Every night is the same.
The only pyjamas I wear are the sheets, and every morning they are ready to wring. Jesús Chrísto- the heat! It never lets up. The nine night-time hours don’t cool; not once, not for one minute.
This room is a zoo. I watch fireflies flicker and flirt, and listen as tiny, bizarre, translucent lizards make their high-pitch bark. Mosquitoes big as cats circle and stalk uncovered flesh. I drift off to a lullaby from the slum next door: salsa music drowning in static. But I know I sleep well, because I dream in Spanish.
The mornings begin with a survey: skin clammy, sheets damp, fireflies extinguished, lizards rigid, and the hopeless mosquito-repelling coil burned to a perfect ash replica on the floor.
Out of bed, I begin the horror-movie daily ritual of scraping dry blood from under my fingernails. Those monstrous mosquitoes maraud all night, and I scratch the bites in my sleep. For eleven months my legs look ebolic and twenty years later I still have the pockmark scars.
Every day is soupy as the sun boils the air. In the shower –a single pipe poking out the wall- I wash away my night layer and for five precious minutes, I’m clean.
Friday, June 25, 2010
The Loss
The Loss
The first day the blood came the girl knew something was wrong, but she didn’t tell anyone. She sat and stared then pulled up her pants and went to work.
The next day there was more blood.
The third day there was less staring.
The fourth day she told the boy.
There is some blood.
Is that normal?
She didn’t answer.
What are you going to do?
Wait.
She waited. There was no pain, but there was a mess. Nothing more than she’d dealt with monthly for years. No one else knew. They hadn’t guessed in the first place. At the end of each day he would ask the same thing.
Are you still bleeding?
Yes.
After a week they went to a doctor.
There is always a chance of some wastage, he said. The girl cried and the boy yelled.
Wastage? You call it wastage?
It hasn’t happened yet. It might not.
The girl said, I want to go.
Come back in three days.
Go to hell.
She stopped crying before they got home. The boy made cups of sweet tea and sat next to her on the couch and they drank but didn’t speak, their hands resting on her tummy even though they knew it was too soon to feel.
At work she broke down and made an excuse to leave. At home she howled alone and delivered a red thing. She called the boy and they went somewhere different.
We can do some tests, they were told. We can find out.
A wand was waved and a machine made noises. The screen, the wand, her tummy; they watched all three. Beep beep beep not thu-thump thu-thump thu-thump and that was the problem. Someone new came in.
Im sorry we dont have good news for you this time.
No.
More was said but only the boy heard. Not all of it.
The girl lay in the white room eight months early, shivering, but not from cold. She had not slept the night before.
I’ll be waiting, the boy said. He only let go when they wheeled her away.
She had to give her name again, then they asked for her procedure and the girl gave the medical name as they made ticks and checks on a chart and talked among themselves, only returning to her when she made a noise.
Dont worry. We’ll look after you.
But what about my baby?
They put the mask on.
Not grief, but hunger when she woke up. The boy bought sandwiches and coffee and watched her.
Are you alright?
She nodded and ate but on the way out threw everything away- paperwork, drugs, results, hope.
The boy saw her crying for three weeks and caught her crying for three more. She gave up trying to explain and he gave up understanding. They went back to life but it was only motions.
In the summer the girl got sick. She fevered and coughed in bed for a week. The boy cared for her but there was not much to do. He filled her prescription and stayed in the spare room.
She was still sick but told him, Im not sick.
I think you are.
Her look was different and then he knew.
This time there was no mess until there was supposed to be. He wiped her brow, rubbed her back and shared her breath.
Soon. It must be soon.
He agreed because he didn’t know.
Its coming. Are you there?
Im right here.
The boy held her hand as she heaved. He didn’t see the slither but he heard the cry.
Oh
Let me see.
They first saw together and everything that happened before was gone.
The first day the blood came the girl knew something was wrong, but she didn’t tell anyone. She sat and stared then pulled up her pants and went to work.
The next day there was more blood.
The third day there was less staring.
The fourth day she told the boy.
There is some blood.
Is that normal?
She didn’t answer.
What are you going to do?
Wait.
She waited. There was no pain, but there was a mess. Nothing more than she’d dealt with monthly for years. No one else knew. They hadn’t guessed in the first place. At the end of each day he would ask the same thing.
Are you still bleeding?
Yes.
After a week they went to a doctor.
There is always a chance of some wastage, he said. The girl cried and the boy yelled.
Wastage? You call it wastage?
It hasn’t happened yet. It might not.
The girl said, I want to go.
Come back in three days.
Go to hell.
She stopped crying before they got home. The boy made cups of sweet tea and sat next to her on the couch and they drank but didn’t speak, their hands resting on her tummy even though they knew it was too soon to feel.
