Very nice article on intercultural, international marriage.
For starters, the weather
Bryan Mallinson and Bageshree Paradkar’s joined hands are covered by the hands of their parents during the wedding in Bangalore, in February 2002. The couple met in Australia the previous year. Email story
Nothing can prepare you January 13, 2007
Bageshree Paradkar
Toronto Star
Life would have been easier if my husband were a jerk. I would have left him, left Canada and been home with my family and friends, with not a sliver of guilt on my conscience.
I am a foreigner who is settling in this beautiful country only because I married a Canadian. This fact invariably brings forth a shuffling, embarrassed mumble – “Is he from Canada?” – and an unsatisfied look if I respond with a simple “Yes.”
I’d rather be asked outright: “Is he white?” Yes.
This is an interracial, intercultural, international marriage.
In a word: unconventional.
“International” in a marriage comes with such a unique set of challenges that interracial, intercultural and gender issues between couples can seem insignificant in comparison.
Chief among the challenges is: does love mean having to leave my country?
Yes, I hear you. It’s a decision that should have been considered before marriage, not after. When the M word is first mentioned, our minds ought to be grounded in reality, rather than racing toward the wedding day, the when, the how, the how much and the how many.
But foresight is in short supply, the belief that love conquers all dominates, and the deed is done.
Reality begins to sink in when the plane touches the ground after a long, gruelling flight and the words “landed immigrant” are stamped irrevocably on my passport.
Then there is this seriously shocking weather.
Most Canadians don’t seem to realize how inhospitable the climate is. Just because you learn to cope with something doesn’t mean it wasn’t a challenge in the first place. It is a triumph of mankind over nature that such terrain was ever considered habitable.
In the winter, I dream of my days in India, of slipping into sandals and walking out the door. Here, the sun, when it does appear, is a shiny showpiece in the sky. The lack of its warmth makes me feel sluggish and deprived.
But that is a matter of getting used to. Mind over matter, I tell myself.
When I first came here and sat marooned in my downtown highrise condo, I felt as if I’d been plucked out of my natural surroundings and suspended mid-air, rootless.
At the beginning, there was no job, few friends, and no nearby family. Only the man I’d married.
Had I been escaping a bad life, I would have been grateful for the security here.
But I’ve left behind a far more comfortable lifestyle and a job with a handsome salary in exchange for the drudgery of life in the glamorous West by doing my own laundry, dishes, cooking, etc.
Time can be the solution. And it was. Within two months I got a good job. (And not as a taxi driver.) I started settling into my new country.
In our home, racial lines not only blur for my husband and me, they have become invisible. Neither of us sees the colour of the other’s skin or hears the lilt of the other’s accents.
Cultural differences are another matter.
Back in India, a new bride becomes part of her husband’s family. She’s invited for endless meals from the groom’s side until everyone knows her and she no longer considers herself an outsider.
For some people in Canada, that could be intrusive and overwhelming.
For me, coming from India’s family-based society, living in an individual-based one takes getting used to.
Family time here seems to be reserved for Christmas, Thanksgiving and a few special occasions. With one exception, sundry aunts and uncles don’t dream of calling, perhaps for fear of intruding or out of respect for privacy. I don’t call because I don’t want to seem pushy. Is it timidity? Indifference?
For whatever reason, the emphasis on independence in Canada appears to result in isolation.
Usually, it’s smooth sailing between my husband and me. But in moments of stress, some differences show up more clearly. Even expressions of love and politeness aren’t exempt then.
His “yes, pleases” and “no, thank yous” can grate on my nerves. My sharpness seems unnecessary to him.
When I was a child, my grandpa once chastised me for paying lip service to gratitude. I’d just said “thank you” for something he’d done for me. “Don’t say thank you,” he said sternly. “Show thank you. Don’t finish off your sense of obligation with two words.”
Growing up, his parents told him they love him almost daily. Mine never did. Indeed, “I love you” in my mother tongue is an awkward sentence. Yet both our parents love us deeply.
