Month: January 2016

Post-Modern Family

~ Henry ~ 10 Comments
View More: http://kimbrystudios.pass.us/thebestweddingintheworldhm
Weather report said rain. As if.

Dear Mackenzie,

Remember how we were this close to getting married without any of our family there? And what a calm joy that might have been. Not that we don’t love our families to the edge and back, but holy Hannah Montana, our collective family drama is what Shonda Rhimes is basing her new prime time drama on; How to Get Away With Murdering Your Entire Bloodline. But as we both learned long ago and are relearning every day, calm and quiet isn’t always what joyful moments are made of. And it’s definitely not all a loving family is made of.

Sometimes familial joy comes disguised as a father who refuses to wear pants in the house or a brother who farts in your face or a sister who has no qualms about breastfeeding in front of you while also handling raw meat. All true stories. But whatever the makeup of brothers and cousins and mothers and step-whatever, family is proof that the messy way is usually the more rewarding way. And it’s certainly the funniest.

Since we were both going to write a detailed account of our wedding day for “posterity’s sake” (which I put off until now), here’s my behind-the-scenes account. And as I’m writing it, I’m reminded how our day could not have been even half as magical as it was if our beautiful mess of a family wasn’t there to keep it real. I’m glad we invited them.

Friday, August 7th, 2015

6:17 AM

I slept on two couch cushions placed on the floor of a hotel room we used to sleep nine people (#Tonganstyle). And I woke to the sound of my dad brushing his teeth in the kitchen. Normally a gentle man, my dad becomes the Tasmanian Devil when brushing his teeth; swift, punctuating movements with guttural heaves. Seriously, it’s a Discovery Channel special. But he’s still rocking his original teeth, so heave on Pops!

6:53 AM

Ma’ele and Nia and I went out to get breakfast for the crew. We came back with hot chocolate and about 92 sunrise selfies. Also, listening to my sisters trying to navigate unfamiliar streets in a rental car is the best. Zero to Name-Calling in 60 seconds.

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Do NOT drive with this woman in rush hour traffic.

8:15 AM

Flat irons, his and hers Spanx, McDonald’s breakfast wrappers, and tears. All the while, Lia was in the bedroom watching her twelfth Kung-Fu movie of the trip.

9:22 AM

My dad gave a barely-audible family prayer, of which he only remembered half of our names. God bless that man. Amen.

11:30 – ish AM

I met you outside the temple on the most beautiful Hawaiian day in history and we both couldn’t stop commenting on how crazy this all was. Our wide smiles and outbursts of unsolicited laughter made us seem like toddlers at a Wiggles concert. We took our last picture as singles near a slightly confused gardener, who turned out to be a distant cousin of mine, and we walked into the temple. We were so delirious by the surreal nature of the occasion that everyone had to keep repeating themselves because everything was making us giggle. Giggle and then cry. And then cry and then giggle. It was a Prozac roller-coaster. After all, it had been such a long and twisted few years to get to this point, I don’t think either of us believed it was actually happening. But it was. And when you had to sign your new name (Mackenzie Unga) on the wedding certificate, I saw a streak of fear cross your face – hopefully just fear of realizing that everyone who reads your new Polynesian name is going to be confused when they meet you in person for the first time.

1:00 PM

We got hitched (and Kevin saved the day).

2:39 PM

The part we’d been dreading for weeks: family pictures. Our poor photographers, we forgot to brief them on the Days Of Our Lives dynamics of our families which left them unprepared for the minefield of unquenched resentment. So, when Bryan asked my mom to stand next to her “husband” (in reality, her ex-husband going on 20 years now), the awkwardness was so thick and delicious it seemed to slow down time. Not to mention how thirty minutes into taking pictures my dad, about two breaths away from a heatstroke, became a lost tribe of Israel, wandering into random people’s pictures

But I have to say, it was more harmless than I imagined it would be. No outbursts, no crying, no buckets of fried chicken were thrown. And now we have some pretty great photos to document the first and probably last time all of our families were in one frame in one moment and smiling.