At work she broke down and made an excuse to leave. At home she howled alone and delivered a red thing. She called the boy and they went somewhere different.
We can do some tests, they were told. We can find out.
A wand was waved and a machine made noises. The screen, the wand, her tummy; they watched all three. Beep beep beep not thu-thump thu-thump thu-thump and that was the problem. Someone new came in.
Im sorry we dont have good news for you this time.
No.
More was said but only the boy heard. Not all of it.
The girl lay in the white room eight months early, shivering, but not from cold. She had not slept the night before.
I’ll be waiting, the boy said. He only let go when they wheeled her away.
She had to give her name again, then they asked for her procedure and the girl gave the medical name as they made ticks and checks on a chart and talked among themselves, only returning to her when she made a noise.
Dont worry. We’ll look after you.
But what about my baby?
They put the mask on.
Not grief, but hunger when she woke up. The boy bought sandwiches and coffee and watched her.
Are you alright?
She nodded and ate but on the way out threw everything away- paperwork, drugs, results, hope.
The boy saw her crying for three weeks and caught her crying for three more. She gave up trying to explain and he gave up understanding. They went back to life but it was only motions.
In the summer the girl got sick. She fevered and coughed in bed for a week. The boy cared for her but there was not much to do. He filled her prescription and stayed in the spare room.
She was still sick but told him, Im not sick.
I think you are.
Her look was different and then he knew.
This time there was no mess until there was supposed to be. He wiped her brow, rubbed her back and shared her breath.
Soon. It must be soon.
He agreed because he didn’t know.
Its coming. Are you there?
Im right here.
The boy held her hand as she heaved. He didn’t see the slither but he heard the cry.
Oh
Let me see.
They first saw together and everything that happened before was gone.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Sam Thom: Long Time No Sea
Nobody likes a whinger and if you ask Sam Thom, nobody likes Sam Thom either. Or, more correctly, Sam Thom’s art. His latest work, 'Homeless-Head Shark', is creating debate among the art community and angst in his neighbourhood. The notorious artist has installed the bright pink sculpture on the roof of his house in the eastern suburbs.
Thom is renown for his controversial works and has faced similar criticism before. Few could forget the furore surrounding his two previous sculptures- the soiled nappy clothesline and the leaking battery trail. Most of the disquiet this time appears to be due to the location of the shark. It is positioned crashing through the roof and juts out from dorsal fin to tail.
Well-used to defending his work, Thom says, “I passionately believe in the concept of the artist in the community. I have always tried to bring my work to the people. There are no groups in society that cannot benefit from the arts. This is clearly a case of NIMB (Not In My Backyard).”
Thom may well be right, but there are strong opinions surrounding his art, many of which centre around the spaces he chooses to exhibit. The value and quality of his sculptures have also been questioned.
“His work is mediocre at best,” states an unnamed critic. “He is not a strong voice in artistic -or ecological- circles. With his second-rate sculptures erratically and vulgarly displayed, the name Sam Thom is not held in any esteem. As far as I know, he is not on show in any major gallery.”
This is partly correct. For all his publicity, no Sam Thom sculptures have ever been acquired by Australian or international galleries. Helena Hoopmann, head of sculptural acquisitions at the Gallery of Modern Art, explains. “We would love to have a sculpture from him, but for Sam, the art and the space it inhabits are organic. The positioning of his work is just as important as the piece itself. One cannot commission something from Sam Thom. He would consider that a request for sky hooks and gravity clamps.”
A vocal advocate of Thom’s, she continues. “Sam is a purist and a visionary. Every phase of his work is meticulously planned and created. He uses only sustainable, eco-friendly materials. Each of his pieces have a message and he lives that message.”
Indeed, Thom has been very vocal in pushing his message through his art. 'Nappyline' was accompanied by a written explanation pegged to the line; fliers were also handed out. Refusing to wear a biohazard suit when dismantling batteries for 'Battery/ed', he ended up with corrosive burns on his hands which were photographed and included in the exhibit. All of this adds to the perception that Thom is more exhibitionist than exhibitor. His shows are regarded by many as stunts.
Founder of the J.A-S Space, James Austin-Stephenson agrees. “Yes, he exhibits publicly, but only for publicity’s sake. For all his talk of ‘community art’ and ‘ecological messages’, the bottom line is he exhibits for maximum exposure and attention. The work is secondary to his message. That is not the motive of a true artist. 'Battery/ed' may have been an interesting piece… without the photos. It was just another typical example of his ‘poor me’ mentality . ‘Poor me- I can‘t get into a gallery. Poor me- everyone hates my work. Poor me- I suffer physically for my work.’”
Perhaps Thom is entitled to a little self-pity. Few artists in the modern Australian era have been subject to such harsh criticism. Everyone, from the art community to art lovers, casual observers and his neighbours have an opinion. Few are positive.
