Black & White

Growing up my dad would say, “I would be proud if any of my daughters married a black man.” And he wholeheartedly believed it. Growing up in a rather quiet suburban town at the time, this statement had a slim chance of becoming a reality. There were a handful of black boys at my high school. And although they were nice, nothing ever developed.

Fast forward thirty years later: a marriage, divorce, years of single parenting, and a long-term relationship that ended and I found myself  “back on the market.” I had my share of dates but eventually signed up on one of the Internet dating sights. A man with a “hidden” photo extended an olive branch. As it would turn out, he was black. We agreed to meet.

The short version is that he was intelligent, well groomed, successful and more. We dated for a bit. During that time I encountered a very small glimpse into his world. He wanted me to see things from the black male’s perspective. He taught me that blacks, in particular, black males, had to be even better than their white counterparts in order to operate in our world and be deemed eminent. His hopes and dreams for his three sons were filled with high aspirations and expectations to excel as well.

We talked about whether my friends and family would accept him into my world and vice versa. My mom and I talked about it. Growing up, my mom and dad had taken my three siblings and myself to a downtown Oakland church for a memorial when Martin Luther King, Jr. died. We were the only white family. It is one item, which causes pride in my heritage. And yet, she worried whether my dating this man would cause strife in the family. In the end, she came to the conclusion that if I ever loved this man and chose him as a partner, everyone else would grow to love him too. And those that couldn’t, well, it would just be their problem. I then reminded her of my dad’s quote that I so vividly remembered. She had never even heard him say it to my sisters or myself.  She did know he loved many of his black co-workers and friends over the years. Still, she said, the reality of one of his daughters actually dating a black man may have been a bit more of a challenge than even he had realized. Not because of him, but because of the world’s prejudices.                                                                                                                                        

In the end, we didn’t become a “couple” and our differences were not related to the color of our skin or biases. They were of a different nature. Still, he was a teacher of sorts. Today, I pause longer to put myself in some of my student’s lives and pay closer attention to their writing about growing up black in the suburban sprawl that we call home. Deep down, I too have to guard my thinking and misconceptions.

I’ve learned that I can do better. And should. I like to think that would make both of my parents proud.