I guess I roped some curious cats when I mentioned my sister’s arranged marriage. That’s cool. I’m happy to elaborate. I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine though, and I’ve been up since 4 am (it’s now 9:08, damned close to my bedtime), so if I ramble a bit, please put up with me.

I do have to give y’all some background though.

First, my father is the eldest son of a Lebanese immigrant. My grandfather (who I never really knew since he was bedridden as long as I could remember) was Muslim. My father, who married a Catholic girl, never practiced his religion (and I never got that phrase, the whole ‘practicing’ thing, but okay) until his father died in 1969. I was 5. Being the oldest son, with a young family (my sister was 3 weeks old when Grandpa died, my brother was 3), Dad felt that it was his place to teach us all his heritage.

Prayer 5 times/day, being at the Mosque, no pork products - that was what I remembered. Oh, and Arabic lessons. (No, I don’t remember any of it, unfortunately - one of my greatest regrets.) Apparently though, Mom couldn’t deal with the huge change in her husband. Something happened, I don’t know what exactly, but Dad stopped praying, stopped going to the Mosque. (Bacon, though, was still forbidden in our home. I never knew the joy of a pepperoni pizza or a ham sandwich.)

Flash forward 17 years. I had gone away to school, met Practice Husband and was engaged. I was working as a bank teller, living at home (again, because my student loan money got cut…thank you Ronald Reagan) and going to school locally. My mother called me at work to tell me that Dad had been hospitalized with a bleeding ulcer. I believe that this brush with mortality (My Dad, the cop? It took an ulcer to make him realize his mortality. That’s the kind of guy he is.) made him start thinking about God again. And ensuring his place in the afterlife.

I was married not long after (not arranged - I met Practice at school) and moved out of state. My brother and sister still lived at home. Ski was 16. They listened to Dad; were influenced greatly by him and his actions, and became Muslim.

At this point, I have to take a break and tell you all - my father is one of the most tolerant people I know. All of the good things about religion are embodied in Dad. He’s never tried to pressure me to become Muslim; he’s still the same hilariously funny guy that I grew up with. My mother, as well, has embraced the basic tenets of Islam. They are tied together irrevocably, have been married 45 years, and I can’t imagine what will happen when “till death do they part” comes. They love each other, their children and their spouses, and their grandchildren with an amazing boundless love and generosity. (So, criticize Islam all you want, but criticize my family and I will not be the sweet Hotfessional that you know and love.)

Anyway - my brother married a girl that he went to High School with. She converted to Islam because it was important to him and they had a beautiful daughter together.

My sister graduated from High School and started college locally. My father met a guy from Brazil at the mosque. He was about my age (5 or 6 years older than my sister) and was interested in meeting a “nice Muslim girl.” My parents spoke at length with the guy; spoke to the people in the community that knew him. They liked him and introduced him to my sister. They never dated. They were never together without a chaperone (that I knew.)

I came home from West-by-gawd-Virginia and met him. We went to an antique auction. MomandDad, me, and my sister’s “fiance”. My parents asked my opinion. They asked my brother’s opinion. They asked my great-grandmother’s opinion. He was a nice guy. He was ambitious. He wanted to make something of himself. We all approved.

And so they got married.

If you ask my parents, they’ll say the marriage wasn’t “arranged” in the traditional sense of the word. I guess I can understand that. Let’s call it “managed” then, eh?

Ski and her husband had the first grandchild in the family. A beautiful boy. When her son was two years old, my divorce from Practice was final. I had met and moved in with Mr. Hot. She left the Brazilian not long after. She moved back in with my parents; she brought her son with her. It didn’t work out - to this day, I don’t know all of the details why. I gather that he was a hot-blooded Latin who was very demanding and misogynistic. That’s as much as she will say.

She moved south in a fit of rebelliousness a couple of years later. I had actually moved back north, with Mr. Hot and Shortman in tow, when it happened. She found a Muslim community, had a ton of friends and met the man that she’s married to now. They have four children together, and have sole custody of her son. (Her ex- got deported. His green card ran out.) They lived for a while in Michigan, and recently moved back south.

The second marriage, while not arranged managed by my parents, was also arranged managed - by friends. She found someone who is much more like her temperamentally, and they have a true partnership.

Do I believe her first marriage was a mistake?

I believe she was too young for the kind of marriage that she had. She was 18 years old. She had never lived out on her own, she’d never dated in High School. But, she wanted to be married and she wanted to have a big family. It was, as they say, a recipe for disaster regardless of circumstances.

When she ran away and got to live a little, to think and make decisions on her own, she found the right guy. The one that makes her happy.

My brother and his wife got divorced. (Three children, three divorces. We all tell my parents that they made marriage look much too easy - none of us were prepared, the first time, for how much freakin’ work was involved.) Brother Dear is now remarried to a girl (our third cousin, no less), that he met through relatives “setting them up.” They have two children together. His daughter from his first marriage lives with her mother; her son, from her first marriage, lives with them.

We truly are a mish-mash of children, step-children, ex-spouses, in-laws, out-laws, and “who the heck are you and how are you related to me”? We’re spread across the country now, and the cousins (our children, my parent’s grandchildren) don’t get together nearly often enough, but oh mah holy hell people. When they do? Watch out.

We had a family portrait taken about four years ago - all of us. MomandDad, us three kids, our spouses, and 10 grandchildren. The picture is hanging on our living room wall. Shortman had some friends over for his birthday. One boy stopped by the picture - stared at it for a while, and looked over at Shortman. His next words had me and Mr. Hot in stitches. “You’re right Shortman. You don’t look a thing like ANY of your cousins.”

—- All we could think was, “Is this really the sort of topic that 8th grade boys discuss during lunchtime?” —-

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