Feminism and marriage not incompatible

Opinion

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 08/05/2015 (3783 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

I’m getting married in September, which is why my porch is filled with Costco-sized bags of ruffle chips.

This weekend, my fiancé and I are participating in the illustrious and uniquely Manitoba tradition of asking people to subsidize our life choices via a good old-fashioned Manitoba social — a whole separate event that is actually more work to plan than the actual wedding it is meant to help fund.

Unlike a wedding, a social has distinct parameters for success. It’s an event that has the sole goal of raising money and, with that, comes a pretty clear pass/fail. It’s a parallel universe in which you are judged by the quality of your silent-auction prizes.

More than a few times, my partner and I have looked at each other in moments of social-related panic and asked, “Why are we doing this again?” (Putting on a social, that is, not getting married.)

We know why we’re getting married. But when you’re a feminist who is getting married, people tend to have questions about it.

I received an email a few months ago with the subject line: ‘Feminist marriage?’ The body of the email expressed confusion over the fact that I’m getting married, a little factoid I casually dropped in a column about selfie sticks. A little factoid that garnered way more reader email than my opinions on selfie sticks.

“Don’t feminists hate men?” asked the reader. “I assume you’re marrying a man, but if not, that’s cool, too. Can you explain and provide some clarity?”

Who doesn’t love to “provide some clarity” to strangers about their life choices? But hey, to be fair, I brought my wedding up in the first place. No, contrary to popular thought, the cornerstone of feminism is not, in fact, ‘hating men.’ And yes, I am marrying a man.

Still, there was validity to the central ‘feminist marriage’ question. Not because I am marrying a man, but because I am getting married at all.

Reconciling my feminist politics with the decision to get married hasn’t been easy. Marriage is a patriarchal institution and, as such, many feminists reject it for reasons I understand and respect. I am choosing not to reject it. The choice to get married is not a feminist choice, but it is a personal one. And marriage, the way we envision it, is a fulfilling partnership between two independent people who love each other and view each other as equals. That’s why we’re getting married. Is it a feminist choice? No. But it’s ours.

We’re eschewing many wedding-related traditions that drip with sexism, such as the bride doing all the work and the groom just showing up. I am not being given away or changing my name. I am not insisting my bridesmaids wear matching, unflattering dresses nor that the single women in the room compete for my dead flowers. I am not “shedding for the wedding.”

Then there are all those insidious modern traditions that feel harder to subvert somehow. Even though It’s Your Day! there is a lot more pressure to plan a Pinterest-perfect event that reflects who you are. Expressions of individuality and love seem to require a lot more work — and a lot more skill with chalkboard lettering — than they used to. Get cracking, bride. That dresser you’re planning to fill with wildflowers, perch your gluten-free cake atop then abandon in a field for a photo op isn’t going to artfully distress itself.

Wedding planning as a competitive sport has practically become its own sub-genre of reality TV.

But then there are the traditions that, rather unexpectedly, become important to you. I always assumed that if I ever got married, I’d be one of those Cool Brides who would wear a suit or a tricky-to-pull-off tea-length dress.

I was wrong. Turns out, I wanted a wedding dress.

Wedding-dress shopping is designed to be demoralizing. I tried on many dresses in many cuts and many shops. Wedding dresses don’t fit right off the rack, so you either have to be clamped into them or have a pretty good imagination. They weigh a ton. Strangers size you up and fuss over you. I only contorted my face into a silent scream in a change room once, and it was because I was hungry.

When I found my dress, I didn’t cry so much as feel sweet relief. I ended up going long, lace and (off-)white. It’s gorgeous. It cost as much as a mortgage payment.

Wedding dresses, ruffle chips. It’s funny, the traditions you keep.

jen.zoratti@freepress.mb.ca