Chinese Wedding In Vegas
George didn't want an Elvis impersonator at our wedding.
His eighty-year old parents, from the heart
of the Bible Belt, wouldn't understand.
Joplin, Missouri was a dull place
that was a boring drive from other places
just as dull, and his parents had never attended
any of their children’s weddings. But us moving
the date up and eloping to Las Vegas skipped over
obstacles—the Chinese banquet, with the best
that money can buy, picking our pockets clean.
Since his parents were hurtling towards Vegas
for a military reunion, George, forty-three
and no longer waiting for his life to begin,
developed a bittersweet yearning to bring the wedding
to them—meet them halfway. When I told my parents
about the instant-wedding shack and motel
right off the strip—without inviting them—
my father booked flights and accommodations
for the extended family. We don't want
your new mother- and father-in-law to think
you're an unwanted child.
The families converged,
days later, in front of a 30-foot salad bar,
my father buying lunch for everyone. My tight-lipped
mother, who didn't speak English, pointed out
that George's mother, a quarter Cherokee, looked
Asian, her black hair slicked into a glistening helmet.
Did she actually give birth to him? His father,
the Lt. Colonel, in full uniform, snow-white hair
cropped short, wanted us to pray together,
while his mother, asked if I knew the Lord, Jesus
Christ, Our Savior. The whole time, Grandma waved
for someone to take her picture next to her favorite
slot machine. When his parents handed us the basket—
used polyester pants, lawn shoes, and a spray-painted
gold candleholder—for our wedding gift,
everyone was puzzled. We didn’t know
it would be followed up a year later by a baby food jar
of old buttons.