This difference in attitudes reflects in our thinking. It’s important for him to say “I love you” frequently. I feel saying it so often trivializes it.
I am also puzzled that while expressing such deep emotions comes easily to him, he won’t verbalize the obvious.
If someone we meet is unattractive, that’s what I’ll say. “So-and-so is unattractive.” The most my husband will concede is, “He/she isn’t the best looking.” I find that aggravating and endearing at the same time. Since he’s the tactful one, I’m not sure how he’d characterize my behaviour.
Then comes the issue of issues. Would I want our child to grow up here?
Millions of children are beautifully brought up here. Toronto is a city with such a variety of skin colours that the products of inter-relationships enjoy a fabulous genetic makeup. When children mature, universities here offer countless opportunities, with their excellent research programs and an environment of intellectual stimulation.
But culture plays a role in the choices we make. I feel the same hesitation, but for different reasons, that you would feel if you found yourself, say, in India, with the prospect of bringing up a child. I feel quite alarmed at what I see of younger children here. They seem to have shorter childhoods. They are reported to be sexually active much earlier; peer pressures are high. As manufacturers target younger people in the hope of buying their loyalty, the media constantly create aspirational insecurities.
Who you are, how you look, isn’t good enough. What you ought to be is always just slightly out of reach. Obsession with youth leads to ageism, which I find shocking, particularly coming from a culture with a strong ethos of respect for elders.
It would be too simplistic to say one country is bad and another good.
One solution lies in letting our marriage be a vehicle to unite the two cultures, instilling in our children an appreciation for cricket and hockey, Diwali and Christmas, Marathi (my mother tongue) and English (and possibly French), family obligations and individual expression, austerity and materialism, charity and consumerism, spirituality and secularism – all that without creating a confused child.
Through our children, we might learn to better integrate our values. But there are other, personal, fears.
I’ve left behind deep friendships. A dear friend just had a baby girl. Another friend is desperate for a child. Yet another had a divorce while I was away. A fourth is dealing with an alcoholic husband.
There’s only so much hand-holding a person can do through email and phone calls. Being far away won’t break those bonds, but I fear the eroding effect of absence at important events in each other’s lives.
Even closer to my heart, is my family. I ache for them. My sister and brother, I wish we were together, fighting, arguing, helping each other.
My parents are getting older. We have long chats on the phone weekly. Distance amplifies worries. They don’t tell me the true state of their health. I know, because I don’t tell them when I’m sick. So I search for signs in their voices. A hint of breathlessness there gives me a catch in my throat. A fit of coughing at the other end makes my heart lurch.
I’ve flown so far from them that, should there be an emergency, it would take me at least 24 hours to get back to them.
Can I ask them to immigrate, too? Uprooting them from their lifelong bonds and putting them in such hostile weather conditions would be unkind, insensitive – and the worst part is, they’d do it. They’d give it all up, their comfortable and secure lives back home, if they believed that would make me happy.
Likewise, my husband has family responsibilities and can’t ask his parents to move to India at their age. My in-laws, bless them, would move, too, if they thought it would make us happy. Then the shoe would be on the other foot, but it would carry the same baggage.
How can the love in marriage compensate for this sadness?
“Global village” is an integrating concept, but one that hasn’t matured for the vast majority of people, even in privileged countries. Unless there are business linkages, how often in a year can an average Toronto couple shell out $2,000 apiece just for the ticket to fly home?
Empowerment comes with the awareness of choice and, in my case, awareness brings with it a painful web of complexity.
If time can be the solution, time can also be the problem. The longer I stay here, the more bonds I build. My parents-in-law are angels and two of my friends’ mothers, one from the Caribbean, the other from Italy, pamper me when they meet me because I’m so far away from my own mom.
The abundance of love I’ve found in both countries leaves me in the terrible situation of having to make a choice between the two. For now, I’ve chosen to live here with the guilt and fear. But I also live in hope of a better solution down the road.
Shree Paradkar is editor of the Star’s health section. Email [email protected].
