Many years ago, when I had hair, hope and loose change, I taught school for a year overseas. The country was El Salvador and the experience has really never left me. Well, it wasn't actually the experience of teaching overseas that never left me: it was the experience of being a foreigner in another country.
I had a sort of deja vu recently, but I never left Canada to experience it: I went to friend's daughter's wedding recently (out of range of this readership, so don't try to figure who it was, please). The immigrant angle was that it was a German wedding, through and through. Last time I checked my family tree, I was Irish, and I no speak Germanese.
Fortunately, the man beside me was able to tell when to sing, when to pray, and when to laugh.
I knew I was in a different culture when I entered the church, as I was ushered to sit with the men, and my wife with the women. The man at the door graciously invited me to sit with my wife, but I declined. They had their reasons for this arrangement, and I was happy to respect them.
(Ironically, the same seating arrangement took place in the churches in El Salvador, so I was familiar with them. Apparently it saves the female parishoners from being molested by strangers who walk in off the street.)
The next cue of culture shock was the message: It was all in German. I recognized only three words in the forty-five minute sermon: the bride's first name, and “Barnwell Hall.” By the time I heard the latter, I recognized that supper was being announced.
You might say that my stomach told me something that my ears couldn't translate.
I have never been to a wedding where the bride wore black, but she did that day. Normally, the bride wears white at Canadian weddings. One wears black here when mourning the death of a loved one. Or you're playing an away game. So, black was different, but in a good sense this time..
The wedding was a celebration, as most weddings should be, but more than a celebration of the union of a man and a woman: To me, it was a celebration of culture, culture that is a little different than what I am accustomed to. You see, culture is simply the end of a long chain of steps. It starts with preferences; preferences lead to habits, habits then get entrenched and become tradition; and tradition becomes the norm and we call it “culture.”
I'm not sure if there is such a thing as bad culture, especially in a wedding where the differences are marked by colour, seating arrangements, and language. Some weddings may have stupid parts to them, but that's not the same as bad culture. And at a different wedding, like the one I attended, I may feel awkward, but certainly not offended.
Halfway through supper, some kid came by with a shoe. A kid and a shoe isn't all that strange, as most kids wear shoes on their feet, don't they? But this kid had a shoe in his hand, and he wasn't wearing it. It was being used as a collection plate. Unfortunately for the bride and groom, I had just made a donation at the Tim Hortons “Church,” and had nothing left over for this offering. I tried to say “no” in German—the word “nein”(?)--and I think he was expecting nine dollars.
Or, as some wag might put, I had nothing for the shoe, so I felt like a heel.
Let's just hope the next wedding is between a Smith and Jones. I'll even recite the Irish Blessing.
No comments:
Post a Comment