As I enter the
tail end of my 20s, it seems the time has come when
everyone I know is getting married. My mother assures me
this is just the age, while inquiring about my own
prospects.Living in Los
Angeles, I have managed to shield myself from having to
attend too many weddings, but I am from Houston, land
of the debutante.
In Houston, at
the age of 20 society girls still purchase a $5,000
wedding dress and circle the ballroom of the River Oaks
Country Club--squired by escorts such as yours
truly--performing a particularly difficult
floor-level curtsy called "The Texas Dip."
(You might have seen something similar from Donna on
90210 in the '90s) In Houston, getting married
is not a fortunate series of events, it's the
end goal. Those of you who follow sports could liken it to
football, which is also big in Texas, and imagine the
ambitious bride with her eye on the end zone. Nothing
matters but that.
That being said,
I was delighted recently when my best friend Renee
called me to tell me she was engaged. "You're
going to be in my wedding, for sure," she told
me, and quickly followed it with "I am not sure yet
exactly what you will be doing. Probably reading or
something. But I definitely want you in it." In
this case I approved of her marriage and awaited my
assignment.
A few years ago I
was asked by another friend, in exactly the same way,
to be in her wedding. She was marrying a man with a Mexican
heritage, and though I was not a groomsman, I wore the
traditional Mexican wedding shirt and stood on his
side of the ceremony--for symmetry, I assume. You see,
it is one thing, it seems, to put your gay best friend in
your wedding. It is quite another to have him stand up
next to your other girlfriends in matching pastel
dresses. My friend did tell me that though I was
standing on the groom's side, she wanted some
ownership of me in the proceedings.
That
"ownership," it turned out, entailed walking
down the aisle to special music. The groom and his
attendant processed, then the music changed, then I
walked down the aisle by myself, then the music changed
again to signal the bridesmaids and the bride. Luckily, my
song was something nondescript and not
"It's Raining Men."
After the wedding
I took pictures with the groom's party, the
bride's party, and the whole group. I may have
in fact been more photographed than the bride. It was
an honor to be in her wedding, and though for some
reason I longed for the inclusion of being a seamless member
of her side of the affair, I began to embrace my
outsider status.
I was more
prepared then for my most recent wedding, again back in
Houston. I had received a save-the-date card that outlined
the wedding party's responsibilities for the
weekend. But you see, when you are the gay friend, you
have to ask questions. When something says "the bride
and her attendants," that does not necessarily mean you. For
instance, I was not explicitly invited to the bridesmaid
lunch the day of the rehearsal dinner, and though my
friend asked me the night before if I wanted to come,
I decided this was probably not the best idea.
When I was
growing up gay in Houston, I had a lot of female friends. My
experiences with them were very positive, and those
friendships, like my marrying friend, have lasted many
years. But back then specifically (and I think, in
some respects, today) there existed a refined sense of
gender roles that is perhaps true only to the South but,
I suspect, a widely held tradition. Many times there were
dinners, lunches, nights out to the movies that I was
not invited to, even though all of the attendants were
some of my closest friends. The reason given, and
always accepted without question, was that the outing was
specifically "just the girls."
For a young gay
man this is mildly insulting. I considered myself, to
some extent, one of the girls. I was their confidant:
listening to their dating problems, escorting them to
dances, and even spending the night over curled up in
our pajamas, eating Taco Cabana and watching The
Princess Bride. But in the end I was
still a guy, and though I appreciated that fact then and
now, I wanted (and still want today,
somewhat) to have it both ways.
So for this
wedding I decided to embrace my honored gay place. I went to
a shower thrown by my friend's work--a
specifically LGBT law firm at which she was an
associate. No other friend had made the cut, and her
colleagues fawned over me and seemed to know a lot about me.
At the rehearsal I was given my assignment for the
ceremony. I was to read out loud a passage from the
Prophet, a passage about love. It was a tag-team
effort--her lesbian sister read a short passage, then
I read the closing, then there were the vows.
As it turns out,
I had a bit of a starring role in the proceedings. While
my other best friend was standing up there throughout as the
maid of honor, I got nearly 10 minutes of
uninterrupted microphone time before the entire
audience. I was also seated in the front row, which, in
order from the aisle, included the bride's
mother and father, her gay brother (an usher), her
lesbian sister (the fellow reader), the crazy aunt whom
no one talked to, then myself. An honored place indeed.
As I got up to
read and began to hear my voice echo across the hall, full
of people I had not seen in 10 years and some of my closest
friends, what I had anecdotally accepted as my
negotiated gay place in the wedding began to really
sink in as a privilege. I read out loud: "Love
possesses not, nor would it be possessed; for love is
sufficient unto love." I realized, looking at
her and her soon-to-be husband, whom I adored, that my
friend had specifically chosen this passage for me to read.
I began to get choked up, and looking at them looking
at me, I felt like this was my moment to give her away
or give my blessing. I missed certain words, getting a
little lost in the moment, but no one seemed to notice, and
as I sat I could feel myself beaming, and that feeling
being returned all around me. To have been a
bridesmaid or a groomsmen would have been the more
traditional role, but I suddenly remembered one of the
things I loved most about being gay--standing out.
After the
ceremony there were pictures, and as the gay friend I waited
till instructed to be in the cast photo. No one specifically
asked me to stand in, and as I was with the mother of
the bride watching it all go down, I thought it would
be rude to be so assertive as to go and position
myself in. I did feel like I had missed an opportunity there
to be included, but it comes with the territory. I was
the hit of the reception, however, with everyone
congratulating me on my oration, including the
groom's family--the first family, somewhat, of
the Tabasco empire, among whom I was already a big
hit. When the groom had been hunting one season and I
got on the phone to ask how many ducks he had killed,
he told me he was killing doves, not ducks. I remarked,
"You were slaughtering the international bird
of peace?" This is, apparently, one of the
funniest things the groom's family had ever heard,
making me an infamous figure among their clan and
leading to the family matriarch, an elderly Southern
woman who is called simply Banana, to demand to meet
me.
I was wearing my
recently purchased vintage Yves Saint Laurent tuxedo, a
slightly shimmery fabric from the Tom Ford era; pony hair
Taryn Rose tuxedo shoes; and pink striped socks, the
reputation of which had made the rounds, so I was
constantly asked to lift my pant leg to show them off.
The gay friend's job at a wedding also includes
dancing first, and often when no one else will. Thus
my missing cast photo seems unnecessary, as nearly
every photo from the reception in the proof sheet is
of me in some form of dance.
By the time the
evening had come to a close, I can safely say that I had
secured my position in both the groom's and bride's family,
including an invitation by the groom's mother to come
stay with them on their plantation in Louisiana. No
small feat, and all accomplished by doing anything but
blending in. The groom was later heard to proclaim not only
that my tuxedo was the best he had ever seen but that I was
in fact his favorite of his wife's friends. I
found this all out from her the next morning, and I
sensed pride in her voice and in mine that I could serve
that function.
As we exchanged
I-love-yous for the hundredth time that weekend, I
thought: If my place at weddings is to be
endlessly charming and impressive, then so be it.
One day perhaps I will be allowed to and lucky enough
to find someone to marry, and I hope that everyone
involved in my wedding will feel as special as I did that
day.