Dads Walking Daughters Down the Aisle Is Tradition—But, Like Meghan Markle, It's One I Won't Observe

Walking down the aisle with your dad on your wedding day is one of those traditions that many women start to imagine from the moment they first fully appreciate the meaning of the word “bride.” Little did we know when we were kids making our dads play pretend wedding that being “given away” means something much different now than it once did.

Back when marriages were still mostly arranged, a father walked his daughter down the aisle as a way to keep the groom from backing out of the deal; a hand-off from one male-dominated home to the next. The wedding itself marked a transfer of responsibility and financial liability. In a sense, once the ceremony was over, the bride (a word which, by the way, is etymologically entangled with the verb for “cook”) was officially no longer her father’s problem.

Of course, now things are different. Weddings can be whatever we want them to be; if we elect to enact traditions with sexist roots, we can rewrite what they mean in a modern context—or we can throw them out the window altogether.

But the truth is that the “father of the bride” element of most ceremonies have largely stuck, and when that doesn’t happen, it’s often a decision that winds up under the magnifying glass. Just look at what’s happening with Meghan Markle: Her father, Thomas Markle, was initially set to be on the arm of the royal bride-to-be at St. George’s Chapel on Saturday. Then a heart condition, followed by a small scandal thanks to a series of staged photographs, kicked in; as of Thursday, the official report from the Kensington Palace press team reflect that he will be absent from the ceremony.

There’s a kind of irony to the fact that a bride who is carrying centuries of monastic history on her shoulders—and whose “fairytale wedding” will be watched by the world—won’t be participating in this particular element of ceremonial tradition. No doubt the fact that her father won’t be there is a bruise on her heart. To add insult to injury, she’ll bear the scrutiny surrounding his absence as well.

It’s a weight I can relate to. From the time I was very small, I know my dad would play an integral role in my wedding day. In fact, I was devastated when a girl in my kindergarten class alerted me to the fact that you couldn’t grow up and marry your father. So I set my sights on finding someone who embodied all my dad’s best qualities instead.

When I found that person, four years ago, seated across a conference table in a Manhattan office building, it didn’t take long for me to begin daydreaming about what our wedding would look like someday. He and I are marrying in November. But what has changed in the years since is that it’s only in my dreams that my father will be there.

I was 27 when my dad was diagnosed with cancer; he was only 61. I remember getting the phone call and collapsing to the ground; I remember my dad telling me that it would be alright before putting my stepmom on the line. Chemotherapy was tough, but so was my father. When my sister got married, a year later, he was in remission. His hair was a soft grey fuzz that day, and he looked so handsome, so proud, in his suit. By the following June, when the flowers he had planted in the backyard were bursting up through the ground, he was gone.

When my partner and I became engaged this winter, people immediately wanted to know what kind of wedding we planned to have: where, when, how many people. They wanted to know what type of dress I would wear and what song would play when I walked down the aisle. They wanted to know: band or DJ? And the precipice of something so exciting, it is lovely to be asked.

But it's also been difficult to explain, especially to people who did not already know, why we are not getting married in my hometown, where I most acutely feel my father’s absence; it is hard to watch a face fall when I share why my sister will be the one to give me away. I’m sorry, they say, and I worry I’ve ruined a happy moment—that somehow I’ve spoiled their joy.

Lately, I’ve taken to skimming over certain details—saying that yes, we’re having a big wedding, but no, we won’t be doing a lot of the traditional things: a father-daughter dance, staged family portraits. A walk down the aisle. The responses to those decisions span the gamut, from raised eyebrows (my Italian aunts) to elopement encouragement (“wouldn’t it be better to save the money instead?”).

There’s another that stands out, though. “Congratulations!” for eschewing retro traditions, some have said, a “good for you guys!” hurrah. “It’s 2018, a woman doesn’t need to be ‘given away’ by her father,”someone, who didn’t know better, said. And the thing is: I agree.

Five years ago, I might have skipped any ritual that might suggest that I, or any woman, could be passed like a possession from one man to another. It’s the symbolism, I would have said, my feminist ire up, even if the foundational meaning has changed. I would have found some other way to honor my dad during our ceremony, to acknowledge the massively outsize role he has played in my life. I would nodded at tradition without bending to it. I would cite more progressive traditions like how, in Sweden, the newlyweds-to-be walk down the aisle together. Maybe I would have skipped the whole damned thing and insisted we head to City Hall instead.

There are limitless ways to be a bride, and—unless we are destined to get married in St. George’s Chapel—it’s a choice we get to make for ourselves, which is neither better or worse for being filtered through the sieve of feminism. Now, if the only way I could have my dad back is if he “gave” me to my husband… I would be overjoyed to let him. What has become clear to me since is some traditions are more than rituals; they’re about making a memory. And in the end, I personally cannot imagine anything mattering more. I have no doubt that the royal bride-to-be will carry her own pain in her heart, looking back on her photos, and not finding her father there.

I don’t know that my father would have called himself a feminist. What I do know is that he was the first person (along with our mom) who told my sister and me that we could be whatever we wanted to be, and that the greatest risks I’ve taken in my life were made possible because I believed that, if I looked over my shoulder, my dad would be standing there behind me. He taught me how to change a taillight and how to stand my ground. He showed me what respectful, compassionate masculinity looks like, because that’s how he always behaved.

What I know now is what I knew as a little girl: that he was the best man to have by my side. For the rest of his life and most of mine, that’s where I could always find him. It’s where I still see him, now.