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Two households, both alike in dignity

4:14 PM

Kevin, your mom and siblings went swimming at Hukilau beach where you later get sunburned like no one’s ever been sunburned before (#Scandinavian).

5:19 PM

I had my very first fight with my mom as a married man. I know what you’re thinking, it’s sometimes hard to tell when my mom and I are fighting since she and I can’t butter toast without debating ancient Chinese foot binding (or literally anything else). I’m not sure what this particular fight was about, but no first-born threats were made so it was relatively bloodless.

6:52 PM

We rolled up to Haleiwa Joe’s Restaurant tired, sweaty, and starving. And your dad surprised us with a picturesque patio dining setup overlooking the harbor with the sun approaching its setting behind us. He was relatively calm considering we never gave him a final headcount for dinner. But if he’d asked any Polynesian on the island, they would have told him to set four more places than planned. Everyone’s got a hungry cousin. Apparently, I even have one who’s a gardener at the Laie Temple.

Kevin, your mom, Kaylie and Carter showed up looking dewy and sun-kissed with sand in their hair. My dad must have drunk a kiddie pool full of Gatorade because the color was back in his face and he was walking in straight lines again. Not too far behind was my mom and her cousin January, two women not to be crossed when seafood is involved, especially when they haven’t napped. And my gaggle of siblings and beautiful nieces arrived with nonchalant gusto to round out the troops. And there they all were, the four corners of our world sitting in one place, sharing a meal.

My favorite part of the meal was everyone’s toast – a thing I thought only happened in Julia Roberts movies. Your dad thanked us all for coming then told one of his favorite Mackenzie stories involving steak sauce. You smiled through the laughs even though you’ve heard that story a thousand and one times and because you’re a good person and you love your dad. I laughed because he was picking up the check for dinner. And I love him too.

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My dad shared a funny story from our island days. My mom talked about legacy and virtue and I think she even quoted an Earth, Wind &  Fire song. Your mom shared sweet words about your childhood and how happy she was to gain a son (little did she know, I’d later live down the hall from her). Ma’ele and Nia made me tear up, Kaylie made me laugh, Willis humbled me, and Nua made me cringe before making me both laugh and cry. Then Carter, your grown man of a younger brother, stood up after much prodding and just melted everybody’s heart. How one body can produce so much testosterone and tenderness at the same time, I’ll never know.

This is our family, the kind you don’t read about in The Ensign or see on TV. It’s big and it’s loud and it’s multi-dimensional and it’s forever.

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And when they sent us off that night, with a hoot and holler, to live our lives and start our own legacy of dysfunction, I couldn’t shake the feeling of loss that I was suddenly overcome with. I had spent too much of my childhood wishing away the levels of complication in my family; the broken hearts and missed birthdays, the fighting heard through bedroom walls and the boxes full of ripped pictures. It all hangs on the heart and seemingly drags it down, slowing the pumping. Until I took a step back and saw the marring for what it really is; a reflection of everything that’s wrong and right and good and strong about who I am today.

So, I’ll take it. I’ll take the crazy family that waits to plan Christmas trips last minute, the family that gives me the girl hand-me-downs because I never fit into the boy hand-me-downs. The family that cries with you when there’s nothing to say and drops everything without needing a reason. The family that you can call on no matter how much time has passed and still feel the same loyalty, like when we were kids playing in a fort, watching each other’s backs, keeping each other out of the hot lava.

I’ll take the family that’s made us who we are and who we’ll always hope to be. Let’s just get a bigger hotel room next time.

Love, H

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A House Is Not a Home

~ Henry ~ 6 Comments

Moving Day.jpg

Dear Mackenzie,

We moved this week. And yes, it’s sad (both the fact and the context), but it’s also part of life. It’s not like we’re Abraham Lincoln who was born in the same room as his great granny. People of the 21st Century are mobile. It’s a mark of progress and an intimation of America’s Westerly consciousness toward discovery, invention and prosperity (or so I heard from this thing I watched on PBS). And while it’s probably safe to assume that we’ll be leaving parts of ourselves in what was our very first home, most of what’s to be gained will be taken with us. Consider the following examples. And remember to lift with your legs.

