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Why I Let My Dad “Give Me Away” At My Wedding
And Why I Wouldn’t Do it Again
I have a knotty relationship to this photograph, me and my dad at my wedding. His dark clothes and the peony in his pocket and the drug-store cane in his hand, the glowing satin creampuff of my dress, my hair parted and tucked, my veil like glittering mist. I remember the song that played, the sight of my then-fiancé in his gray suit, the color of the light through the glass walls. I can still feel my arm in the crook of my dad’s, his achy, old-man gait beside me, the faces of friends and family turned toward us, the sound of guests sniffling and teary.
My dad died three years ago — four years after this photograph was taken — and it is one of the last photographs we took together. I’ll get no more meaningful moments with him. Our connection will never again be documented. This photograph means a lot.
Still, I wonder whether the picture should exist at all. That day, and in the weeks leading up to it, a sizable piece of my heart bristled at this antiquated bit of ritual: being walked to my fiancé as if I were a shy child, not a woman who had fought with him and fucked him and put my significant paychecks into our shared bank account for years; this being “given away,” as if I were a transferable object, father and bridegroom exchanging handshakes like businessmen…
