An English Pakistani writer Sarfraz Manzoor writes about his marriage to an English girl and how hard it was for his family to accept. These excerpts are from his essay White Girls.
Two weeks before my wedding day my phone rang. It was my brother telling me that my mother had changed her mind. The wedding would make her too uncomfortable - she simply could not accept her son marrying a non-Muslim and she did not want to be the only one there distressed by the day. My mother had always insisted that she would not support any wedding unless Bridget converted but I had maintained that religious conversions are insulting unless they are genuine. Religion was far from the only issue; in choosing a white woman, I seem to them to be saying that a Pakistani woman was not good enough. Both my brother and older sister now had teenage children: if they were to endorse my marriage to Bridget, how could they ensure their own children would not follow suit? My mother had wanted me to marry someone who could easily fit into the family, someone to keep her company, someone who was one of them.
I awoke on the morning of my wedding day still not knowing whether my family would be there. There were three different seating plans, depending on what was decided. My wedding speech was still unwritten as that too would be influenced by who was in the audience. My sister rang. There had been a two-hour family conference the previous night. It had been decided that both my brother and older sister as well as their respective families, were not coming. My mother would come with my younger sister. This I knew was only down to my younger sister's persuasion for which I will be forever grateful. "Hurry up and get on that train" I told her "There's less than 2 hours to the wedding."
In the domed central chamber of Islington town hall, where the civil ceremony would take place, I stood waiting for the woman who would be my bride. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my mother and my sister. Throughout all the pain and sadness of dealing with my family, Bridget had supported me and her family had been equally sensitive - their sadness at the prospect of my family missing the wedding coupled with a sense of powerlessness and so it was especially moving to see Fran and Bob, Bridget's mother and father, sitting quietly with them.
At the evening reception in the Garden Museum, the hall thrummed with warmth and affection. Fairy lights twinkled on the trees in the garden. Flowers arranged by Bridget's mother adorned the banqueting tables which were named after iconic albumns. I saw on Born to Run with my mother to my right. As she tucked into the egg curry and chicken jalfrezi, friends and Bridget's reltaives flocked to tell her how happy they were to see her.
My mother had said that she and my sister would be leaving at the end of the meal. In fact they were there to hear the speeches so I could thank them publically for turning up. They stayed until 1am, my sister danced to Lady Gaga, my mother talked in broken English to Bridget's parents and in basic Urdu to Bridget. At times during the evening I would look on in wonder. It did not seem real. My white wife, my mother and me. All in the same room and smiling.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2010/sep/29/family-boycott-wedding-day
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