While there is certainly an element of sensationalism in his exhibitions, there may also be a practical element too. Faced with alleged ‘size 15 carbon footprint, earth-enemy, diversity-barren gallery owners’, Thom has little choice but to exhibit elsewhere. It is no wonder he must display his work with the greatest coverage in mind.
“Its not as simple as not wanting to contain my work,” Thom emphasises, “although it is true I have faced massive opposition from many galleries. It comes down to the fact that to me, for example, a washing line of dirty nappies belongs outside, and what better place for it than strung around the columns of Parliament House?”
And the shark? In his neighbourhood? “All of nature is fighting for survival against the machine of time, humankind and progress. We shove everything aside in our quest for dominance of this planet. The shark is no longer at home in the ocean. My house is a haven for the Earth’s displaced.”
So is Thom an artist with a rare understanding of space and objectivity or simply a man with a message? If you ask his neighbours, he is a neither. While most claim to be advocates of art and sustainable living, it is difficult to find voices appreciative of the giant pink shark in their neighbourhood. “Ask in a survey and everybody loves art, but at grassroots level it must conform to a certain aesthetic. I am not interested in that attitude,” says Thom.
Certainly, Sam Thom evokes a strong response. Whether he is a shameless popularist or a cutting-edge artist, it is hard to imagine him at a cocktail party opening of his work in a white-walled gallery.
“You would more likely find me collecting the glasses and serviettes for recycling,” he laughs.
Seasonal Musings
If it hadn’t done enough already, the damn drought cut my feet to pieces. Not content with destroying three seasons’ crops and the kitchen garden, it’d now sucked the emerald from the lawns, turning a pleasant, silent walk into a bristly, crackling hobble.
In the summer it was the crickets, in the winter it was dad’s gumboots. Schlep, schlup, schlerp- we giggled the noises to each other and always thought they sounded like German verbs. Achtung! Dad’s home from the sheds. If it was raining at the time it was a quick staccato: quash quash quash.
I’m a girl for a cocktail and I’m not intimidated by a long list of ingredients, but what I discovered in my gutter during the storm was awe inspiring. Leaves, twigs, mud, gumnuts, pigeon shit, tennis balls and dead birds, all swished together by the swirling, rushing water. The end result came out of my tap as a cloudy fusion of floaties with a gritty aftertaste. You’ll never find that on a menu.
I like the rain better than the wind; at least when it’s wet I can use an umbrella. There’s no escaping the wind. In the cold it finds every little crack on my face and ploughs a few more. When it’s hot the wind grouts them with dust until sweat makes grubby little rivers flow. Either way my skin is left battered by the attack.
In the summer it was the crickets, in the winter it was dad’s gumboots. Schlep, schlup, schlerp- we giggled the noises to each other and always thought they sounded like German verbs. Achtung! Dad’s home from the sheds. If it was raining at the time it was a quick staccato: quash quash quash.
I’m a girl for a cocktail and I’m not intimidated by a long list of ingredients, but what I discovered in my gutter during the storm was awe inspiring. Leaves, twigs, mud, gumnuts, pigeon shit, tennis balls and dead birds, all swished together by the swirling, rushing water. The end result came out of my tap as a cloudy fusion of floaties with a gritty aftertaste. You’ll never find that on a menu.
I like the rain better than the wind; at least when it’s wet I can use an umbrella. There’s no escaping the wind. In the cold it finds every little crack on my face and ploughs a few more. When it’s hot the wind grouts them with dust until sweat makes grubby little rivers flow. Either way my skin is left battered by the attack.
Bitter
The time had come.
In the confined seat with her head down, her eyes looked around- everything was new to her. It was natural to be excited, but it was the anticipation of what was ahead that made her shiver.
Everyone had unintentionally assisted from the start. They’d boarded her first, found her seat and stowed her bag. She thanked them but modestly ignored their questions. They looked at her figure, nodded and moved to settle into their own seats, fanning their faces and reaching for the air conditioning.
Everything about her homeland was hot. With their bare shoulders and uncovered heads, the stupid foreigners never stopped going on about it. She saw them all the time through the windows of the stores and brand new shopping centres, spending money and eating and drinking without ceremony. They were licentious and ostentatious and she spat on the ground when they passed.
But not today.
Today she was staying close to the script and it was only the script that allowed her to be so close to the man next to her. They’d met only once before and even then she’d kept her eyes down. That day they’d measured and fitted her, attaching the belly and fitting the wires and switches up her chest and over her shoulders.
She looked right. They’d meticulously researched and her stomach was exactly correct, appropriate in shape and size, and it did make her heart beat faster, her precious cargo. She felt apt; she was a virgin, they were unmarried and this bundle would change the world.
So far everything had gone to plan. At each point she stopped, she’d been subject to the same checks, but nothing more. She protectively held her stomach, assured to be the one place they wouldn’t touch, the one place no one would search.
