before my classes started for the day. I had already sent in my applications to several of the top graduate programs inpsychology and was awaiting their responses.
The future of my personal life was also becoming clearer. In their usual manner, my parents and grandfather had already decided who I was to marry and had been applying pressure for a number of years. I had had dates and pleasant evenings with a number of girls over the years, but nothing that seemed destined to turn into a lasting relationship.
Then there was Marcia—the chosen one—whom I always called Mossy, although I have no memory of why. Her family lived only about three city blocks from one of my childhood homes in West Philadelphia. Her mother and father (Goldie and Denny) were very pleasant, and my maternal grandfather, Jake, knew Denny quite well. Mossy’s family was pretty much at the same financial and social level as my own, and coming from the same neighborhood we shared a number of common views and attitudes.
A year younger than I was, Mossy and I began to spendmore time together during our years at West Philadelphia High School, which both our families encouraged. After my stint in the army, and Mossy’s completion of her training as an X-ray technologist, I continued to see her, and we dated while I was doing my undergraduate work at Penn.
Although this seems as close to an arranged marriage as one gets in the modern Western world, it was not a matter of compulsion. It involved a lot of subtle pressures, such as conversations that began “When you and Marcia get married …” or suggestions like “If you will be working for your doctoral degree in a university that is outside of the city, you and Marcia should probably get married in June at the end of your senior year,” or questions like “Have you and Marcia decided how long you will wait before making us grandparents?”
I did like Mossy. Everyone liked her. She was verbal, intelligent, had a good sense of humor, and was a great and enthusiastic dancer. She was also a wicked card player, a good observer of people, and she told interesting stories. Her behaviors and moods were predictable and never much cause for stress. We were comfortable with each other and had both accepted our parents’ presumption that we would get married. The problem, for me, was that there was simply no passion in our relationship. To me, it was more like a longtime friendship.
I talked this over with Penny, who was lying on her pillow in my bedroom, and explained my doubts.
“I don’t know if I should go through with this marriage thing with Mossy,” I said to my brown-eyed dog. “Everyone says that you should get married because of love—that there should be lots of fire and excitement and all of that.”
The Goofy voice answered,
“So who do you know who kindles that kind of fire in you?”
“No one, right now.”
“Do you want to start looking for some ‘passion pet’ now?”
“Come on, I’ve got too much going on, what with the twojobs, the research, my studies, and all of that. Where would I find the time or the energy?”
“Do you like her?”
“Of course I do.”
“If you’ve got to go away, say to California, for graduate work, would you rather go alone or with her?”
That was really the crucial question. “I suppose that I would like her company. We do get along together, and I don’t like the thought of starting a new life in a different place alone.”
I sat on the floor stroking my dog and thinking my life was not a random stroll through some garden, where I could change my path any time I wanted to look at interesting flowers or plants. Rather, my life was a railroad train, and it was taking me in the only direction that the tracks led. At the time, I probably did not require much passion in my personal life, since I was pouring virtually all my emotional reserves into research and studies. Although I had abandoned physics as my major I was still working for
The future of my personal life was also becoming clearer. In their usual manner, my parents and grandfather had already decided who I was to marry and had been applying pressure for a number of years. I had had dates and pleasant evenings with a number of girls over the years, but nothing that seemed destined to turn into a lasting relationship.
Then there was Marcia—the chosen one—whom I always called Mossy, although I have no memory of why. Her family lived only about three city blocks from one of my childhood homes in West Philadelphia. Her mother and father (Goldie and Denny) were very pleasant, and my maternal grandfather, Jake, knew Denny quite well. Mossy’s family was pretty much at the same financial and social level as my own, and coming from the same neighborhood we shared a number of common views and attitudes.
A year younger than I was, Mossy and I began to spendmore time together during our years at West Philadelphia High School, which both our families encouraged. After my stint in the army, and Mossy’s completion of her training as an X-ray technologist, I continued to see her, and we dated while I was doing my undergraduate work at Penn.
Although this seems as close to an arranged marriage as one gets in the modern Western world, it was not a matter of compulsion. It involved a lot of subtle pressures, such as conversations that began “When you and Marcia get married …” or suggestions like “If you will be working for your doctoral degree in a university that is outside of the city, you and Marcia should probably get married in June at the end of your senior year,” or questions like “Have you and Marcia decided how long you will wait before making us grandparents?”
I did like Mossy. Everyone liked her. She was verbal, intelligent, had a good sense of humor, and was a great and enthusiastic dancer. She was also a wicked card player, a good observer of people, and she told interesting stories. Her behaviors and moods were predictable and never much cause for stress. We were comfortable with each other and had both accepted our parents’ presumption that we would get married. The problem, for me, was that there was simply no passion in our relationship. To me, it was more like a longtime friendship.
I talked this over with Penny, who was lying on her pillow in my bedroom, and explained my doubts.
“I don’t know if I should go through with this marriage thing with Mossy,” I said to my brown-eyed dog. “Everyone says that you should get married because of love—that there should be lots of fire and excitement and all of that.”
The Goofy voice answered,
“So who do you know who kindles that kind of fire in you?”
“No one, right now.”
“Do you want to start looking for some ‘passion pet’ now?”
“Come on, I’ve got too much going on, what with the twojobs, the research, my studies, and all of that. Where would I find the time or the energy?”
“Do you like her?”
“Of course I do.”
“If you’ve got to go away, say to California, for graduate work, would you rather go alone or with her?”
That was really the crucial question. “I suppose that I would like her company. We do get along together, and I don’t like the thought of starting a new life in a different place alone.”
I sat on the floor stroking my dog and thinking my life was not a random stroll through some garden, where I could change my path any time I wanted to look at interesting flowers or plants. Rather, my life was a railroad train, and it was taking me in the only direction that the tracks led. At the time, I probably did not require much passion in my personal life, since I was pouring virtually all my emotional reserves into research and studies. Although I had abandoned physics as my major I was still working for
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