I am getting married in three days. Well, technically I’m already married.

My fiancé/husband came to America on a fiancé or K-1 visa. Once he got here, in October, we had 90 days to get married, or he would have been deported.

He couldn’t be deported because (A) I love him, and (B) he can’t go home.

My fiancé/husband, Aung Moe, is from Burma. He had spent the last two-and-a-half years living in Chiang Mai, Thailand, working for the Burmese democracy movement. If he went back to Burma, he’d be arrested and thrown in prison. Burma already has more than 1,000 political prisoners. We’d rather his name not be added to the list.

Aung Moe’s English nickname is Morning because of his initials: A.M. When I lived in Burma and dated Morning, I would introduce him to ex-patriots, and they would look at me bemused. I would smile and shrug my shoulders. I thought about saying, “Honey, ‘Morning’ is an English word, but not exactly an English name.” Now I find it charming.

We have a big wedding planned for January 6, 2007. We couldn’t start planning it until Morning got the visa to the States this past October. But somehow we have managed to pull it off– there will be a professional photographer, a flower girl, Burmese musicians, a chuppah and rabbi—the whole shebang.

We even had time to coordinate the most important American wedding ritual—a gift registry. At first Morning found this tradition strange and a bit obnoxious. Then I handed him the scanner, and he got over any qualms.

All of my family and friends from childhood and college will be at the wedding in New York. None of Morning’s can make it. It’s hard for Burmese to get passports to leave their country. Like many others, Morning got his by bribing passport officials. But it’s almost impossible to get a tourist visa to the United States. You have to prove that you will return to Burma, one of the poorest and most oppressed nations, and not immigrate to the wealthiest country in the world. Not an easy feat. Even if his family or friends got a visa, they probably couldn’t afford the $900 plane ticket. The annual GDP per capita in Burma in 2005 was $174, according to the U.S. State Department.

Our wedding will be within the mandatory 90-day period, but we jumped the gun. We were so in love, we just had to get married as soon as he got here.

No, not really.

Once we got married, Morning could apply for a work permit and travel documents. I’m a graduate student at USC. Morning came here with $130 in his pocket. We are officially broke and wouldn’t mind a work permit.

We decided we would go to the LA County Clerk’s office, sign the documents, receive the wedding certificate, apply for the work permit, and pretend we weren’t married. Our wedding would be on January 6th—with all my family and the ornate Burmese traditional wedding gown. The County Clerk stop was just protocol. We were doing what we needed to do to get the work permit. We weren’t really married. We would take off the rings as soon as we stepped out of the office and continue to call each other our fiancés. This wasn’t a wedding; it was financial planning.

We did not tell my family because they would have insisted on being there. Then my parents, stepparents, grandmother, sisters, niece, nephew, aunts and uncles would have all flown out to Los Angeles. They would have taken photos and popped a bottle of champagne and taken us out for dinner. Isn’t that a wedding?

That’s not what I wanted. I wanted the professional photographer and orchid centerpieces and ornate Burmese traditional wedding gown. I wanted a real wedding.

So we didn’t tell my family or friends back home.

We arrived at the Clerk’s office with a couple friends from LA and my big sister, all of whom promised not to send my mother or father a “Congrats!” email. We stood in a long line behind other couples, many with baby in tow. When we finally got to the counter, I wanted to whisper to the administrator: “I’m not pregnant; it’s just financial planning. Don’t worry—there will be a real wedding in January.”

We filled out all the documents and waited to go into the ceremony room. “Are you excited?” my friend asked. “Excited?” I said, shocked at the idea. “I’m too worried about whether we have all the right documents.” I wished my mother and father, attorneys, were there for some legal/parental advice.

The deputy commissioner called us into the room. There were rows of chairs like in a chapel. Cupids and hearts and fake flowers decorated the walls. No orchids, no calla lilies. This isn’t a wedding; it’s just financial planning, I said to myself.

I put down my jacket and purse and handed over the documents to the deputy commissioner. Morning and I walked up to the front, standing underneath the flying Cupids. My sister and friends positioned their cameras and the deputy commissioner began the ceremony.

And then, out of nowhere, the tears started streaming down my face. Okay, let’s be honest, they were pouring down my face. I was standing with the man I loved, getting married.

Our wedding in January will be just what I want. My family and friends will gather in front of the chuppah. I’ll walk down the aisle in a white silk Burmese gown with turquoise and blue beading. Morning will wear the traditional silk longyi (sarong) and gaung bown (wedding hat). It will be the day when everyone I love celebrates Morning and my commitment to each other. We will take lots of photos and dance the horah. It will be my wedding.

But until then, when no one is around, Morning kisses my forehead and says, “my me mah” (wife), and I respond, “my yaw jah” (husband).

——
Hanna Ingber is an editor at Pop and Politics. “Pushing Off” is a column of her dispatches from Twentysomethingland.