After a safety demonstration that she didn’t bother to watch, the man fitted her
seatbelt across her thighs and startled her by placing his hand on her stomach. He kept it there and closed his eyes in prayer. His words were too soft, but she knew what he’d be saying. He felt as blessed as she did to be chosen.
At the carefully calculated point they both left their seats. She struggled down the narrow aisle, everyone innocently making way for her huge, black-clad figure. In the tiny toilet she reached under her layers and connected the wires as she’d been shown. She allowed herself one quick look in the mirror and watched her lips move with the same words as the man: I thank you for this chance. I will not fail. I will not fail.
She checked the watch they’d given her, waited one more minute and opened the door just in time to see the man do the same thing from the other end. They walked towards each other. He came from the front, she from the rear. They looked at each other briefly. Then he walked to her and placed his hands on her shoulders.
The first thing she had in common with the foreigners was the last thing they all heard- the man’s unexpected, shouted words. She never saw their confusion or their brief fear, only his face as he sent them both into history and martydom.
In the confined seat with her head down, her eyes looked around- everything was new to her. It was natural to be excited, but it was the anticipation of what was ahead that made her shiver.
Everyone had unintentionally assisted from the start. They’d boarded her first, found her seat and stowed her bag. She thanked them but modestly ignored their questions. They looked at her figure, nodded and moved to settle into their own seats, fanning their faces and reaching for the air conditioning.
Everything about her homeland was hot. With their bare shoulders and uncovered heads, the stupid foreigners never stopped going on about it. She saw them all the time through the windows of the stores and brand new shopping centres, spending money and eating and drinking without ceremony. They were licentious and ostentatious and she spat on the ground when they passed.
But not today.
Today she was staying close to the script and it was only the script that allowed her to be so close to the man next to her. They’d met only once before and even then she’d kept her eyes down. That day they’d measured and fitted her, attaching the belly and fitting the wires and switches up her chest and over her shoulders.
She looked right. They’d meticulously researched and her stomach was exactly correct, appropriate in shape and size, and it did make her heart beat faster, her precious cargo. She felt apt; she was a virgin, they were unmarried and this bundle would change the world.
So far everything had gone to plan. At each point she stopped, she’d been subject to the same checks, but nothing more. She protectively held her stomach, assured to be the one place they wouldn’t touch, the one place no one would search.
After a safety demonstration that she didn’t bother to watch, the man fitted her
seatbelt across her thighs and startled her by placing his hand on her stomach. He kept it there and closed his eyes in prayer. His words were too soft, but she knew what he’d be saying. He felt as blessed as she did to be chosen.
At the carefully calculated point they both left their seats. She struggled down the narrow aisle, everyone innocently making way for her huge, black-clad figure. In the tiny toilet she reached under her layers and connected the wires as she’d been shown. She allowed herself one quick look in the mirror and watched her lips move with the same words as the man: I thank you for this chance. I will not fail. I will not fail.
She checked the watch they’d given her, waited one more minute and opened the door just in time to see the man do the same thing from the other end. They walked towards each other. He came from the front, she from the rear. They looked at each other briefly. Then he walked to her and placed his hands on her shoulders.
The first thing she had in common with the foreigners was the last thing they all heard- the man’s unexpected, shouted words. She never saw their confusion or their brief fear, only his face as he sent them both into history and martydom.
Speech for Catherine
Three years ago I sat where you are today and ignored everything someone tried to tell me about driving safely. I knew it all, and that stuff always happened to somebody else.
Today’s your lucky day. It did happen to somebody else. Me.
When I was almost seventeen, I was in a car my friend wrapped around a tree. The first people on the scene found a broken bone in my leg sticking out of my groin; it severed my femoral artery as it tore out of my body. The blood loss alone should have killed me. My brainstem ripped from the base of my skull and I was deprived of oxygen when my nose cavity collapsed.
They also discovered my three friends dead in their seats.
I woke up six weeks later, covered in tubes, unable to move my legs. I’ll never walk again.
The biggest problem I have isn’t living in this wheelchair, it’s living with everything I know now. Everyday I have to live knowing that not one of us in that car asked the driver to slow down or concentrate. She was our friend and we trusted her, but that counts for nothing in a crash. The power of our friendship didn’t stand between us and that tree, but it could have, and it should have, if only one of us had spoken up.
Let’s face it- no one wants to do that. But if you don’t, then who will? You’ve already placed your life in the hands of an idiot driver, can you really trust the other passengers to keep you alive? Will they speak up? Who in that car will save you all? It’s hard, but trust me, it’s only the second hardest thing you’ll do.
Look at the person next to you.
