respect

I met the Gypsy man’s parents for the first time (not counting numerous Skype sessions) at the bottom of an escalator in the Salt Lake Airport about a week before our wedding.

My betrothed had driven us to the airport in the boat-like un-air-conditioned Mercury Grand Marquis I had inherited from my grandparents. We had held hands, resting them on the blue velvety middle seat, as I rehearsed in my mind how I would greet these people, strangers until recently, whose path was very soon to converge with mine. I wanted to fathom the importance and strangeness of the occasion but it was so important and strange that I could not. I had to check again if I had it right: “So, it’s the right hand? I will take their right hand, and do I touch it to my forehead first?” I practiced with his hand. In this culture, I had learned, there was a special way of expressing respect and honor to one’s parents in law. It would very much impress and please them, he had told me, if I were to use it the first time I met them. I was a little embarrassed, but enthusiastic.

I spotted them first and told myself to be calm, but my heart beat faster and my hands shook, especially when they finally saw us and made their way down to us. I felt inevitably awkward, impatiently waiting for them to hug their son whom they hadn’t seen for far too long. My soon-to-be mother in law reached out to greet me with a hug. I accepted, probably mumbling something half in Italian and half in Romani, before catching her unoffered hand, taking it in both my hands and bowing, bringing the back of her hand near my lowered forehead, then my mouth, then my forehead and mouth again. She broke into a huge smile and hugged me again. “Ovsasti, grazie, ovsasti, mi chai.” I repeated the gesture with her husband, received the same surprised, warm, happy response.

I’ve since repeated this gesture when seeing them after a long absence or when exchanging gifts, and I’ve thought about it a little more. Like other things in Roma culture, it feels ancient to me. From my cultural perspective, it could be seen negatively. Ever since they dismissed King George III, Americans don’t seem to think much of bowing. They might call this act not ancient, but primitive. That’s the problem, though, a long time ago the soup was overcooked in the great Melting Pot and we lost a certain texture and taste for, well, what exactly? I’m having a hard time pinning it down. Maybe the sacredness of family relationships, the value of self-abasement? Yes, maybe it’s individualism that has made us prideful. It’s something in our mindset that values the self over the family, that’s set us off on a wild goose chase for self-fulfillment, forgetting the people at home who could have given us the deepest joy and satisfaction.

This gesture sometimes feels embarrassing to me, I reason, because it’s such an expressive performance of a sacred but unfamiliar sentiment. It’s like saying, “You before me knew what it is to marry and bear children. You before me knew what it was to give every part of yourself for the sake of new life. Now I pledge to honor your sacrifice by devoting myself to this person, my companion, your son, and following in your footsteps.” It’s so beautiful it can hardly be spoken. So in wisdom it was written in gesture.