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How many times had I said “Mom, I met this guy, he’s white”?
No matter how anxious I was to tell my family about my boyfriend, I felt proud of my interracial relationship, like we were the result of the world uniting and becoming a better place.
I grew up in one of the seventeen cities in the United States named Rochester (Wikipedia, 2015).
” didn’t become frequently asked questions until I began attending school at Towson University (TU) as a freshman.
All it took was one semester for me to breakup with my high school boyfriend and fall completely in love with a guy from my dorm. I called my mother up to tell her about my new boyfriend, and nervously came clean with the statement “I’m Seeing Someone New And He’s Black!
” Though I knew my parents wouldn’t care, wouldn’t forbid be from seeing him, or treat him differently than my past boyfriends, the fact that I felt the need to admit he was black, as if it were a crime is absurd.
” I became known as that girl who was only interested in dark men and suddenly, the body that took me years to become comfortable with became one I was questioning again.
Guys would approach me, rarely avoiding grabbing my butt or asking the question, “So you like black guys?
This was the place I was born and raised; where nobody had to whisper the “n word” or hesitate to stick some feathers in their hair and paint their skin red as a sign of school spirit.
Growing up in New Hampshire didn’t prevent me from making friends or dating guys who weren’t white.
I felt a certain pride in hanging out with people who were Dominican, Indonesian, Laos, Filipino, Hispanic, etc. My parents taught me good morals, like not judging others by their appearance, though I did have to keep my jaw clenched when I visited relatives.
They would ask me about the “colored kids” at my job as a camp counselor and spoke the word “bi-racial” in hushed tones, as if it were something to be ashamed of.