There’s every chance you’ve driven with them. That’s not a problem. The problem is everything else in the car: the doof-doof, the yakking, the mobile phones, the driver who wants to join in and the passengers who encourage it. Suddenly everyone’s distracted and then one tonne of metal is careering along with no one concentrating. That’s how people die.
If our driver had been safer, if we weren’t carrying on so much, then today I’d have a completely different life than being a survivor with a lot of dead friends. Trust me; your worst nightmare isn’t dying in a crash. Your worst nightmare is your friends dying and you surviving.
Each of you needs to value your life and your friends’ lives more than you value friendship. If it’s friendship that stops you from concentrating on the road, from speaking up or getting out of the car, then you need new friends.
People will remember you, but your legacy will fade. Those roadside memorials? Lovely- but you’ll never see them. Your friends might get together to celebrate your milestones, but you won’t be there to see it. You’ll become a special school assembly, a plaque at your seat, a photo montage at graduation and a minute silence at reunions.
I am not cool and accepting. We survivors are not a happy bunch. But there is something we all agree on- it’s taken the death of someone we love for us to finally get the message.
Look again at your friends around you.
Who are you going to lose before you get the message?
Which friend or parent, brother or sister has to die in a careless car accident before you slow down, concentrate or speak up?
The decisions you make in a car affect the rest of your life. Unfortunately my best driving lesson came the day my three friends died, so my message to you is simple: don’t be an idiot in a car and don’t get into a car with an idiot.
Today’s your lucky day. It did happen to somebody else. Me.
When I was almost seventeen, I was in a car my friend wrapped around a tree. The first people on the scene found a broken bone in my leg sticking out of my groin; it severed my femoral artery as it tore out of my body. The blood loss alone should have killed me. My brainstem ripped from the base of my skull and I was deprived of oxygen when my nose cavity collapsed.
They also discovered my three friends dead in their seats.
I woke up six weeks later, covered in tubes, unable to move my legs. I’ll never walk again.
The biggest problem I have isn’t living in this wheelchair, it’s living with everything I know now. Everyday I have to live knowing that not one of us in that car asked the driver to slow down or concentrate. She was our friend and we trusted her, but that counts for nothing in a crash. The power of our friendship didn’t stand between us and that tree, but it could have, and it should have, if only one of us had spoken up.
Let’s face it- no one wants to do that. But if you don’t, then who will? You’ve already placed your life in the hands of an idiot driver, can you really trust the other passengers to keep you alive? Will they speak up? Who in that car will save you all? It’s hard, but trust me, it’s only the second hardest thing you’ll do.
Look at the person next to you.
There’s every chance you’ve driven with them. That’s not a problem. The problem is everything else in the car: the doof-doof, the yakking, the mobile phones, the driver who wants to join in and the passengers who encourage it. Suddenly everyone’s distracted and then one tonne of metal is careering along with no one concentrating. That’s how people die.
If our driver had been safer, if we weren’t carrying on so much, then today I’d have a completely different life than being a survivor with a lot of dead friends. Trust me; your worst nightmare isn’t dying in a crash. Your worst nightmare is your friends dying and you surviving.
Each of you needs to value your life and your friends’ lives more than you value friendship. If it’s friendship that stops you from concentrating on the road, from speaking up or getting out of the car, then you need new friends.
People will remember you, but your legacy will fade. Those roadside memorials? Lovely- but you’ll never see them. Your friends might get together to celebrate your milestones, but you won’t be there to see it. You’ll become a special school assembly, a plaque at your seat, a photo montage at graduation and a minute silence at reunions.
I am not cool and accepting. We survivors are not a happy bunch. But there is something we all agree on- it’s taken the death of someone we love for us to finally get the message.
Look again at your friends around you.
Who are you going to lose before you get the message?
Which friend or parent, brother or sister has to die in a careless car accident before you slow down, concentrate or speak up?
The decisions you make in a car affect the rest of your life. Unfortunately my best driving lesson came the day my three friends died, so my message to you is simple: don’t be an idiot in a car and don’t get into a car with an idiot.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Married In Vegas: The Cynical View
Andra Lewis lops in, sits down and immediately launches in to her story of marrying in Las Vegas. She smiles broadly, even smugly as the details roll out. She finally stops to order coffee and is only quiet when it arrives.
‘It’s amazing, isn’t it?’ She says. ‘One to tell my grandkids!’
‘Why not your children?’ I ask, able to get a word in at last.
‘They know their mother is unusual. It won’t shock them at all when I tell them. But hearing it from a granny, well that’s a different matter!’
Right from the first cappuccino it’s clear Lewis thinks she’s done something quite special. She thinks her wedding was something of a coup d’état, a Great Thing, something much better than the rest of us could achieve. Thirteen years later, she remains very pleased with herself.
