Arranged Marriages
“don’t ask if you’re being forced into marriage
by your family
or even by the man you’re marrying
ask if you’re forcing yourself.”
Xayaat Muhummed
Arranged marriages were the norm before the 20th century. The higher the social stratum that a woman was born into, the more likely it was that she would have no say in choosing her mate. This custom reached its apex among royalty. Children of kings were taught early on that their future mate would be chosen strictly out of convenience and political necessity. Every once in a blue moon someone would break the mold. Queen Isabel I of Spain disregarded her half-brother’s (the king) command when she married Ferdinand, King of Aragón. This stormy but successful union produced several children: she forced all of them to marry people who would advance the interests of her kingdom. Along the way she stole her half-brother’s crown (after he died) and set the stage for Spain to become the most powerful nation the world had ever known. Maybe she knew what it took to get ahead.
I thought about this custom when I spoke to a friend, an Orthodox Jew, who told me that divorce was rare among people who shared his faith. I decided to give him a hard time.
Orthodox Jews probably do not marry anyone that they have met at happy hour.
I do not think that he took my jesting well.
This conversation reminded me of a medical ethics class that I took when I was in med school. During the lecture on marriage and divorce, our professor mentioned that arranged marriages resulted in very few divorces. He said that this made sense to him.
“Your parents love you. They will do nothing that would hurt you. We should require parental consent for all weddings.”
Of course, he was not serious. Yet his comment bore a lot of truth.
My computer crashed while we were in Spain. After I bought a new one, I began to download and organize my photos from the cloud. I ran into my parents’ wedding photo. I decided to write this blog.
This was a union destined to fail if there ever was such a thing. My father was 29. He was a small-town high school principal. My mother was 16, a junior at the school. Besides his administrative responsibilities, my dad coached the volleyball team (he knew nothing about volleyball, but once he led the team to the state championship game). He taught most of the math courses.
Much later, he told one of my sisters that my mom was the smartest student he ever had. Maybe because he had an unreasonable reverence for smart people, he approached her one day after class. He handed her a note.
“I am in love with you. I will come to your house tonight to ask your father for your hand in marriage.”
As you can tell, he was not a man fond of courtship and romance. There were many times that I wondered if he thought of life as if it were an algebra equation. You find the right algorithm; you follow the known rules to move the unknowns about; the answer will ensue.
My mother was terrified. Not of my dad: of what her mom would say. He was a handsome man. My mother, along with most of her female classmates, would find an excuse to walk past whatever classroom he was teaching in. The young women took a quick peek into the room, then continued their way down the hall, giggling to themselves. That was the extent of her “leading him on.”
Once she got home, she handed the note to my grandmother.
“I do not know why the professor gave me this.”
My grandmother read the note, dropped it, and smacked my mother in the face.
“The professor would not have given you this note if you had not led him to believe that you liked him. If you want nothing to do with him, when he comes over tonight you go to the door and tell him to go away.”
Today this interchange seems terribly wrong on so many levels… But this was 1941. War was imminent. The US had not yet fully emerged from the Great Depression. People in Puerto Rico had it even worse than Americans did. Women were blamed for any inappropriate remark or gesture a man made. My grandparents did not have much formal education. In that context, what happened made sense to all people involved.
My mother answered the door that evening. She asked my father to come in. She introduced him to my grandparents.
At that point, my grandfather asked my dad to go in his bedroom. Although he only had a third-grade education, he was a brilliant man who was intent on defending his honor. My father had broken at least two engagements in the past. I was told (by him) that his intentions were always honorable, but that his mother had refused to accept any Puerto Rican woman as his mate. At some point more than two hundred years ago the Garrigas had acquired a title of nobility and a coat of arms. My paternal grandmother wanted her son to marry aristocracy, not some girl from a small town.
Breaking an engagement was no small matter. Many people felt that the woman was always to blame for the breakup. It would be difficult for these “girls” to run into any man that would consider them marriageable.
Once he got my dad into the bedroom, my grandfather closed the door and took out a pistol that he kept at his bedside. He pointed it at my father’s head.
“You have broken several engagements in the past. What are your intentions with my daughter?”
My father assured him that he had nothing but honorable intentions. I have always wondered if he would have shown up at the church were it not for the gun that he remembered had been pointed at his head.
For the next three months my father came to my mother’s home to visit her, every evening, always within earshot of her family. They married on November 19, a Puerto Rican holiday. They thought that this would keep all snoopers out of church: people had a lot of work to do on holidays.
Many years later I went to the university library to check out a book. The middle-aged lady at the counter saw my ID and asked me:
“Garriga… Are you from Utuado?”
My mother was. I was born there.
She smiled.
“Many years ago, my family was driving through the island on a holiday (“the island” for Puerto Ricans is any place away from the coasts). When we got to Utuado there was a huge traffic jam. No car was moving. We had to park our car. We stopped the first person we saw. We asked her what the commotion was all about. She told us that Professor Garriga was supposed to get married, and people wanted to see if he would show up.”
I knew about my father’s broken engagements, and that the wedding ceremony had been well attended. I smiled, thanked her, took my book, and walked away.
What I found out much later was that my paternal grandmother (my grandfather died when my father was 7) had refused to go to the wedding. She told me during one of my many sleepover visits to her home. She lived in a town where several pretty young women resided. I found every possible excuse to visit her for a weekend.
My grandmother was very fond of me. Part of my payment for my lodging for those visits was to sit with her in the balcony of her home for a morning. She sat on her rocking chair and stopped all passers-by to chat, or admonish them for being too loud, or too lazy to go to work, or too scandalously dressed. During one of those conversations, she let it slip out.
“This is Paco’s son. He is an honor student. He is never in trouble. And to think that I did not approve of his mother! I did not go to that wedding! Now she is the best wife a man could ever have.”
Once I got back home, I did not waste a second to confront my father.
You never told me that grandma did not come to your wedding.
“And I did not care either!”
Said with anger and resentment. It was obvious to me that he did care. But there was the small matter of that gun pointed at his head…
My dad died in 1999, 57 ½ years after that fateful wedding. I have four siblings: all sisters. All of us finished advanced degrees. None of our children, or our grandchildren, has failed to finish college. My mother finished her PhD and became a college professor. She graduated college with high honors and three kids in tow.
I remember one Sunday that we were walking home from lunch at a local restaurant (we did not own a car. The first vehicle in the family was bought by my oldest sister when she got her first job). The dean of one of the university faculties was driving by when he spotted us. As Puerto Ricans often do, he stopped his car on the street, blocking traffic. He lowered the passenger window on the car and spoke to us.
“There goes the Holy Family.”
He waved to us and he drove away.
My parents, against all odds, made an untenable situation work. The child bride worked long hours and never seemed to be in a hurry. The universally admired professor eventually treated her as a full partner, although the first few years were hard for her. Their numerous nieces, nephews, students, and neighbors never had anything but respect and admiration for them. Even now, eighty years later, I hear from people who tell me what a positive difference one of them made in their lives.
It was not an arranged marriage, but maybe it had some element of parental consent.
My mother told me that once my father emerged out of my grandfather’s bedroom, my grandpa took her aside.
“The professor told me that he is serious about marrying you. We have always wanted a man of his intelligence and integrity for you. I think that you should say yes to him.”
That was the beginning of our family.