Big Fat Greek Texas Wedding
Weddings bring people together.
Masks isolate people.
In this winter of omicron, masks are a duty for the considerate and conscientious.
Sometimes it is a heavy price.
Today's Guest Post is anonymous because the author attended the wedding as a member of the family, not as an observer. He is the uncle of the groom, and the man who officiated the wedding. He was up close and inside. He also felt outside. The author is a senior software engineer living in Silicon Valley.
Guest Post: The power of social pressure
The music the DJ picked out was a mix of Greek music, music from the Philippines, and modern contemporary music. The families are a melting pot. I represent the Greek part.
The wedding I officiated for my nephew Sunday was held in a lovely faux barn venue in the countryside outside of Houston. There were maybe 200 people there. Mostly young, beautiful, health-club fit, stylish and energetically engaging (I never would have described them that way when I was 30. But at 64, yes.)
The venue offered lovely black paper surgical masks at the entrance and some hand sanitizer. Besides a short homily and the vows, my job was to ask people on two occasions to wear masks unless they were eating or drinking. I was to say it once after the “man and wife” pronouncement, and a second time after I offered a prayer over the meal. Everyone complied, and then the eating and drinking began. Within 30 minutes there wasn’t a mask to be found. Except on me.
I witnessed the bride and groom up close for the vows. I wasn't masked for that. We had close eye contact as they took my instructions and repeated my promptings. It was intimate and sacred. I could see their hands tremble when they placed the rings on each other. Their eyes teared up. We saw each other, full in the face. I was there. With them.
Then, 30 minutes later. I am back in a mask.
Do you know what it’s like trying to interact with people over a DJ with disco decibels when you’re talking through a double-layered mask? Loud parties are about leaning in, being close and lip reading, otherwise you miss out. There is joy in the air. Everyone is animated, talking and laughing with a drink in their hand, or dancing--some with drinks in their hands. People thought I was a pastor, and I guess I was the token “virtue enforcer."
Fortunately it was a warm 70-ish night and not raining, so I stepped outside to visit with a few people, mask off. After a while I also felt like “what the hell, I’m vaxxed and boosted; I’m going to get this thing anyway. Why not just give it up and let the unvaxxed suffer the consequences and hope my breakthrough case, if I get it, doesn’t land me in the hospital." The Greek side of the family made a real effort to be there, coming from Athens. When will I see them next? They came all this way, and here I was in a mask.
Well, I didn’t cave. I didn’t unmask and I didn’t dance and didn’t drink. (Well truth is I don’t much anymore anyway). But the pressure was there. It wasn't overt; people were really sweet and nice. But I was the “outsider." The mask was, I feared, a silent reproach of them, with me a goody-goody. I was masked, loving my neighbor. They weren't.The whole symbol of a wedding is that people come together. I wanted to communicate my approval. I could really only observe. This wasn’t Costco. It was family--and people for whom I have great affection and whose company I truly enjoy.
I was almost depressed when I drove back to my hotel. My wife didn’t come because she knew this would happen. It was, after all, Texas. She imagined a super-spreader event. How can one be there and not be hugged and told to "squeeze in" for photographs. She predicted it and was right. I was happy for the wedding couple and all the happy revelers, but I sit here in my car feeling a strange sense of foreboding. What if my wife is right, and the memory coming out of this wedding is a bunch of people getting sick? My primary emotion wasn't about sickness, though. It was a strange sense of loss that I wasn't fully there.