4304 Windsor Drive, Provo, Utah:

My sister potty-trained me in this house. It’s not as weird as it sounds, it was the 90’s. And there are no standard operational procedures in a house of nine children. Even if I peed in a corner, it’s likely no one would notice. So, my sister Ma’ele was usually the one to dot the i’s and cross the t’s my mom didn’t always have the time to dot or cross.

We lived in a brown home on Windsor Drive, several hundred feet above Provo valley, and held up by a retaining wall made of stone pulled from a mountain. Besides learning toilet seat etiquette in that house, I broke my first bone in that backyard, got my head stuck in the banister overlooking the living room and began a confused obsession with Barbie dolls that my dad protested but my mom encouraged.

Fanga ‘o Pilolevu, Nuku’alofa, Tonga:

Of the three years my family lived here, I was naked and dancing in the rain for about two and a half. It was always hot but there were no water heaters, so the only warm baths came from the water you boiled – as I imagine Abraham Lincoln did and Oprah still has done for her. I’ve never had the patience for boiling water so the tropic rain was my bath of choice.

Christmas mornings were spent getting sunburned at the beach and every Sunday, more so than any other day of the week, was about God and eating. A hurricane blew out our living room windows, I once threatened another boy with a butter knife when he tried to steal my bike, and rats seemed to chew through everything that wasn’t given regular attention. It was a humble home – cinderblock and concrete – but the true living space was outside; in the rain, naked and dancing, literally as if no one was watching.

403 W 3800 N Provo, Utah:

Seven Peaks Water Park, Canyon Crest Elementary School, sleepovers in the backyard and divorce. That’s about it.

1417 Shoal Drive, San Mateo, California:

So, listen. There was a time in my life, albeit brief, when I was firm in the delusion that I had any business wearing gold chains, saggy jeans, and Timberland boots. I don’t want to talk about it. But I will say that this house, and my lovely family in it, had the patience and sense of humor to accept whatever Boyz From the Hood phase I was going through. Besides, about 17 minutes after moving back to Utah I took up figure skating. Always kept them guessing.

1042 E 850 N Orem, Utah:

This is the house where I fell in love for the first time.

380 200 S, Provo, Utah:

This is the apartment where my heart broke in two for the first time.

1142 E 2700 S, Salt Lake City, Utah:

And this is the home where my mended heart grew to a size and strength that still scares me. This was our place. We had a standing date every Tuesday for $5 movies at Sugarhouse Cinemark where we’d always get a large popcorn but never eat more than half. We brought the average age of our neighborhood down 50 years. We carpooled to work and you wouldn’t let me listen to NPR. We took turns making brave yet mostly regrettable dinners, learned each other’s official couch zones, and used any excuse imaginable to avoid writing wedding thank you cards.

And on the end of the red couch in that living room on that warm August Friday, we were struck with the blow that shifted the axis of our new universe a few sharp degrees.

Jupiter Circle, Highland, Utah:

And now we’re home. For now. The Madsen-Whatcott (now Madsen-Whatcott-Unga) homestead. Which isn’t too much of a stretch seeing as I’ve spent the last four years there, eating out of your mom’s fridge and watching movies in her room. And your mom and I have about the same shoe size, so…

Somewhere:

And all of those moves and boxes and return addresses have led us here. Home. This is where we raise our kids, who will hopefully inherit your hair genes instead of my Whoopi Goldberg hairdo circa 1989. Maybe the house will be brick. And Tudor. Or maybe your real estate dream will come true and we’ll have Chip and Joanna Gaines of Fixer Upper turn a meth house into a spackled slice of heaven. But whatever the material or style or budget, I know that any four walls with you will be warm and light and safe and ours. It’ll happen. When it’s time. When you’re strong enough and can breathe deep enough. And it’ll probably happen sooner and wilder than we’re ready to yet accept.

