More than black and white
Debra Prinzing
“I can’t believe he’s doing this to Mom and Dad.” Those were my thoughts in June 1982 when I stood watching my younger brother, the Marine, marry his sailor-girlfriend in a sweltering Louisiana garden wedding. To the shock of my parents and their friends, my brother had come home from military service in England with a black fiancé. And yes, without asking anyone’s opinion, he married her.
I guess God had a sense of humor, since at this time no one else could see the positive side of this union. God probably wanted to teach that arrogant big sister what a bigot she was. Two months after my brother’s wedding, I flew from New York City to Seattle to be in a college friend’s wedding party. The bridesmaid and I had graduated from a private liberal arts college in Seattle. The groom and most of his attendants were Harvard men, so I anticipated that the “eligible bachelor quotient” would be favorable.
You know how those wedding organizers have their little formulas? Suzanne’s coordinator wanted symmetry – pure and simple. Symmetry put me, the tallest bridesmaid, with Bruce, the tallest groomsman, together in the wedding party’s lineup. He looked pretty dashing in a tuxedo, and of course, I looked pretty pale in my lavender chiffon. Bruce was tall, dark and handsome. Dark? Well . . . he was a very handsome, charming, witty African American law school student who had been the groom’s roommate at Harvard. Oops. I quickly found myself falling for him.
Bruce was smart, articulate, funny in a cynical way, and a great dancer. Quite the gentleman. His father was in attendance at the wedding, too, a long time friend of the groom’s parents. It’s been said that you can see the future when you meet the father of a man you’re dating. I was as much enchanted by Bruce that weekend as by his father, Jake. So the whirlwind of dinners, parties, dancing, the wedding itself (no, I did not catch the bouquet), led to late Saturday night in the parking lot of the Doubletree Hotel in Seattle.
I was heading back to New York; Bruce was returning to San Francisco for his summer law clerkship. Good-bye. It was fun. We kissed. I couldn’t get him out of my mind, yet the irony of my situation was not lost on me. How could I fall in love with a black man when I was so critical of my brother’s marriage? What would this do to my parents? If they were already freaked out about the family’s first interracial union, what would my dating Bruce do to them?
Well, I’m here to say that we’ve all survived that crisis and Bruce and I celebrated our 18th wedding anniversary last August. We have two lively sons, Benjamin, 10, and Alexander, 5, and the agony of 1982 seems like ancient history. Sad as it is to admit, we are a segregated society. We typically live in our own worlds, separated by invisible barriers that are racial, cultural, economic or religious. Yet through the centuries, romance and love often ignore these borders (remember Romeo and Juliet?). So if you’ve fallen in love with a man from a background or race vastly different than yours, consider these ways to help your family and friends to deal with it:
Full Disclosure: When I met Bruce, I had that sixth sense about it. I knew almost instantly that he was my future husband – we just clicked in that magical way. But I couldn’t blindside him about my family’s recent failure at embracing an interracial union. On one of our first major dates (we took a romantic walk around Walden Pond, of Thoreau fame), I ‘fessed up: My brother just married a black woman and my parents aren’t dealing with it very easily. To my absolute surprise, Bruce just laughed. And that set the tone for all of our future discussions. Yes, it’s ironic; it’s even pretty funny. We tried to keep a sense of humor about the inevitable conflicts ahead of us.
Communication: I learned from my brother’s mistakes. I’m a quick study. The way NOT to thrill Mom and Dad was to call long-distance from Europe and wake them up at 4 a.m. to announce, “I’m getting married to a girl Granddad wouldn’t approve of.” Instead, I told my folks about Bruce in the context that he was Terry’s roommate at Harvard. I gave them the subtle sell-job about his obvious talent and accomplishments (that he was in law school didn’t hurt). I told them he was black, and then let him quietly woo them with his cool personality. I think doing all the dishes for my mom on that first Thanksgiving visit was Bruce’s best move. We devoted a full year to visiting each other’s parents, allowing them get to know us and see how happy we were together.
We tried to keep a sense of humor about the inevitable conflicts ahead of us We learned that many of the doubts our parents faced were mostly due to their own fears about how Bruce and I might fare as an interracial couple – they really wanted to protect us from being hurt in the big prejudiced world out there. Ultimately, in a very respectful manner, we let our parents know that we planned to be together whether they approved or not. And that moved their choice to support us away from arguments and into a mature ultimatum!
Perspective Helps: There are two sides to this story, of course. While white parents might think their future in-laws would be in favor of such a union, that’s clearly an arrogant assumption. My future mother-in-law was considerably less than thrilled about the prospect of Bruce marrying a white woman. She knew he had a very successful future ahead of him and understandably, she wished he would enjoy that success with a black wife. As with my folks, the key to winning over Bruce’s mom was taking time to get to know her. Playing Scrabble and losing gracefully helped. Sending lots of photographs, newspaper articles and letters about her fabulous son (who is a poor letter-writer) made her realize that I loved her son as much as she did – and that I was clearly going to be her main pipeline for getting information about him!
No Apologies: Bruce and I aren’t naïve. We know racism exists; we know we’re not invisible in our mostly-white culture. But if we get a bad table in a restaurant, we don’t sit there thinking, “Those bigots – they stuck us in the corner.” It’s a choice and we choose not to look for racism around every corner. We actually get a kick sometimes out of watching people try and back-pedal out of the stereotypical assumptions they make. If we’re here to teach love and acceptance between the races, that’s cool. We’re not missionaries about it, but we just live our lives, which is all you can expect.
A Footnote: Now that we’re parents, the story continues. We have two pretty savvy, bright kids who are vastly more aware of their world than I ever was. (Bruce outpaces us all, but hey, he grew up as one of the only black kids in a white suburb, so he’s incredibly realistic about living as a minority in America.) I love our blended lives. My oldest son is in a gifted program where, I’m convinced, most of the smartest kids are biracial. I hope this blended future is one we can all embrace. In nearly every painful interracial marriage I’ve witnessed among friends, any tension, fear and anger the couple’s family shows tends to dissolve when the grandchildren arrive.