the company of another person with whom I have sought that fulfillment.  In other words, a love story.

Where was I?  Oh yes… so who were these two souls who collided that fateful night in 1986 at the under-21 dance club?  Haha.   Having only just met him at that point, I can only say of David that he was already 21 years old, was still living at home, and was half-heartedly attending his junior year of university as a Communications/Visual Arts major.  He had held some part-time and one-time jobs and was, as previously recorded, remodeling his parents’ house.  His father was a university English professor at the school he was attending – his mother was a part-time community college instructor teaching English as a Second Language to Mexican, Vietnamese, Filipino, Taiwanese, Chinese, and Middle Eastern students, among others.  His father was a non-practicing agnostic Jew and his mother was a non-practicing Protestant type who was soon to convert to Catholicism because she liked the art and ritual of it (there may have been more, but she never talked about it).  They had been married 24 years already at that point.   

As for myself… I was four months out of high school and just turned 18.  My father (actually stepfather) worked in a lumberyard and my mother had a daycare in our home.  My father was a vague Christian type who refused to go to church and my mother was a born-again fundamentalist evangelical type who dragged her kids to church three times per week.  They had been married 13 years at that point. 

We were both first-borns and I was always one of those people who just wanted to get on with my life already.  Not only was I lamenting that I did not have A Serious Boyfriend yet – all that time wasted with mere high school boys – but I was working full-time and had decided to work for a year to save money to go to college.  

A word about college:  no one in my family had been to college.  No one in my family expected or encouraged ME to go to college – indeed, I think my parents’ words were something along the lines of, why would you quit a perfectly good job (in bookkeeping) and go to college?   My parents also had not a penny saved to send any kids to college.  I had not considered applying to any local colleges yet, and, honestly, had not paid much attention to my high school grades.  But one beacon of possibility was held out to me – apply to our church-affiliated university in Texas and hope for scholarships and church aid.  Despite my lackluster (soon to be outright rebellious) attitude toward church and religion, in general, I had many leaders and mentors and college-aged friends in my church encouraging me to give this a chance and go away to school, and I agreed it was my only chance, if not my first choice.  

This offer – this possibility – would impact our first year together in more ways than one.  First of all, I had decided to put off college for a year and work to save money – so, what if I hadn’t?  What if I had gone that fall right out of high school?  I would have been long gone to the flat Texas prairie, never knowing my destiny that awaited me back in southern California at the dance club.  We wouldn’t have met.  This story never happened. 

Secondly, being the responsible life-planning sort of person/kid I was, I knew this might be my only chance to go to a real university and that I needed to give myself that chance to move up and out of my working-poor background.  Being the proto-feminist that I was (apparently), I was determined, most of all, NOT to change my plan just because I had met a boy.  Or, in this case, a man.  Either way, I couldn’t risk resenting him or regretting it, and although Texas didn’t work out in the end, I have to commend my 18-year-old self for following through.  Anyway, I told David all of this when I met him and I proceeded with the plan to apply and go to Texas the following year.  And what a year it was…

I’m collecting random links and interesting things to read about marriage now.   Marriage seems to be a regular topic of conversation, memoirs, novels, etc. lately.  Or is it one of those situations, where once you are interested in or aware of something, you just become hyper-sensitive and begin to see and hear about it everywhere?

Anyway, I am also – separate from the topic of marriage, per se – engaged in writing a novel, so it may just be that I am hyper-aware of book reviews lately. 

This novel sounds interesting – http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/22/books/review/Thompson-t.html?pagewanted=1&nl=books&emc=booksupdateema3

I may or may not read it.  But I was intrigued by this idea of the characters being asked by a counselor to write out moments when the marriage “changed direction” – at least I think that’s what they’re talking about.  So I’m going to think about that… moments when our marriage changed direction.  Presumably for better or worse.  Just as a thought exercise, not to think about problems, but just about change and growth.  I like this quote:  “Neither memories nor marriages are static.”

a friend of mine linked to this site which chronicles the first year of marriage through poetry – http://josierichards.blogspot.com/

The poems are simple, personal, and sometimes poignant.  An interesting thought experiment. 

