My Own Battle of Bull Run (Manassas)

I have been to a Civil War-era themed re-enactment wedding. More specifically, I have been to a Confederate Civil War-era themed re-enactment wedding. And even more specifically, I have been to a Jewish Confederate Civil War-era themed re-enactment wedding.

This spectacle took place in San Diego, a city that had nothing to do with either the bride or the groom, or their families, or -- so far as I can tell -- the Civil War itself, unless General Sherman marched a hell of a lot further than I thought. But nevertheless, San Diego was the place for reasons that are still wholly unknown to me. It was my roommate Lisa's aunt's wedding. Lisa, our other roommate Gene, and I lived in Los Angeles. We also happened to be the only people associated with the wedding who lived west of the Mississippi, but I guess I should just drop the idea of solving the "oh-my-God-why-is-this-taking-place-in-San-Diego" mystery.

So moving on.

Like I said, it was Lisa's aunt's wedding. She and her beau met while doing Civil War re-enactments, hence the theatrics of the event. Gene went as Lisa's date and I was invited partly so I didn't feel left out of the roommate dynamic, but also partly (or probably, mostly) so that Lisa's 17-year-old cousin would have someone to waltz with at the reception. Also, about a week before the wedding Gene and I learned we were going to be members of the honor guard. We were told not to worry about it, that it would be fun. And who am I to turn down a request to be in someone's honor guard? Seriously.

When we got to San Diego we found out that Lisa's family was paying for my and Gene's hotel room, which is proper etiquette when dealing with honor guardsmen. But then we saw our uniforms: fluffy red shirts; white pants that sort of looked like pajama pants; white suspenders; blue-and-white striped socks with the pants tucked into them at the knee; white canvas "gators;" and boots. Also a straw hat. We were also issued a rifle with a bayonette, a sword, and some other random weaponry. We were supposed to be members of the Louisiana Tigers, a famed group of American mercenary fighters who originally formed in Louisiana but began their fighting careers in the Crimean War. Apparently the Crimean War was fought in desert conditions, which explains the odd-yet-comfortable uniforms. They were allowed to wear them during the Civil War because they would strike fear in the Union soldiers across the battlefield, such was the reputation of these Louisiana Tigers. Of which I was pretending to be. I looked ridiculous awesome. But at least I didn't have to wear the Confederate grays. I was fine looking like a nerd; I didn't need to look like an asshole.

The day of the wedding everyone met in the hotel lobby. Guests were coming in and out, and all of them were staring at us. It was horrific for me, because half of the men were dressed in Confederate gray uniforms. I didn't want to be associated with this so I just hid behind a pillar and made small talk with my "date." (A lot of: "Sooo... do you like biology class? No? Oh... Um... well, what classes do you like?)

And then the limo came. Driven by a black guy. A limosoune full of people in Confederate uniforms in a car driven by a black man. Oh Christ. When we got to the paddleboat (!) that the ceremony and reception was taking place on, I got out of the limo and tried to flash my most obvious "what-the-hell-is-up-with-all-these-weirdos?" face to the driver. He responded by flashing his most obvious "fuck you" face.

And then the ceremony started. It was my first Jewish wedding, and while I didn't plan on using it as a blueprint for how their ceremonies usually progressed, I was interested to see just how different or similar they were to the Catholic and generic Christian weddings I'm used to. It all started with the rabbi. I admit -- I was expecting a stereotype. A distinguished man with gray hair (perhaps his hair would match the uniforms of the guests!) and glasses; those curls coming down the side of his face. Instead I got a late-30s-ish British guy with a shaved head. A British guy with a shaved head who I later learned had -- forget about being a rabbi -- had been Jewish for a few months. (!!!...?) So things progressed smoothly until the rabbi asks the groom, "do you have your commanding officer's written consent of this union?" (Pun intended?) At this point, it gets weird. I mean, weirder. The groom, in a display of not-even-grade-D-community-theater acting, pats down his pockets, slowly at first but then frantically, and then announces, "I do not." GASP! The rabbi looks around, confused. What is this? Is this part of the ceremony? What is happening. There's an awkward silence. And then, an older but powerfully built man, steps out from the back of the deck, right next to where I and my other honor guardsmen are standing. And this man is in full Confederate dress, all covered and sparkling in medals and stripes. This is a high-ranking man. This is a man who commands the room's attention. This is a man not to be fucked with. This is also a man who, after clearing his throat, in a booming voice utters these words (words uttered for the very first time in the history of mankind): "Rabbi? I'm General Robert E. Lee!"

My eyebrow went up and my eyes kind of bugged out. But my roommate, Gene, who was standing opposite me and who happened to be in the perfect position to be in the background of every single wedding photograph taken of this momentous moment -- his face summed it up best. It was a mix of bewilderment, humor, and general oh-my-god-this-is-insane-what-the-fuck-is-WRONG-with-these-people? Actually, I think the more succinct term is "horror."

But so General Robert E. Lee, in his benevolence and magnanimousness gives HIS consent to the marriage. Would that be okay with the rabbi? All eyes turn back to the rabbi. "Yes sir, it would." And the congregation, or whatever the hell we're called, cheers. Roars. Oh happy day! Robert E. Lee rode in and saved the day, like the cavalry arriving with reinforcements to wreck havoc on some damn Yankees! The ceremony moved forward, the glass was crushed, and the bride and groom were married. Finally.

And I was free to waltz the night away.