These are the facts. At twenty-three years old, Andra Wedding married Michael Lewis on the 9th of July in Las Vegas. The trip was planned six months earlier, although neither told anyone beforehand. They called family and friends from the States and were met with a range of emotions from hurt to anger, bewilderment to congratulation. They spent four weeks travelling in America and Panama before returning home.
‘Brave,’ Lewis offers for the umpteenth time.
When I ask why she did it, the answers sound more like excuses. At the time of their trip, Lewis was working in Wagga Wagga while Michael lived five hours north in Gilgandra. The families of both were scattered across two other states, so in her own words, organising a wedding was a ‘logistical nightmare.’
Really? Weddings involving many more complicated circumstances frequently go ahead trouble-free. There appears to be little conflict regarding religion or race, either of which can be huge causes of grief for couples. Did she do it just to be able to tell people about it?
“No,” she vehemently defends herself. ‘My wedding was about the marriage,’ she emphasises. ‘I didn’t want to become distracted by the wedding, and I wasn’t. All those silly, unimportant details! Our focus was marriage.’
She presents her own contradiction. If marriage was the one and only focus, why run all the way to Las Vegas? Why not find a celebrant in West Wyalong (half way between Gilgandra and Wagga Wagga)? The theatre of an elopement was clearly important: it cannot play second fiddle to a conventional wedding.
I am not suggesting Lewis is not entitled to the wedding she wants or deserves, but I put forward that she regards her wedding as somehow better, or more important. True, a traditional or lavish and wedding does not guarantee a happy marriage, but neither does marrying in Vegas for the sake of a ‘great story.’
In our conversation, Lewis frequently returns to her distaste of ‘silly, unimportant details’, yet she goes to great lengths in describing these in regard to her own wedding. The chapel was small, white, empty of people but full of pews. She tells about procuring a marriage licence and getting ready for the ceremony, but none of this is unique to her experience; these particulars need to be taken care of for any wedding. They married one week into their trip, so the remaining three weeks would be called ‘honeymoon’ by anyone else, but that word never leaves her lips. It’s too conventional.
Her attitude is really not all that different to other brides. Every bride thinks she’s pulled off the wedding of the decade. Lewis had the wedding she wanted, as do thousands of brides every weekend. By her own admission she went to the same amount of trouble (travel arrangements etc) and she’s achieved the same outcome, so apart from a slightly whimsical story, she has really achieved nothing out of the ordinary.
While I don’t necessarily admire Lewis for eloping to Las Vegas, I do admire the courage it took. Her family by all accounts is close and it must have taken some gumption to preclude them. With no sisters or even female cousins, a lot was obviously expected of her, so she does have bravery… but also some selfishness and buckets of audacity.
‘I have no regrets.’ Lewis says it a few times, but quietly admits to sadness when sitting alone at the hairdresser before the wedding. ‘I was getting ready to be married, and I was all alone and no one knew what I was doing.’ The close-ups among the twelve wedding photos show suspect red eyes. They didn’t buy the optional video.
A wedding is like childbirth- most people are pleased to see the end result, but no one wants to hear all the details. I wish Andra Lewis the very best for her married life. She seems very happy. Now we’d all be a bit happier too if she just stopped going on about it.
‘It’s amazing, isn’t it?’ She says. ‘One to tell my grandkids!’
‘Why not your children?’ I ask, able to get a word in at last.
‘They know their mother is unusual. It won’t shock them at all when I tell them. But hearing it from a granny, well that’s a different matter!’
Right from the first cappuccino it’s clear Lewis thinks she’s done something quite special. She thinks her wedding was something of a coup d’état, a Great Thing, something much better than the rest of us could achieve. Thirteen years later, she remains very pleased with herself.
These are the facts. At twenty-three years old, Andra Wedding married Michael Lewis on the 9th of July in Las Vegas. The trip was planned six months earlier, although neither told anyone beforehand. They called family and friends from the States and were met with a range of emotions from hurt to anger, bewilderment to congratulation. They spent four weeks travelling in America and Panama before returning home.
‘Brave,’ Lewis offers for the umpteenth time.
When I ask why she did it, the answers sound more like excuses. At the time of their trip, Lewis was working in Wagga Wagga while Michael lived five hours north in Gilgandra. The families of both were scattered across two other states, so in her own words, organising a wedding was a ‘logistical nightmare.’
Really? Weddings involving many more complicated circumstances frequently go ahead trouble-free. There appears to be little conflict regarding religion or race, either of which can be huge causes of grief for couples. Did she do it just to be able to tell people about it?
“No,” she vehemently defends herself. ‘My wedding was about the marriage,’ she emphasises. ‘I didn’t want to become distracted by the wedding, and I wasn’t. All those silly, unimportant details! Our focus was marriage.’
She presents her own contradiction. If marriage was the one and only focus, why run all the way to Las Vegas? Why not find a celebrant in West Wyalong (half way between Gilgandra and Wagga Wagga)? The theatre of an elopement was clearly important: it cannot play second fiddle to a conventional wedding.