Let’s start looking for that home anyway, you and me. Let’s find it and let’s paint the front door red. And pull up the carpet to reveal teakwood floors. And let’s have a bedroom with morning light and a sitting room with afternoon light. And not worry too much about lawn-mowing patterns or garbage days.

Let’s paint ourselves into the walls. And memorize everyone’s unique sound of walking through the front door. Let’s climb the hills surrounding, swim in the lake down the street, overcook hamburgers in the backyard, use our neighbor’s names when we see them going and coming, and look both ways before backing out of the driveway because we have kids too and live with an escalated paranoia and probably always will.

Then let’s meld our bodies into our home’s warmest corners, after long days of long weeks of even longer years. And let’s fade away. And never move again.

What do you say?

Love, H

Hello From the Other Side

~ Henry ~ 1 Comment

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Dear Mackenzie,

This past weekend was the first time we’ve been apart for more than eight hours since we’ve been married. I initially thought it would offer some welcome time to relax and unwind and listen to Luther Vandross in dim lighting while soaking things (y’know, “me” time), but rather found myself knee-deep in the five stages of grief – particularly the “eat-until-the-voices-stop” stage. Alas, however, you did come back home and brought back with you the essence to my constitution like a once-neglected waiting room Ficus plant after a desperate splash of water. Yes, much like Michele, Kelly, and Queen Bey, I am a survivor. And as a survivor, I walked away from this tragic experience with some blood-earned lessons. And I feel a duty to share those lessons with you in the hopes that you will 1) Appreciate the level of unhealthy attachment I’ve grown for you and that 2) You’ll never leave me for a whole weekend again (until your next Roommate Reunion with five of the rad-est chicks I know).

Lesson #1:

When a husband is left alone for the weekend, anything more than 6 minutes of vacant silence is automatically filled with phantom sounds of Adele ballads. Complete with sepia tone filters and clumps of mascara tears. So, from this past weekend I’ve learned the need to keep all and any silence at bay. Suggestions: Netflix, a table saw, or the muted ruffles of wrestling puppies. Or a playlist of Adele ballads.

Lesson #2:

Grocery shopping is impossible if either you’re not there with me or if I’m not there on a specific wife-errand with a list you handwrote. Having neither, I showed up to the checkout line with a cart full of refined carbs and beverages that the Marines use to clean toilets and hummer engines.

Lesson #3:

I have no idea where you keep anything. I even googled “common storage places for X-Box controller batteries” (which, it turns out, are simply AA batteries). I was an English major.

Lesson #4:

My movie-seeing etiquette is solely based on the customs we’ve cultivated together and, taken out of coupled context, simply becomes a lone man crying, squealing, and pointlessly talking to himself and the irritated people around him. For some reason, the stranger next to me wasn’t interested in the fact that my left butt cheek had fallen asleep. Or that it was the first time I’d spent a weekend away from my wife; he was probably able to tell on his own.

Lesson #5:

I should not be left unsupervised with an Amazon Prime account.

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Lesson #6:

The movie Moonstruck is grossly underrated. I watched it for the first time at 7:00PM on Saturday night while the rest of the world’s 20-somethings were outside self-actualizing their dreams. And I was floored by its New York-Italian charm. Not only does it capture that brief moment in history before Nicholas Cage became the headliner in all of my daytime nightmares, it highlights three of my favorite pastimes: middle-aged love triangles, grown men crying at the opera, and Olympia Dukakis. May she rest in peace. She’s actually not dead, according to IMDb.

Lesson #7:

It doesn’t matter how many Chipotle tacos I eat, how many iPhone covers I buy from China, how many episodes of Gilmore Girls I watch in secret, or how many hours I chose not to spend in the gym even though I’ve had a membership since the Bush administration. Nothing masks the absence of you stealing my covers at night, moving all my things from the floor to places I can’t find, or leaving every single light on in the house when we’re already late. All those things you do that I pretend annoy me, I actually love (with proper retrospection). And putting my macho, Gaston-esque stature aside, I so much missed all those millions of small things that fill our walls, fill our inboxes, and fill our lives.

