George didn't want an Elvis impersonator at our wedding.His eighty-year old parents, from the heartof the Bible Belt, wouldn't understand.Joplin, Missouri was a dull placethat was a boring drive from other placesjust as dull, and his parents had never attendedany of their children’s weddings. But us movingthe date up and eloping to Las Vegas skipped overobstacles—the Chinese banquet, with the bestthat money can buy, picking our pockets clean. Since his parents were hurtling towards Vegasfor a military reunion, George, forty-threeand no longer waiting for his life to begin,developed a bittersweet yearning to bring the weddingto them—meet them halfway. When I told my parentsabout the instant-wedding shack and motelright off the strip—without inviting them—my father booked flights and accommodationsfor the extended family. We don't wantyour new mother- and father-in-law to thinkyou're an unwanted child. The families converged,days later, in front of a 30-foot salad bar,my father buying lunch for everyone. My tight-lippedmother, who didn't speak English, pointed outthat George's mother, half Cherokee, lookedAsian, her black hair slicked into a glistening helmet.Did she actually give birth to him? His father,the Lt. Colonel, in full uniform, snow-white haircropped short, wanted us to pray together,while his mother, asked if I knew the Lord, JesusChrist, Our Savior. The whole time, Grandma wavedfor someone to take her picture next to her favoriteslot machine. When his parents handed us the basket—used polyester pants, lawn shoes, and a spray-paintedgold candleholder—for our wedding gift,everyone was puzzled. We didn’t knowit would be followed up a year later by a baby food jarof old buttons.
Hyphen.
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