And I Worry

I am white. I am married to a black man. 

We first met in elementary school at the age of eight, in an environment rich with both racial and socioeconomic diversity. Growing up, I never considered his, or any of my friends’ skin colors, to be anything other than a physical characteristic: brown eyes, short hair, tall, etc. That was my privilege.

I didn’t know it mattered then, but I learned.

When we began dating at the age of 16, I quickly learned that others didn’t see it that way. Our interracial relationship was a “thing” people brought up and discussed, although our families didn’t seem to have any issues with it. This was the first situation where I was confronted with the idea that color mattered. It was not the last. 

I have witnessed the shock on people’s faces when they meet me and then, later on, meet my husband (or vice versa.) Apparently, we don’t match like they think we should. 

I have heard the quiet and the not-so-quiet comments about our interracial relationship, our family.

When I am with our three children, people comment on how beautiful they are. When he is with them, people ask what they are mixed with. 

I have been annoyed when we eat out in a group and our meals are never on the same check, even when we are obviously together. 

I have had to firmly state that he is my husband to people who assume he is someone I have hired to work around the house.  

I have listened to my children tell me about going to Old Navy with Daddy and getting stopped walking in to make a return, having to go to the back with security, and explain the situation. 

I know now, as best as I can, that the color of his skin matters, that it touches every aspect of his life in a way I can never fully comprehend. 

And so I worry. 

I worry when he drives to his grandma’s empty house, to check up on everything.

I worry when he is looking for a new job.

I worry when he has a flat tire on the side of the road. 

I worry when he stops to pump gas at night and runs into the convenience store to buy candy. 

I worry every. single. time. he leaves our house to go for a run.

These days, how could I not?

And I look at our children. Our beautiful, enthusiastic, wonderful children. The ones who win people over with their curly hair and blue eyes, who have stopped people in their tracks since the day they were born.

And I wonder when I will have to worry about them. When will they be old enough to be seen not as my little boys, but as black men and all that implies to so many in our society?

My heart, my sympathy, my voice goes out to the mothers who have always had to worry. Who always knew it mattered. Who hope, pray, and ACT to bring about the change we desperately need. 

I am sorry I didn’t know sooner. I know now. I will do better.