Vivienne speaks softly, just under her voice, in perfect English with a lovely Vietnamese accent. She’s been doing my pedicures for about a year now. Every time I come in she wants me to wear a bright color like orange or pink to which I respond, “ha ha, you don’t know me very well, do you? it’s clear or black for me”. When I choose black, I like to say “black like my heart, please”. She giggles but I think my humor is lost in translation. As she takes a warm, wet towel to my legs removing the fragrant oils she used to almost put me to sleep with her intoxicating massage, she says in her sweet, soft voice “would you like a color today? How about a bright orange or pink for Spring, like the flowers“ I giggle and say “haha you don’t know me very well, do you?” She applies a clear coat . I say “you know, maybe I would like some color today. How about red? A dark blood red?” With excitement she says “yes, how about this one?” She shows me her selection of red, pointing at the perfect blood red for me and I say “yes, that one. Let’s do that one.”
She delicately drags the first stroke of blood-red lacquer along the length of my toenail, and a flash,a memory as clear as day commandeers my thoughts. Today is June 3, 2024. I repeat to myself “it’s June 3, 2024 today. Wow.”
30 years ago today I borrowed my moms green Honda Accord and drove to Las Vegas with my love. It was a Friday, like today, but sunnier and with more promise. I had painted my toe nails red and set my hair in rollers the night before. Enrique said I had beautiful feet and he thought a red pedi was something particularly sexy, especially on my pretty toes. I packed my beauty school clippers to cut his hair before we’d elope at Chapel Le’Amour on the old strip. Pauly Shore had gotten married here months earlier on his reality show “Totally Pauly” on MTV.
As I painted my toes the night before, my mom, whose intuition I underestimated time and time again, straight out asked me if we were eloping. The conversation was long and I bullshitted and fumbled with my words long enough, but eventually I caved. “Yes. We’re eloping in the morning.” We’d tried a week or two before, but we didn’t have enough money and apparently you need an appointment to elope. Who knew? Not us. We had managed to acquire our marriage license though, so we were ready this time.
She convinced me to come into her room to talk to her and Daddy. They wanted me to wait a little longer before getting married, but they understood. They really did. I saw my dad cry that night for the first time since Great Grandpa Ray died. This time was different. Now, 30 years later, I think I understand. It wasn’t grief. Or maybe it was… grief for my childhood, my innocence. I think they were tears of relief and sadness. I think he knew what I had to do and why and he couldn’t argue. It didn’t feel right. I was too young. We all knew it, but it was the safe and “right” thing to do, considering the alternate and inevitable sin against god. He couldn’t have 2 disfellowshipped daughters. My mom was more upset that she wouldn’t be there to be part of it. She too, understood. It didn’t occur to me to invite them. Things had already been set in motion and I couldn’t rethink the plan. My single regret: I should have invited them. They would have come. My dad would give me away and my mom would hold the bouquet. It didn’t occur to me, even as we sat together on their bed and cried. It just didn’t occur to me. I should have invited them. I wish I had. My dad got up and came back with an envelope of cash, not much, but enough to stay the night and have a nice dinner instead of coming straight home. We cried some more. I was relieved to have their support.
I was 18, single minded and determined to claim my freedom by getting married. I know, it doesn’t add up, but for me it did. We were Jehovahs Witnesses and forbidden to indulge in any activity reflective of young love and exploration. We were being watched and threatened and reproved.
Reproof was their term for punished, but forgiven. We had both been privately reproved in a small room behind the stage at the Kingdom Hall after admitting to making out in a disgusting gas station bathroom on the way to see Lenny Kravitz at the Arsenio Hall show. Enrique had won 2 tickets from the Kevin and Bean show on KROQ, our local alternative music station’s morning show. We went alone. This was not allowed and when word got out that we went on an unchaperoned date, the call for a meeting with the elders was almost immediate. I went first. I sat alone facing a table of at least 3 men. My memory blurs as to whether or not a 4th was there. If he was, he sat quietly and had fewer questions. My head hung down in shame. I stared at my hands in my lap most of the time so my eyes didn’t record much to memory. I was asked in great detail about our make out session. Had I orgasmed? Had he? Over the shirt, or under? Tongue? Where did you kiss him? Did he have an erection? Where did you touch one another?
I was frozen with shame and fear. I was stripped of any dignity I thought I’d had as a young subservient woman. I believed that they deserved answers, so with tears full of self-deprecation and embarrassment, I gave them answers in all the detail they’d demanded. I was privately reproved, meaning, I was denied my privilege of participating in congregation meetings and not permitted to speak at the door in field service. I was still expected to be present for both.
Enrique’s experience was much like mine. He too, was privately reproved. If we failed our god again, the next step would be public reproof. An announcement would be made at the congregation meeting. Our names would be read and our punishment defined by our loss of privileges. This was terrifying to us both,collectively and individually.
In order to keep our good standing with Jehovah and in his congregation and to cut ourselves free from their watchful, judging eyes, we would elope. Once married, god would grant us the privileges of marriage (sex) and the elders would back off.
