On this most holy of Summers pastime’s weekend, I wrestle the reigns from the usual suspects to share a slice of life from my experience.
Like Kemper and C, I find myself in the throes of an interracial relationship which will soon be an interracial marriage. I am a city girl, a Brooklyn native. And as such I have always been afforded the luxury of a truly diverse culture. Living an anything, anytime kind of life in the outer boroughs I’ve considered myself too cool to care about racial politics in the dating age. Even when I had yet to exercise the option.
I made it through my twenties dating the requisite number of jerks, pimps and jive turkeys of every stripe along with a reasonable number of rational, well intentioned men before meeting my partner. And in fact he is my partner–he tells the worst jokes, sings his heart out without a tone and increases my happiness exponentially with his inner compass and grace–I’ve arrived in my early thirties and am less inclined to peer pressure in the decade of decision.
Two years of openly (as opposed to?!?) dating a man of a different race have imparted a few lessons:
1-Lonely people take everything personally because heartbreak is well, lonely.
2- You can’t please anyone so you might as well ease yourself.
3-Ideas are cold comfort if you have no one to share them with. Find someone.
4-Race is a touchy subject, duh.
Perhaps, someday we can engage in the larger conversation behind a few of these insights but for now I’m happy just to wrest the platform long enough to make an introduction.