I wonder what I REALLY thought during that first year of marriage?  or second, or third…  That’s why I’m trying to write out these memories here, but the tiny moments will never be recaptured.  If I had poems or tweets or even journals from those early years, what would I learn?  Would I find that we are comfortably basically the same people?  Would I be shocked at our naivete?  Or amazed at the quick profundity of our relationship?  Or neither?  Sans that record, I still find it amusing that I remember not just the “big” important events, but all sorts of random silly things and conversations and feelings and insights.  So there is hope :)

  I recently read Elizabeth Gilbert’s’ book, “Committed.”  (you know, author of Eat Pray Love…)   I did not find this to be a particularly illuminating or universal book about the state of modern marriage.  I found it to be a specifically personal account of someone “forced” into marriage (due to immigration issues) and trying to reconcile it in her own post-divorce, restless, feminist mind.  From a scholarly point of view, it is not.  Scholarly, that is.  I agree with her that marriage is a dilemma for the modern self – especially the modern female self – and that we westerners place a lot of pressure on ourselves and our spouses, expecting ONE person to be everything to us -lover, soulmate, financial partner, best friend, advisor, confidante, drinking buddy, etc. etc.  But that ”insight,” and her comparisons with marriage in other cultures, is mostly old news….  

Talk to me in 20 years, Elizabeth Gilbert…

Sometime in mid-October 1986 (just a few weeks after my 18th birthday) my high school friend Michele and I drove to meet her date Craig and his “friend” he was setting me up with - we met at the under-21 dance club.  I don’t remember a first-first impression – I don’t remember seeing him for the first time or what we first said.  That would be too perfect, wouldn’t it?   Wouldn’t it be nice to think that we just fell instantly into one another, as if we’d always been together, so that the beginning did not stand out – there was no beginning – we’ve just always *been.*  But I’m not that much of a romantic    

In reality, beginnings matter less than what domes next.  Beginnings are random, chaos, often only vaguely intentional, and only have meaning in retrospect…as we create meaning out of them.  Had we not stayed together, it would not have been a beginning at all – it would have only been a date, an ordinary event.  Great stories have great beginnings because people crave that idea that the universe is NOT random, after all – that everything, eventually, happens for a reason.  Or, if the “universe” is not your thing… people crave control.  They like to think they knew, they made it happen, they were making a decision, right then and there, they were in control of the situation.  

I do remember being with him that night, though.  I was wearing a sweatshirt and leggings and giant triangle-shaped red earrings.  I had curly blond hair and glasses, although I suspect I didn’t actually wear my glasses when I went out dancing.  Now, of course, I would wear them ;)    He was wearing blue pants with a black paisley print, a black shirt, and black and white “Duckie” shoes – the chunky Doc Marten loafer types.  We danced for a while and then took our cherry Cokes to the outdoor seating area where people could go for conversation and fresh air.  I said something like “nice pants” and he told me they were women’s pants.  This was meant to be shocking in 1986, although it would not be now.  Our favorite bands were Duran Duran, David Bowie, Echo and the Bunnymen, Depeche Mode, Howard Jones – men wore women’s pants and make-up.  He was wearing black eyeliner and had dark black dyed hair – unnaturally black – flat black.  He was wearing more make-up than I was and his ears were pierced – simple silver hoops. 

I don’t remember dancing, specifically, but I remember being there and having this conversation outside… and then leaving together.  Craig went off with Michele in her car and I went with David.  In retrospect, I wonder if I even wondered if this was a good idea – I was driving off with a guy I hardly knew – but I don’t think I thought that.  I remember feeling completely comfortable, not putting on any dating performances, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be with him.  It just was.  He was driving a rust-colored VW Scirroco – he told me that his dad, a college professor, sometimes drove the car, and the back seat was piled high with books and papers.  He began driving and reached over to hold my hand, then put my hand on the gear shift so he could shift.  In the coming months of our relationship, we always drove like that - holding hands. 

I told him where I lived.  We drove in the direction of my house and stopped at the elementary school playground around the corner from my house.  We parked and got out and climbed to the top of the domed metal climbing structure… what are those called?  And then we kissed and kissed and kept on kissing.  I did not want to leave him.  That night, or ever.  But he had to find his friend and drive back to San Diego (I lived – and the club was located – in a northern suburb of SD).  (By the way… how did we find anyone and make plans and stay connected without cell phones in those days??) 

Later, he would tease me relentlessly about being too “easy” on our first date.