As a radical queer, I spent my life disinterested in the heteronormative institution of marriage. But after five years with my partner, Sean James William Parris, I knew I wanted us to ride-or-die together, forever. I’d play out the image of us old and dancing with shrunken, shriveled bodies like California Raisins in my head like a favorite song.
On Sean’s 40th birthday, I threw him a surprise party and then I made it about me too by proposing. He said, “Yes.” That was October 2021 (yes, Sean’s a Libra). We were planning a big wedding for August 5, 2023, especially since the numerology of that date, a “2,” represents balance, cooperation, and harmonious relationships.
At that time, I was writing for Showtime’s The Chi and penning scripts for HBO Max and Amazon. For once, I wasn’t a broke-ass artist and could plan an extravagant wedding. Also, for the first time in my adult life, I had the insurance benefits that are all too elusive for artists in a U.S. capitalist, neoliberal economy.
I wanted Sean on my insurance, especially since COVID was still raging. But in the heterosupremacist, puritanic U.S. where survival’s a privilege, we had to be married before the new year for Sean to get on my plan. I told Sean we’d get married at City Hall, a wedding that “wouldn’t really count” and we wouldn’t even tell anyone.
The next few weeks we were in and out of City Hall, going through hellish long lines to procure a marriage license. Every time we were there, I told the clerks we’d be back to get married on New Year’s Eve. They thought that was romantic; for us, it was perfunctory. The night before, we realized we hadn’t even thought about what we’d wear and had no rings.
On New Year’s Eve, my sister met me and Sean at City Hall at 9am: it was closed. In 2021, New Year’s Eve fell on a Friday, which meant New Year’s Day landed on a Saturday and since that’s a federal holiday, City Hall was closed that Friday. I didn’t know what to do.
My sister is a stubborn, solution-oriented Taurus, so she called her high school friend, an attorney who often worked at City Hall. Her friend had just begun dating a judge who agreed to marry Sean and me at my sister’s place at noon before they went about their New Year’s Eve plans. Suddenly, this marriage went from bureaucratic mandate to spontaneous miracle.
My sister called my parents and we spent the next three hours hustling to prepare for an impromptu home wedding. My parents picked up champagne from Mariano’s, and my sister went to Casa de Pueblo for candles and whatever other decorations they might have.
Meanwhile, I scrambled, searching for anywhere open that might have curry chicken.
Sean is first-generation Barbadian and was raised in Miami’s West Indian community by a single mother who died of cancer in 2012. Every time Sean shares memories of his mother, I just want to squeeze him. I can’t count the times he’s been nostalgic for her curry chicken.
Sometimes food isn’t just a meal, it’s a portal. I thought curry chicken could bring Sean’s mom to our wedding. I took a car to Jamaican Jerk King on 35th, one of the only places open that morning and close enough to hit up. They made a special order tray for us.
We got married at my sister’s, in matching black Adidas track suits, with my nephew’s toy Ryan’s World rings—and curry chicken as our wedding meal.
Jamaican Jerk King’s curry chicken fills the void for good curry chicken since Maxine’s on 87th closed. I’ll still go there for a plate of it. That plate becomes a portal to my and Sean’s wedding day and a thank-you to his mom for making a perfect human.