I am not suggesting Lewis is not entitled to the wedding she wants or deserves, but I put forward that she regards her wedding as somehow better, or more important. True, a traditional or lavish and wedding does not guarantee a happy marriage, but neither does marrying in Vegas for the sake of a ‘great story.’
In our conversation, Lewis frequently returns to her distaste of ‘silly, unimportant details’, yet she goes to great lengths in describing these in regard to her own wedding. The chapel was small, white, empty of people but full of pews. She tells about procuring a marriage licence and getting ready for the ceremony, but none of this is unique to her experience; these particulars need to be taken care of for any wedding. They married one week into their trip, so the remaining three weeks would be called ‘honeymoon’ by anyone else, but that word never leaves her lips. It’s too conventional.
Her attitude is really not all that different to other brides. Every bride thinks she’s pulled off the wedding of the decade. Lewis had the wedding she wanted, as do thousands of brides every weekend. By her own admission she went to the same amount of trouble (travel arrangements etc) and she’s achieved the same outcome, so apart from a slightly whimsical story, she has really achieved nothing out of the ordinary.
While I don’t necessarily admire Lewis for eloping to Las Vegas, I do admire the courage it took. Her family by all accounts is close and it must have taken some gumption to preclude them. With no sisters or even female cousins, a lot was obviously expected of her, so she does have bravery… but also some selfishness and buckets of audacity.
‘I have no regrets.’ Lewis says it a few times, but quietly admits to sadness when sitting alone at the hairdresser before the wedding. ‘I was getting ready to be married, and I was all alone and no one knew what I was doing.’ The close-ups among the twelve wedding photos show suspect red eyes. They didn’t buy the optional video.
A wedding is like childbirth- most people are pleased to see the end result, but no one wants to hear all the details. I wish Andra Lewis the very best for her married life. She seems very happy. Now we’d all be a bit happier too if she just stopped going on about it.
Married in Vegas
I was never ambitious about marriage. Sure, I was open to the idea, but it was not something I actively pursued, not like some of the girls around me. They ran after it like a drunk to a bottle. Endless discussions: ‘Will he, won’t he?’, ring, dress (The Dress! Nothing matters more than The Dress!), reception... I’d had my absolute fill of weddings before anyone had a rock.
So it was amazing that I was the first to get married, and incredible the way we did it.
When I was twenty-one I met the plumber of my dreams and two years later we eloped to Las Vegas. A lot of people talk about doing it, but we were cool enough to actually do it. We didn’t tell a soul and it was fabulous. We were fabulous.
Las Vegas may be the easiest place in the world to get married, but only if you’re American. For us Southern Hemispheroids, it is a trip-and-a-half and only the brave see it through. Passports, visas, flights, hotels, car hire and currency; it suspiciously starts to resemble that other list: date, The Dress, venue, menu, bridesmaids and flowers.
When we arrived in the USA, we leisurely took our time arriving in Vegas. It’s not that we were nonchalant; there was just too much great stuff to do before hand. My brilliant beloved drove magnificently while I navigated faultlessly around three states. We survived the spaghetti of the Los Angeles freeway system, the red desert plains of Arizona, Death Valley (superlatives superfluous), Yosemite in bear season, precipitous streets of San Francisco, a cinema in a bad neighbourhood, drunk on the rim of the Grand Canyon, and the whole gosh darn country gone crazy on the fourth of July.
Maybe the best part of all was that no one knew we were there. I’d made up some story for my family about spending the midyear break in Panama (not so unusual for me). I neglected to tell them I’d resigned from my teaching job -I couldn’t wrangle two extra weeks on top of school holidays- and I certainly didn’t share the whole eloping thing. I love my family- my parents are traditional, yet terrific, and we are close. Crucially, I have no sisters and am the only girl born into the family for generations. I hate to use the word ‘selfish’ so I’ll find some better ones instead: brave, daring, plucky...
Finding Vegas in the middle of the Nevada desert is like Lego towers in the middle of the living room floor; looks great but the location is impractical. By this I mean two things- it’s an impractical place for a city in the first place and impractical as a haven for love. Something closer to the coast or the airport with fewer distractions would make much more sense, but I must admit Vegas charmed me in every way. Keeping in mind I was very young, the free drinks, cheap food and nonstop entertainment impressed me.
We found a hotel, a chapel and the Clark County Courthouse where we lined up behind a fellow applying for his fourth marriage licence. Armed with all sorts of documents, we were only asked for our name and address and suddenly, ‘Here you go, Ossies- go get married!’
Back on The Strip I went to a hairdresser and raced back to our room to get dressed. No time to shower- we were running late for our 4.45-5.00pm time slot in the chapel, so I threw on my dress, he dug out his suit and we ran up to the Chapel of the Fountain, Circus Circus Hotel, Las Vegas.