Lesson #8:

Seriously, where do you keep the batteries?

Love, H

One of Those Moments

~ Henry ~ 10 Comments
View More: http://samanthabroderick.pass.us/unga
Photography provided by Samantha Broderick

Dear Mackenzie,

I once read that the present state – that space between the past and the future –merely describes the time it takes our minds to process real-time events, by which point the moment is already in the past. In that sense, the present is less about time and more like a horizon, an idea used to separate perceptions; an always-fleeting line between what was and what may be. I suppose that’s true. But I also suppose there has to be an exception. Or an addendum. There must be something, some state, some word that bridges the “what was” and the “what may be” with “what is”; a moment only to be experienced in the in between, yet mounting enough to shift time and land and ideas. An experience that fuses the moments and borders of your life into a single round object suspended in the hollow of your gut. I feel I’ve experienced that maybe a couple times. And I’ve come to call it tragedy.

But even so, there’s hardly a way to sum up one of the worst moments of my life – discovering your lung disease – into a single word. It doesn’t seem possible for one word to hold such authority, it would be too disturbing to use. But if there was a more fleshed-out definition for the kind of tragedy that describes crying in front of your boss, yelling at the TV during a Divorce Court episode, and binge-eating Dominoes parmesan bites at 1:00AM, then I’d use that word to describe all the moments following that one moment.

Not that it’s all horrible – like that scene in Terms of Endearment when Shirley MacLaine erupts at the nurses so they’ll give her cancer-ridden daughter an unscheduled dose of her meds (but you haven’t seen that movie, so yet another one of my post-menopausal references is sent to pasture). No, I wouldn’t label this entire experience as horrible. In fact, it’s probably the only time in my life when I’ve walked through each day with such desperate absorption; listening deeply to every sound and squeezing every moment dry. I find myself not wanting a second to slip by without acknowledgement and validation, now knowing more intimately that this brief time we all have with one another is precious and without equal.

I’ve come to desire little more than making sure you’re warm enough or cool enough, that you have a steady supply of sour gummy worms, and that we have at least 15 seconds of uninterrupted eye-contact each day – like that scene in Deep Impact when the first comet hits earth and the tidal wave is about to kill Leelee Sobieski’s parents but instead of running they stand and stare into each other’s eyes, rubbing their dirty hands on each other’s sweaty faces in what they know is their last moment together (I know you’ve seen that movie, we both cry at the same spots).

Now, don’t confuse me with Batman; tragedy doesn’t always produce a hero (and I would look crazy in black rubber pants, like a post-Thanksgiving Hefty bag). Crying more than usual and buying you gas station candy doesn’t garner me praise. In fact, I like to think I’ve become more self-serving than anything, just with complimentary lighting and one of those Beyoncé stage fans that makes me seem 12 feet tall.

No. Behind the pretense remains the fact that I want you to be okay for purely selfish reasons. I want you to be okay so you can continue to listen to my random diatribes on the importance of feminism and somehow not roll your eyes, to put my jeans on hangers even though they belong on the floor, to pretend to like my meatloaf when it ends up tasting like an Ugg boot, and to palm the back of my neck when you know I’m about to say something snarky at a dinner party with people you know I don’t like. To always give me the first bite. To take my side when you know I’m wrong. To remind me when I should call my mom. To be the bigger person. To end up getting me the same Christmas present I got you. To give our children strong names and long legs and provide them with the kind of love, patience, and guidance I could never give them on my own no matter how hard I would try to mimic you. I want us to get to our 90th anniversary to prove that I eventually grow into my head. And I want to try getting us there with the only superpower I can fake: words.

I guess that’s all I’m really trying to say here and what I want to continue saying with these letters: “If we have the words, there’s always a chance that we’ll find the way.” And perhaps by finding the way, we’ll be led to discover and sooner accept the difference between life as it’s imagined and life as it really is; life as it must be.

So, here’s the first of many to you, my love. Unqualified and fallible as I am, I have a knowledge of your goodness. And I want to share it. For it’s the only perfect thing about me.

Love, H