We were already engaged and planning a wedding when my sister had not been so lucky. Jehovah had judged her more harshly for her make out session with a boy. She was 15 when she was disfellowshipped. The congregation was to accept her spiritual death and shun her altogether.
“ How should we treat a disfellowshipped person? The Bible says: “Stop keeping company with anyone called a brother who is sexually immoral or a greedy person or an idolater or a reviler or a drunkard or an extortioner, not even eating with such a man.” (1 Corinthians 5:11) Regarding everyone who “does not remain in the teaching of the Christ,” we read: “Do not receive him into your homes or say a greeting to him. For the one who says a greeting to him is a sharer in his wicked works.” (2 John 9-11) We do not have spiritual or social fellowship with disfellowshipped ones. The Watchtower of September 15, 1981, page 25, stated: “A simple ‘Hello’ to someone can be the first step that develops into a conversation and maybe even a friendship. Would we want to take that first step with a disfellowshiped person?”-Appendix page 201
My sister was my best friend. She was who I ran to the first time we’d kissed. She had questions too, but answering her was fun. She had good pointers. She was younger, but more courageous than I. “Rub his back and kiss him slow” she said. “Don’t just suck his face off”. My sister was my maid of honor. She was now stripped of this and all other sisterly privileges. She was not to be invited to my wedding much less stand up for me or hold my bouquet.
My stomach curled in knots. I’d lost my sister to the world of Satan. I was alone. I wouldn’t have a wedding without my sister to stand behind me. I was hurt and sad and confused. Where was my loving and forgiving god? Why was he so angry and unfair? My sister moved out at 15 to live with her boyfriend who himself was disfellowshipped soon after, for continuing to have interactions with her in her spiritually dead state. This would lead to abuse and manipulation later, but that’s a story for a different day and hers to tell.
This leads me to today, 30 years ago, in my moms green Honda Accord.
The 3 hours it took to get to Vegas are a blur. Maybe I fell asleep.
We went directly to the chapel and made arrangements for the simplest(cheapest) package. Thanks to my dads envelope, we could afford a small bouquet and the proof package of photos. I still think its funny that the only pictures of our elopement are each stamped PROOF across the front bottom. The irony is not lost.
We had time to check into the Excalibur hotel, get showered and changed, and for me to give him a hotel bathroom haircut. #2 on the sides and back fading up to a mass of curls he’d slick down with slimy green gel by LA Looks that came in a jar.
I wore a white chiffon vintage nightgown embellished with tiny pearls set in embroidered paisley shapes along the skirt.It gathered at the waistband giving form to my newly developing girlish and skinny body. “Flaca”, everyone called me. I wore panty hose because I didn’t know it was an option not to. My shoes were a low heel, sling back, open toe, sheer fabric with a floral accent. Perfectly bridal. I penciled my barely-there eyebrows and painted my lips a rosey red while he showered off the remnant of itchy hair on his neck. I’d forgotten to pack a cutting cape.
He wore his only full suit. Navy with subtle pinstripes. He thought it was reminiscent of 30’s mafia. I thought he looked “GQ”. He pulled up his black cowboy boots and muttered how he wished he had a nice black felt hat to go with them. He was proud of his Mexican roots and wanted to “represent”. I didn’t think the boots went with the suit, but he was happy so I was happy.
We were picked up in a limo as part of our package. We were congratulated by strangers and giggled at whispers of people saying we were just babies. We were.
We walked down the aisle of an empty chapel and were married by a woman whose description of the infinite circle of our rings moved me. I’d only been to witness weddings. This was a new and beautiful symbol. It made me cherish our plain silver bands from the downtown jewelry mart on Spring and 7th even more. I still have them.
“I do”, I said, and he said it too.“Till death do you part” she said, and we kissed.little did we know, just how soon this would be, but that too, is a story for a different day.
We went back to the Excalibur hotel in the same limo that picked us up, but everything had changed. Everything was different. We were free. We were free to explore each other without guilt without feeling watched without fear from the gaze of the judging elders. Everyone knows that God doesn’t go to Vegas. We were free. When we got to the hotel room, we explored one another as only young inexperienced lovers do. Clumsy, curious, boundless, enveloped by love, tangled in our bodies, we were finally free. After a long afternoon of lovemaking, we were hungry. We liked the attention from others as we walked around in our wedding clothes so we chose to have dinner in them. We put our wedding clothes back on as husband and wife. They were the same, but we had changed. We found an Italian restaurant and approached the host. They required reservations. Of course, we hadn’t made any. Because we just been married (they could tell, because we were wearing our bridal-wear proudly),they set up an extra table for us. I was 18 so I couldn’t drink wine. I had Martinelli’s. I don’t remember what I ordered. I remember being ravenous in so many ways. I remember feeling free to choose whatever I wanted. “Pa’ riba, pa’ bajo, pa’centro, pa’ dentro” it was the only brindis he knew. We clicked our glasses of Martinelli’s and got lost in each others souls.
Vivienne held up a single painted red toenail and said “What do you think?” “It’s perfect.” I said.” Its perfect for today.”
He was handsome. Those eyes! Such warmth and passion. ♥️ Thank you for sharing this story.