Personal Narrative: The Day I Met My Husband

I can’t recall the day I first met my husband. I had seen him at work for a few weeks, and I was beyond intimidated. He strutted around the production floor of the food manufacturing plant where we both worked. He was a supervisor with a reputation for being hard and demanding, but his crew was loyal. He had a long goatee and even longer curly dark hair, which when not in a bun, fell past his waist. His hair had orange stripes from a hair bleaching gone wrong. When combined with his massive tattoo covered biceps, he seemed completely unapproachable; and he was Tongan. He was not a man to be messed with and I needed him, literally. I needed to earn some extra money for an upcoming vacation. The only way to get extra hours was to stay after my shift, and work on his crew, and the only way to work on his crew was to ask him directly. After my initial unease
I am one of six children, and he is one of twelve. As he described his family to me, I envisioned a wonderful, upstanding family, living in a modest home in a nice neighborhood. His dad had been the bishop; he and his brothers had been in sports, his sisters involved in dance and music. I had been introduced to his only sister living in Utah and loved her, we were very similar both loving music and shopping! Sipa and I took a quick trip to Los Angeles before we were married so I could meet more of his family. I can only describe this now as a calculated move, introducing me only to certain members of the family so I wouldn’t really know what I was getting myself into. It was at our wedding reception I began to catch a glimpse of my new family. My in-laws were friendly and kind and sat at a back table, wearing mostly black. Near the end of the reception I noticed one of my new brothers-in-law, carrying a couple of center pieces to his car. They were bowls we were supposed to return; he looked at me and said words I’ve come to know well, “Five finger