Arranged Marriage… By Whitney Farmer – Un Pop Culture | @MDWorld

May 3, 2012 Whitney Farmer 5 Comments

Whitney runs a rock music venue on the beach in L.A.. She has an MBA, and regrets selling her Barbies at a garage sale when she was 10-years-old because she had decided that she had outgrown them.

 

 

I almost got married last weekend.

 

I had thought that I was just showing up in time for dinner.

 

I was the last to arrive at the house to celebrate the visit of The French Family who we had met last year. They are from Provence and had first met my sister and her fiancé when they went boating in the Mediterranean. The friendship continued after my sister returned home, and when I finally met them last year, they welcomed me into their arms as well.  They let me practice my French and made me swear that I would visit them.

Before I had a chance, they came to visit again.  Their vacation was a mixture of pleasure and inquiries regarding how to immigrate into the U.S..  From what I think I understood, the French dad only had to start a business with some specified outlay, or invest at least 51% in one with a similar allocation. Simple for him as he already is a business owner in his native land.  But there was a catch: As their children reached 21, if they weren’t enrolled in a university or able to invest something like $150,000 in the economy themselves, they would be deported.

 

Their youngest daughter wasn’t of much concern. Studious, she is intent on becoming a heart surgeon and pursuing her studies at some demanding American university. But their oldest son was vexing. A twenty-year-old DJ, he is so close to the deportation age that he would certainly be left behind if the family came to the New World for a New Life.

 

Before I arrived, our two families had been brainstorming a solution. We could hire him at the club or help book him on a tour with other venues we know. But that would at best keep him bouncing between countries. He could enter university, but that would be a detour away from his music career and at best would only delay his deportation.  Soon, everyone decided after having a glass of wine that the best solution was for him to marry an American.

 

Specifically, me.

 

My sister’s fiancé had come up with the idea that I should marry the sweet dark-eyed man-child less than half my age. When his father asked, “She would do that for him,” my future brother said, “Absolutely! She loves to help people!”

 

Enter Whitney.

 

When I arrived, I was greeted with, “Bonsoir! I am your new papa!” I assumed that it was a translation error, but soon found that I was the one who had misunderstood.

 

As the tipsy plan was described to me, there was a spirit of group jesting with an undercurrent of seriousness that might have come to the forefront if I had shown any chink in my armor of humor. When told of the scheme, I said, “Why not? I haven’t done very well at this on my own. Someone else could probably do better.”  Later, my mom said that we could have our reception at the club, only to realize that my future husband would still not be 21, so he couldn’t attend because of the liquor license. It was decided that Disneyland would be better.

 

The next day, Mom also told their wise housekeeper about what had transpired to share a laugh. She was surprised when the idea was greeted with all analytical seriousness by a woman who had fought for years and won to receive a green card after fleeing political violence in El Salvador.  Viewed practically, how was this arrangement – vetted affectionately by both families – different from other types of arranged marriages, except for the sex part and progeny part? Marrying for love is a relatively new tradition.

 

As the beloved French Family packed their bags to leave for Vegas where a helicopter ride and pool parties awaited, the running joke kept delivering.

 

When I arrived for the last night, late again, en français I expressed desolation to Mon Homme and asked for his forgiveness. He responded with many comments to Wife. His 14-year-old little sister (and mine?) discovered that we both were wearing the exact same shoes: white Converse low-rise All-Star kicks, size 7. It appeared to all as another sign that we were somehow meant to be family. As they pulled away from the house with their GPS navigator giving them orders in French, my sister worked the hula hoop while her fiancé juggled oranges, giving a show better than Vegas. I almost did a handstand, but then remembered that I had torn my rotator cuff since the last time I performed a feat of strength. Plus, I was more than twice the age of my fiancé.  As they drove down the street, we heard some comment about Circ du Soleil through the car windows that were down to catch the warm night air.

 

In the midst of debates regarding immigration reform, people still will try to figure out how to create a better life for their families. Some will even pay a great price: Like the housekeeper, travel with criminals as a criminal to escape slaughter; or even marry an old lady.

 

After the French Family had left, however, my sister told me a tale. Sometime that first night as we laughed around the table, I was in a long conversation with the young French daughter who wants to be a doctor. She has concerns about how well she could master English and what it would be like to study in America. She also was worried that she would have trouble making friends and be lonely because of the language barrier. I encouraged her and we spoke about many things.  Apparently, I was so intent that I failed to notice that my potential husband-on-paper was, you know, checking me out – according to my sister. Perhaps it was a cultural difference, but maybe he didn’t realize that the parents were talking about a business arrangement only…

 

C’est l’amour.

 

Quote of the Blog: “Love Among the Ruins” by Robert Browning, in its entirety:

I.
Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles,
Miles and miles
On the solitary pastures where our sheep
Half-asleep
Tinkle homeward thro’ the twilight, stray or stop
As they crop–
Was the site once of a city great and gay,
(So they say)
Of our country’s very capital, its prince
Ages since
Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far
Peace or war.

II.
Now,–the country does not even boast a tree,
As you see,
To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills
From the hills
Intersect and give a name to, (else they run
Into one)
Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires
Up like fires
O’er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall
Bounding all,
Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed,
Twelve abreast.

III.
And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass
Never was!
Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o’erspreads
And embeds
Every vestige of the city, guessed alone,
Stock or stone–
Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe
Long ago;
Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame
Struck them tame;
And that glory and that shame alike, the gold
Bought and sold.

IV.
Now,–the single little turret that remains
On the plains,
By the caper overrooted, by the gourd
Overscored,
While the patching houseleek’s head of blossom winks
Through the chinks–
Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time
Sprang sublime,
And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced
As they raced,
And the monarch and his minions and his dames
Viewed the games.

V.
And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve
Smiles to leave
To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece
In such peace,
And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey
Melt away–
That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair
Waits me there
In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul
For the goal,
When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb
Till I come.

VI.
But he looked upon the city, every side,
Far and wide,
All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades’
Colonnades,
All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,–and then,
All the men!
When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand,
Either hand
On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace
Of my face,
Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech
Each on each.

VII.
In one year they sent a million fighters forth
South and North,
And they built their gods a brazen pillar high
As the sky,
Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force–
Gold, of course.
Oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns!
Earth’s returns
For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin!
Shut them in,
With their triumphs and their glories and the rest!
Love is best.

 

Photo courtesy of  Megantestsite.tumblr.com.