I never realised how terrifying it would be to be proposed to in public, until it was happening to me. It was at a dimly lit Melbourne bar in 2012, I was 23, and was performing at a charity event my partner had been organising for four months, all with the secret purpose of proposing to me.
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At the end of my set, my then-partner Peter bent down on one knee – a mental image that to this day ignites an acidic reaction in my stomach, blended from the purest sources of fear and shame. I did not actually believe that I was being proposed to. I honestly thought he was making a joke, until I looked out at all my friends and family and saw their large, wet, expectant eyes on me. They wanted a happily ever after, and they wanted it now.
My internal response of "I don't know, can I think about it?" did not feel like the kind of answer that this love-hungry audience wanted. I stalled for a minute or two, told a joke, until there was a very long expectant pause and I caved under the weight of the crowd's appetite. I responded with a nod instead of saying it out loud, thinking that if I didn't actually say "yes", then I could get out of it more easily later.
That's right, in the end my fear of how awkward it would be if I said "no" outshone my wishes to not be engaged. This is not the worst reason to agree to marry someone, but it's definitely not a good one.
Straight after, amidst all the congratulations and matching perfumes we received from my parents, Peter quietly said "I know that you're a performer, and you would've said yes no matter what, so you can give me your real answer later". Although this was comforting at the time, it turns out getting engaged publicly is kind of a difficult thing to undo. There is no graceful control + z on a declaration like that.
For months after the proposal I was, frankly, freaking out. I read everything I could about marriage and its history and talked until all of my close friends were weary of the subject. For me it wasn't that I didn't see Peter as marriage material, I just wasn't sure I personally wanted to engage in such a tradition. My confusion never found its resolve and so, until we ended the relationship completely, for two years I was effectively engaged by default.
Despite both Peter and I agreeing that his proposal was The Worst Thing He'd Ever Done To Me, I understand why he chose that route. In his beautifully naïve mind, this would be his one and only opportunity to propose and he wanted to experience it in its full romantic glory. Yet the feminist in me cringes when thinking about it. In Western tradition, marriage has been a fancy way to own women and gain social and economic capital, and now (despite what may be the best of intentions) gargantuan proposals are harking back to some of the coercive techniques of the past.
Public proposals of the size and magnitude which are now commonplace (and are overwhelmingly men proposing to women) are relatively new. The kind of planning and organisation that goes into proposals used to be reserved for the wedding itself. Reality TV shows (many of them) have been created just to aid and document new and over the top ways men propose to their girlfriends. There is even an Australian feature film being produced on the topic.
Maybe this is a result of our insatiable need to document our lives in full colour, or perhaps we are becoming more accepting of men expressing their feelings in public. Or maybe these public proposals are just contemporary gender-flipped dowries; efforts to show devotion and the appropriateness of the union by a heart-stopping show. It's impossible to pin down, because doing so relies on a solid understanding of what marriage is and should be built on; concepts that are notoriously individualistic.
The wedding itself is about celebration (and unnervingly coordinated bridesmaids), but the marriage: that's about mutual commitment to all the lovely happy stuff, as well as the difficult 3am conversations and the terror of waking up next to the same person every day for the rest of your life. So why would we spring such a gigantic, life-changing decision on someone - let alone in public - for the entertainment of others and the ego-stroking of oneself? Maybe, as was the case for my partner, proposers are simply 'in love' and this overrides any internal warnings that they might be putting the love of their life in the most awkward situation imaginable.
And as for anyone looking to publicly propose to "prove" your love: any marriage born out of equality shouldn't have coercion in its making.
Whether the intent is good or bad or both, we cannot deny that these Capital-P Public Proposals set up an unfair power dynamic in what should be an intimate moment, free from public expectations.
There is a saying that often comes up when we speak of consent: "If you can't say no, you can't say yes". It's a sentiment that is true in any human interaction, and for me rings terrifyingly true for our fascination with public proposals.
If your partner is put in a position where they can't really say no, it means that they can't confidently say yes, either. Confidence is the kind of thing you want when you're asking someone to swear before God that they will never, ever leave you.
Someone who's heady on a cleverly choreographed flash-mob or bearing the weight of a stadium of people's awkwardness and disappointment is not in the level-headed mind you want them in when asking such a question. To me it is heartbreakingly obvious that you ideally want to be married to someone who would say yes when you ask them over dinner.
Marriage isn't the wedding, and it isn't the honeymoon. It's the hundredth visit to your in-laws, the thousandth Wednesday evening making grilled cheese sandwiches. A marriage is made of averages, not grandiose displays of love. When I say yes to a marriage, I want it to be because I can see all that averageness and it still looks good, not because I'm on fire with the thrill of a one-time production... or worse, can't turn you down without near fatal awkwardness.
And if you're the one asking, you should want someone who is saying yes to you, not to the show you've suddenly made them the unwilling star of.
Honor Eastly is an artist, writer and co-host of Being Honest With My Ex, a podcast where her and her ex-fiancé discuss love, life and embezzling money.