Not long ago, my husband and I celebrated our 50th anniversary. What’s more impressive in this time of division is that we are of different cultures – my husband is British – and religions: I’m Jewish and he was raised in the Church of England. That means we beat the odds that something would go awry, but we got lucky.
As bi-relationships go, our situation might seem unremarkable. Neither of us is bisexual, nor is ours a biracial marriage. Even the bicultural aspect of our marriage is not as difficult as it might be if, say, I were from Bosnia and my husband was from Bhutan. Still, our marriage has been more challenging than many people might suppose.
The first signs of our cultural differences began appearing early in our relationship. My husband worked at the British Embassy in Washington, D.C. back then and we lived the diplomatic life that dominates that city. Our social scene was formal and obligatory, with dinner parties comprised of colleagues and their spouses, carefully balanced by gender so that seating arrangements alternated males and females.
For a few years after we married, I was happy with that sort of thing. About twice a month we entertained, if not lavishly, at least with panache. Our candlelit table was set with flowers, fine china, and inherited silver, and salad followed the main course European style. In the early days I kept a guest book, though I shudder to confess it. But I drew the line at “hotting the plates” – a tradition in England so that hot food isn’t placed on cold dishes. Similarly, one heats the teapot before brewing tea, and “bring the pot to the kettle.”
Eventually I drew the line at living in Washington. Once we escaped the diplomatic scene my husband began to accept American informality. We hosted picnics and barbeques, but there were still challenges, one of them being my cardinal sin; I used paper plates and plastic utensils at picnics. “It’s tacky,” my beloved said. “It’s a picnic!” I responded. “You’re supposed to use disposables at a picnic. Otherwise, it’s a dinner party on grass!”
Food rituals were not our only point of contention. There were honor codes and language issues, humor, and personal habits to be reconciled. My husband once nearly threatened divorce because he thought I had tried to cheat British Rail when the conductor neglected to collect my ticket on a trip back to London from Devon. “Look!” I said. “The conductor didn’t take my ticket. We can get the money back!” I felt like I’d won at Ascot. His take was different. “Absolutely not,” he exclaimed. In his best British accent, he chastised me and said I was being dishonest. Filled with guilt I felt like a true miscreant.
As for language, I can’t recount the number of times I had to translate for our children when they were young. The boot, the biscuit, and the bypass all had to be interpreted. Bangers and mash needed explaining. “Taking the mickey” and “a piss up in a brewery” begged for deconstruction. No wonder our offspring took pride in their linguistic capabilities, my daughter claiming to be bilingual at the age of five. “I speak two languages,” she boasted proudly. “English and American.”
On the issue of humor (humour), suffice to say that my life partner still doubles over with mirth when he watches John Cleese reruns of Faulty Towers. He finds Mr. Bean and Monty Python hilarious, leaving me to marvel at how puerile he can be. In his defense, however, he can quote Shakespeare, Wordsworth and the War Poets. I don’t know one American who can do all that.
Over the years, we have evolved nicely. He no longer worries when I ask guests to pour their own drinks and I’ve become used to the soiled handkerchief he tucks under his pillow every night. He finds potluck suppers fun now and when I cheat the system occasionally, he applauds so long as I’ve done it out of sense of justice. For the most part we now speak the same lingo and laugh at the same jokes. We celebrate Chanukah, Christmas and Passover with equal ecumenical and cultural enthusiasm.
I seldom “get my knickers in a twist” over little things and I love being called “Darling.” I wouldn’t dream of Sunday nights without Masterpiece Theatre. I adore scones and my hubby swoons over a good hamburger.
After 50 years I treasure the traditions we’ve built, inspired by the best that both sides of the Atlantic have to offer. As I look back over our time together I’m reminded of an epic poem called “The White Cliffs” by Alice Duer Miller, an American woman who married a Brit just before World War I. “I am American bred,” she wrote. “I have seen much to hate [in England], much to forgive. But in a world in which there is no England, I do not wish to live.”
Nor would I have wanted to live my life in a world without a certain Englishman, because marriage is hard enough. At least I’ve had my share of life with someone who “has the good manners of educated Englishmen,” as American writer Margaret Halsey wrote. “It’s all so heroic,” she said. It’s also, despite the challenges of any long term relationship, warm and wonderful, and with very few exceptions, jolly good fun.