Courtesy wedding invites are a tradition almost as sacred and untouched by time as the wedding ceremony itself. Why I’m sure even back in ancient Mesopotamia, the town curmudgeon was invited to most of those pre-teen weddings.
No matter how many divorces occur, couples will still get married. No matter how many courteously-invited drunken uncles ruin weddings, courtesy guests will remain a staple of invite lists.
Many well-adjusted, mature people will acknowledge their status as a courtesy invite and will politely RSVP “no” to save money, time, and discomfort for all involved. Others will go to the wedding out of spite. These are their stories.
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Much like the Grinch hearing the Whos down in Who-ville singing on Christmas morning despite the absence of presents, I was befuddled when I received Andrea’s wedding invitation. Why? How could this be? System could not compute.
I had not had a real conversation with Andrea in years. Despite being close friends in college, when I came out as gay months after graduation, she—alongside many other Catholic friends—made it clear I was destined for hell. Needless to say, the friendship ended and I thought I’d pretty much torched those relationships further when I wrote about their shitty reactions to my sexuality in publications online. (For more on the betrayal, turn to channel 10 news…or here.)
But somehow I had been invited. And like Elaine Benes upon receiving an invite to go to India for bra-less Sue Ellen Mischke’s wedding, I was all aboard the spite attendance train.
Sitting in the church that had not been heated for days, snuggled in my winter coat in between rows of individuals who had rejected me years before, I wondered why I’d done this to myself.
My motives were definitely mixed and questionable at best.
Part of me was hoping that by attending, I could legitimately answer “yes” to the question: Can you genuinely forgive someone and wish them happiness, yet not want them in your life anymore? This question—much like “If there weren’t pics, did it even happen?” or “Is Taylor our generation’s Madonna or more Stevie Nicks?”—have plagued history’s greatest philosophers dating back to Plato.
Another part of me wanted to show these hypocritical Christians that I was better than they were—supporting them despite their lack of support for me, a much less noble reason for attending.
Regardless of the cold, the wedding was lovely. The bride stunning. Even the cantor, Michelle (Andrea’s former roommate), was flawless, which pained me because I loathed this woman for anti-gay rants I’d heard spew from her mouth years ago.
Despite Michelle’s perfect vocals—which only increased my hatred towards her—my happiness for the married couple was sincere as I greeted them in the reception line.
That warmth dissipated a bit though when I realized I was seated at the reception with the priest and another priest in-training. Thank gosh for the open bar.
I grabbed a glass of vodka in one hand, one of the few girls I liked in another, and took to the dance floor.
We were only waltzing for a few moments when Michelle and her husband butted in.
“Hey guys, want to trade partners?” Before my friend or I had time to answer, she’d grabbed me.
Michelle said, “I have something to say.” Oh boy. Damn. I’d finished my vodka.
“I don’t know if you remember but about three years ago we were around the dinner table in my and Andrea’s apartment and I said some really hateful things about a former friend of mine who’s a lesbian. The things I said were inexcusable and I could see how they could impact anyone in the LGBT community. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“No,” I lied.
She continued, “Well regardless, I think about that conversation and how stupid I was to say those things at least once or twice a year. I want to ask for your forgiveness if I hurt you. I know things like that can linger. Will you forgive me?”
“Yes, of course!” I laughed it off and tried to get out of the conversation.
I stayed at the reception a little longer, but could not stop thinking about her words.
I had hated this woman since that disgusting, offensive conversation about gays more than three years ago. Now I hated the notion that I could no longer hate her.
She did not go so far as to say, “I no longer think those things. I’m accepting of gays now. I want you to be happy and get married.” She went more along the lines of “sorry if I hurt you.” Part of me did not feel this was enough.
On the other hand, how could I loathe this woman anymore? We had had minimal interactions and she felt so guilty about something she’d said years before that she approached basically a stranger to ask forgiveness. She was acting as the best version of herself: humble, gracious, courageous. Not a hypocritical Catholic at all.
No one deserves gratitude for making progress towards basic human compassion. However, being the best version you can be at any given time is always worth commending. On that dance floor I think she was.
My desperation to cling onto my hatred illuminated that perhaps I was not the best version of myself that day.
Whether or not Michelle ever fully comes around to acceptance of gays is not my responsibility. Being the best version of myself is. And if I was truly the best person I could be, I probably wouldn’t hold a hateful place for folks in my heart solely to resurrect feelings of martyrdom and victimhood when I want to. And although Elaine Benes remains a life role model, I probably wouldn’t be spending the end of 2017 by accepting a courtesy invite to a wedding in a freezing New England church.