So I’m having that dream again. The one that I regularly have because I resent being several shades too dark-skinned to be a wedding fake priest in Japan.
Anyway, it’s the dream where shafts of light come down through the glass ceiling and in between the steel beam rafters, and they are almost like tangible white blocks of energy. I’m in a flowing black robe and my head is topped with a healthy afro. This is definitely not real life, I shaved my head down to a few millimeters a week ago. I’m standing on the dais at the head of the chapel, regal in my flowing purple robes with my arms raised to the sky. My eyes are closed and my head is tilted up into the light. It is as if my face was a solar panel soaking holy energy from the Almighty. Pompous, righteous, douchebaggy.
“Dearly beloved-ah,” I say huskily, “we are gathered here today to witness-uh… I said witness-uh, holy matrimon-uh.”
In front of me the bride and groom are holding hands. The groom is squeezing a pair of those gay white gloves men getting married in a chapel in Japan think they’re obligated to wear tight in his left hand and shifting from foot to foot, left right left left right. The bride’s eyes are downward, her glance landing at my feet.
“That is right lawd, holy matrimony. That means we ask for your blessing as we gather here on this beautiful day to witness the creation of a new partnership. Of an unbreakable, eternal bond-uh, between man, lord I said man-uh, and wife.
Do you Hiroshi, take Yumiko to be your lawful beloved wife? Fuck. You have no idea what I’m saying, do you? Just nod hai. Good. Now do you Yumiko take Hiroshi to be your master, to make bento for, wash his lipstick stained y-shatsu, and to put up with him calling you omae or worse, mama for the rest of your life once you have children and are relegated to the role of perpetual asexual motherhood?”
The two of them nod obediently, accepting their fate.
“You may kiss the bride.”
Of course this being Japan, the new husband leans awkwardly towards his new wife who leans away as if her husband has the AIDS or bad breath. He sheepishly lands a lame, dry micro-peck of a kiss on her cheek. Oh la la. Western wedding Japanese style.
At this point of this dream masquerading as a lame fulfillment fantasy my all-black chorus appears out of nowhere. Fleshy negro choir singers with Aretha and Sam Cooke voices singing Al Green’s L-O-V-E.
Yes!
Uh!
