Stories on this page talk about mixed couples.
Multiracial. Interfaith. Young/old. "Diverse" couples come together in a variety of ways. While they may not put much stock in their differences, outside perceptions can become a 3rd party in their pursuit of happily ever after.
By Danie D. Taylor
I met XBFJ in 2002 during my first job after college.
I disliked him immediately.
I don't know why, but I remember exactly what he was wearing. His blue button down shirt and khaki cargo shorts were (in my mind) the business school manifestation of "the man." I was the fresh graduate of a journalism program at a liberal arts college. I had been trained on all the ways "the man" was constantly working to stifle our messaging to the people. And even though he and I were working for the same media company and supposedly had the same agenda, I was wary of his blue-shirted presence. At the same time, It was my second or third day on the job. So I dismissed him.
Still, he was there. There was no way to make friends at my new job and not spend time with him. Ours was a relationship born of convenience. We were both under 21. We worked the same hours and had the same days off from work. There was no "courting," as I remember it. We never admitted to "dating," though we did go on dates, and only with each other. Our friends (specifically his friends' girlfriends) would ask "what are you guys?" XBFJ wouldn't answer. I said we were "just hanging out."
"Danie. It's been two years. How long are you gonna call it 'hanging out?'" - My dad, sometime in 2004.
Time passed. XBFJ and I were a proper couple. We were two silly peas in a pod. We shared a healthy distrust of "the man." We loved music. He was the whimsical to my practical. He believed that everything was always going to work out. Somehow he was always right. I fell in love with his optimism.
We lived in Fargo, North Dakota. Based on the numbers, I was bound to end up in a mixed race relationship with a Lutheran of Norwegian descent. That's just math. But XBFJ was the right Norwegian for me. He understood his privilege and my potential disadvantages. I was once pulled over on my way to his place. I was going 34 in a 25. It was preposterous. I didn't get a ticket because, well probably because I didn't deserve one. No one else was on the road. It was a waste of time and I was annoyed. When I told XBFJ and his friend Chris, XBFJ said "Chris, do you want to tell her? Or should I?"
"I'll tell her." Chris said, "Danie, you're black."
They stared at me while I caught up, stammering "but I, I... really? You think..."
Fargo wasn't the neutral zone I had thought.
I wasn't as on my own as I thought either.
More time passed. Things got serious. We became "official." I met his parents. That's probably when I began waiting for the race shoe to drop. I think it started innocently enough with a question from my mom.
"How did they treat you?"
She was genuinely curious. It was obvious XBFJ liked me - and that was hard for my family to grasp. I grew up on the East Coast. Both sets of grandparents were from South Carolina. My brother and I were the only ones in our generation to go to school in the suburbs (read: with white people). Members of my family had never really interacted with white people, other than to avoid them and imagine their racist agendas. That's only a mild exaggeration. My family wanted to know how XBFJ's family treated me, because they wanted real insight into white people and their subtle racism. I left them disappointed.
There was nothing insidious to report. XBFJ's family was great to me from the get. They respected (and mocked) my dietary restrictions, which were admittedly dumb. They asked me about my family and my upbringing. I didn't feel as though I were being judged for being black, or for dating XBFJ. They just accepted me. We ate. We drank. We laughed.
"Really? Wow. Has he ever dated a black girl before?"
My mom, my dad and my aunts all asked. There had to have been a reason XBFJ's family wasn't taken aback by my role in his life. It didn't add up for them. Somehow that made me start to question my math.
I started thinking something was coming. I began expecting insurmountable hardship. I began wondering when we were going to be faced with something that couldn't be conquered with optimism. I asked XBFJ what he was going to teach our imaginary babies. I got nervous whenever we left town. We were heckled in Minneapolis once. XBFJ would have fought, had he not been outnumbered. I was being told (by people who had never been in my position) that I would not get a happily ever after. They just couldn't tell me why.
Eventually it was time to meet his grandparents. "This is it," I thought. There's only one thing my family finds more nerve-wracking than white people. And that's old white people. That basically translates to instant racist. I can only guess why that is. It just is. Before I went to meet the grandparents, my mom asked "do they know you're black? You don't want to give anybody a heart attack."
Like the parents, XBFJ's grandparents and extended family were wonderful. I felt good being with them. I hugged his grandpa as we left and he asked "if he pops the question, are you going to say 'yes?'" I could have cried. No, XBFJ and I did not plan on getting married. We did not need "the man" to recognize our shared household. But it felt good to be asked what I would do if I were asked.
XBFJ and I moved to Las Vegas, and then to San Francisco, where our relationship died of natural causes. We grew up. We grew apart. After "hanging out," for almost eight years, we were done. We've been friends for years and we're still two silly peas in a pod. I see his parents when they come to town and he sees mine. My mom constantly asks if he has a girlfriend. Once, I was able to say "yes."
"Is she white?"
"I think so, yeah."
"Oh. Okay."