It’s as classy as it sounds. Footage of the previous wedding screening in the foyer, deli fridge full of flowers, show bags for the happy couples (mine had washing powder), bored receptionist and a number system. Inside the chapel it was white, silent and empty; the only time I encountered that in Vegas.
The celebrant began, ‘Marriage is an age-old tradition...’ That’s the only thing I remember about the ceremony until he prompted me when it was time for the vows. ‘Eendra, do you take Michael...Eendra? Eendra?’ I barely remember anything he said, but I’ll never forget the way he pronounced my name. However, I know we were married legally because we have a certificate with the Nevada state seal and the photographer as our witness.
Our wedding package included twelve –twelve!- photos which were rushed through to allow for the next wedding: that groom in tuxedo jacket and board shorts, bride in tight pink. We both look a bit stunned in our shots, but we were enormously pleased at our coup. We still are.
Neither of us have any regrets. We bravely weathered the shocked assails from family and friends back home and I guess in the end, like those silly, inane girls and their eternal babble about wedding frippery, I too had the wedding I wanted. Mine was just way, way better!
So it was amazing that I was the first to get married, and incredible the way we did it.
When I was twenty-one I met the plumber of my dreams and two years later we eloped to Las Vegas. A lot of people talk about doing it, but we were cool enough to actually do it. We didn’t tell a soul and it was fabulous. We were fabulous.
Las Vegas may be the easiest place in the world to get married, but only if you’re American. For us Southern Hemispheroids, it is a trip-and-a-half and only the brave see it through. Passports, visas, flights, hotels, car hire and currency; it suspiciously starts to resemble that other list: date, The Dress, venue, menu, bridesmaids and flowers.
When we arrived in the USA, we leisurely took our time arriving in Vegas. It’s not that we were nonchalant; there was just too much great stuff to do before hand. My brilliant beloved drove magnificently while I navigated faultlessly around three states. We survived the spaghetti of the Los Angeles freeway system, the red desert plains of Arizona, Death Valley (superlatives superfluous), Yosemite in bear season, precipitous streets of San Francisco, a cinema in a bad neighbourhood, drunk on the rim of the Grand Canyon, and the whole gosh darn country gone crazy on the fourth of July.
Maybe the best part of all was that no one knew we were there. I’d made up some story for my family about spending the midyear break in Panama (not so unusual for me). I neglected to tell them I’d resigned from my teaching job -I couldn’t wrangle two extra weeks on top of school holidays- and I certainly didn’t share the whole eloping thing. I love my family- my parents are traditional, yet terrific, and we are close. Crucially, I have no sisters and am the only girl born into the family for generations. I hate to use the word ‘selfish’ so I’ll find some better ones instead: brave, daring, plucky...
Finding Vegas in the middle of the Nevada desert is like Lego towers in the middle of the living room floor; looks great but the location is impractical. By this I mean two things- it’s an impractical place for a city in the first place and impractical as a haven for love. Something closer to the coast or the airport with fewer distractions would make much more sense, but I must admit Vegas charmed me in every way. Keeping in mind I was very young, the free drinks, cheap food and nonstop entertainment impressed me.
We found a hotel, a chapel and the Clark County Courthouse where we lined up behind a fellow applying for his fourth marriage licence. Armed with all sorts of documents, we were only asked for our name and address and suddenly, ‘Here you go, Ossies- go get married!’
Back on The Strip I went to a hairdresser and raced back to our room to get dressed. No time to shower- we were running late for our 4.45-5.00pm time slot in the chapel, so I threw on my dress, he dug out his suit and we ran up to the Chapel of the Fountain, Circus Circus Hotel, Las Vegas.
It’s as classy as it sounds. Footage of the previous wedding screening in the foyer, deli fridge full of flowers, show bags for the happy couples (mine had washing powder), bored receptionist and a number system. Inside the chapel it was white, silent and empty; the only time I encountered that in Vegas.
The celebrant began, ‘Marriage is an age-old tradition...’ That’s the only thing I remember about the ceremony until he prompted me when it was time for the vows. ‘Eendra, do you take Michael...Eendra? Eendra?’ I barely remember anything he said, but I’ll never forget the way he pronounced my name. However, I know we were married legally because we have a certificate with the Nevada state seal and the photographer as our witness.
Our wedding package included twelve –twelve!- photos which were rushed through to allow for the next wedding: that groom in tuxedo jacket and board shorts, bride in tight pink. We both look a bit stunned in our shots, but we were enormously pleased at our coup. We still are.
Neither of us have any regrets. We bravely weathered the shocked assails from family and friends back home and I guess in the end, like those silly, inane girls and their eternal babble about wedding frippery, I too had the wedding I wanted. Mine was just way, way better!
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