What is it about marriage—an institution that was originally a means of transferring wealth along with domestic and reproductive services horizontally within society and vertically in a family—that we still fetishize so much? A lot of people, grandmas and older aunts and uncles notwithstanding, will tell you that marriage is the ultimate goal. You know the spiel: “So you’ve just finished grad school with honors and got the job of your dreams, that’s all very nice, honey, but when will you finally settle down with someone?” And, of course, this is so much more so if you happen to be a female.
Now, this is probably a good time to come clean: I’m married. What’s more, I married at a relatively young age (25) for someone with as many years of education and big city-living. I was living with my partner before we got married—we firmly decided there can be no serious talk of engagement until we have lived with each other for at least a year or so—and we had been in a committed relationship for years before legalizing our union. I’d like to think that family pressure and societal expectations had very little to do with why we got married. Actually, our reasons for getting married are to me, in a way, an answer to why we may still consider marriage a benchmark of success in life.
To put it simply, we got married because we’re pretty sure we want to spend the rest of our lives together and there’s something to be said for having a piece of paper saying we’re a family. I know it’s just a piece of paper and families aren’t made when a civil servant signs their name to an administrative act, but I live with a guy who looks nothing like me and has a different surname. I love him to bits, but it sure is nice to think that there’s confirmation of who we are for each other somewhere in our drawers.
I’m sure plenty of people genuinely don’t need to get married to get that extra level of security. For me however, getting married means not having to go it alone ever again (and yes divorce happens, but I’m being an optimist here). It doesn’t mean I’m more successful than those of my friends who might never get married. It doesn’t necessarily mean I’m happier. In my mind, it means that officially, it’s now always going to be the two of us looking out for each other.
Nothing much changed when we got married (which, the internet, or at least the feminist bloggers I read, tell me is a good thing). But now I have this deep-seated conviction we’re really in this for life. I’m never going to be alone again with an abusive boss or a stressful family situation. I’ll have someone to lean on emotionally, socially, and financially if I have to, and I don’t have to worry about being bored on weekends. On the flip-side, I have twice as many family events to go to, have to bear the weight of double the emotional issues, and am sometimes stuck watching a movie I hate because he really enjoys it. I probably would have said the exact same thing about our relationship before we got married.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a cynical utilitarian who sees marriage as some sort of loneliness/unhappiness insurance policy. There’s nothing about marriage itself that will necessarily stop you from being unhappy or lonely. What’s more, the worst sort of loneliness is when you have to share it with a person you no longer connect with. Conversely, friends and acquaintances can be great for anything and everything from a night on the town, to visiting you in the hospital. But marriage does mean you’re supposed to share a life and have the right to feel like your welfare and happiness really should be one of the top priorities on somebody else’s agenda. Again, I’m sure there are people who get this in long-term relationships that have no official sanctioning, but something about these responsibilities becoming legal makes it more, well, real.
So why should marriage be viewed as an indicator of success? Well, it shouldn’t. But maybe it’s a symbol of some sort of security and stability? Maybe when your grandma or friend pesters you about this and you’d really want them to just be able to appreciate who you are on your own, maybe what they’re really saying (the nicer ones at least) is: I hope you’re not lonely, I hope you have support when you need it, I hope there’s someone you can talk to now and in 20 years’ time who’ll care for you through thick and thin.
I don’t have any kids yet and hope to not pester them about relationships when I do have them. I have a fierce commitment to not even making assumptions about the genders of the people my future kids will be attracted to. And I don’t necessarily want them to ever get married if they won’t be so inclined, but I can see myself hoping they find a relationship in which they’re happy, (most of) their emotional and physical needs are fulfilled and they don’t have to feel like they’re going through too much of their life alone (because even with the most loving of relatives, we all feel lonely sometimes).
Maria M. Pawlowska is a healthcare analyst with a passion for reproductive health and gender issues. Her articles on different aspects of reproductive and women’s rights have been published by The Maternal Health Task Force, RH Reality Check, HealthyPolicies, The European Pro-Choice Network, and The Good Men Project, among others. Maria currently lives in London with her husband. You can reach her at: m.pawlowska@gatesscholar.org and find her on Twitter at @MariaPawlowska.
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