By Shifra Whitman
I would have never expected to end up in a serious relationship with a non-Jewish partner. That changed once I met Doug. I am very much Jewish and Jewish culture is extremely important to me. I typically steer very far away from the subject of marriage, but as our relationship progressed, all I could think about was, “What if we get married?”
I love and continue to seek out the community and family-orientation that the religion and culture of Judaism offers. While the interpretations and personal beliefs vary between different Jewish communities, there is a whole level of religious knowledge about the faith that brings all of us followers closer together. In these last few years as a Jewish educator (yes, I even dabble in Jewish education), I have been trying to move beyond the day-to-day life as a Jew to figure out what Judaism means to me on a very personal level. The last thing I was expecting to worry about was how to share these Jewish community experiences and understanding with someone who had no knowledge or appreciation for the faith.
The thought of marriage was the trigger for my concern. But after those initial two weeks, I finally figured out the root cause of what truly made me nervous. I realized that one of my highest priorities in life was to have children who are raised in a Jewish community and have a Jewish identity. Coming to this realization provided clarity for me, and as a result, relief. If and when the time came for Doug and I to have a conversation about our future and religion, I would at least know where I stood and what I wanted to say. As our relationship progressed, the thoughts of marriage faded to the background and I was able to just enjoy Doug for being himself and not obsess over the fact that he wasn’t Jewish.
Doug and I are opposites in almost every way. He is quiet and pragmatic; I am loud and creative. Doug attended Catholic school because the education was better, not necessarily because he or his family believes in Catholicism. My family threw me into various Jewish communities, circles, and educations, giving me a taste of many political, religious and social perspectives. Doug is a Midwestern boy and I grew up in New York City. He comes from a private and introverted family. My family is very boisterous, outgoing and loves to get involved in different communities. Doug is part of a cat-loving family and my family is more into dogs.
Our relationship doesn’t revolve around faith or religion. We are just like many other couples: we watch Michigan football on Saturdays, go to the movies once a month, devote a whole day a year to watching Star Wars (Episodes 4, 5 & 6), cook dinners for each other on a somewhat regular bases, and all of that good stuff. When a holiday rolls around, we celebrate it together. Doug comes to my apartment and partakes in Passover Seders with my family, and I join him at Christmas with his. Like any relationship, in going through the motions that our respective traditions call for, a new tradition has formed: our own special tradition.
Around ten months into our relationship, a bit of tension formed and we eventually realized it was because we hadn’t had, “The religion chat,” so to speak. One night, after a few drinks, Doug said quite bluntly, “I just want you to know that I don’t plan on converting." It seemed we were on very different pages and really needed to discuss our views, opinions and feelings on faith and religion. I told him that religion is a very personal thing and I would never force mine upon anyone, I just needed him to respect it. I explained my feelings about having children and raising them in a Jewish community in order to form their own Jewish identities. Thankfully, Doug had no objections to the prospect of our possible children developing this identity, and while he himself would not necessarily choose a Jewish path, he respected mine. Doug was honest with me and I was honest with him. There was no longer a blockade in the middle of our relationship and we could begin its progression again – what a relief.
It really is difficult having a discussion about the future if you and your partner aren’t necessarily ready for it. I know I felt much better after having that chat. All relationships require work and compromise. In our case, it involves religion. In someone else’s relationship, it could be geography, animals, lifestyle…etc.
However, the most important thing to remember is to be honest with yourself and with your partner. If you don’t agree on something and it’s a deal breaker, then your relationship might not last. If you can compromise, negotiate and work it out, it just might.
I love Doug and I know what we have is great. Will we end up getting married and having children? I don’t know and I am not going to think about that again for quite some time. What I am content with is that he knows what my priorities are and is willing to respect them. And I am confident that if differences come up in the future, we will be vocal, honest and figure it out together.
By Jaimie Moore
If Jimmy and I were living in Georgia as a married couple less than 50 years ago, we'd be breaking the law. Just by being married.
Uhm, that's not that long ago you guys.
On the front page of Humanthology, there is a Maya Angelou quote I just love: "There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside of you."
I often forget that this is one of my untold stories. I guess because I feel like in this marriage the interracial factor is such a non-factor. When we get stared at, I'm pretty sure it's because of the giant wheelchair and not that my husband's skin is a little more tan than mine. I could be wrong though. Maybe it's both. Who knows what other people see.
It's hard to fathom that interracial marriage was such a dividing issue in this country as a recently as a few decades ago. I know the issue is still there, but maybe a little more diluted than it once was?
When Jimmy and I were dating, I remember having a conversation with a close friend of mine and Jimmy's, who mentioned in passing something about Jimmy being black.
I stopped her mid-sentence and asked, "Jimmy's black?"
I was serious. I never in my mind really even though about it. Jimmy to me was always -- just Jimmy. I obviously figured there's something in his blood to make him a little more tan than I, but that's how much of a non-factor his skin color was. I didn't even think about it. I didn't even know.
That is a true story, as silly as it sounds.
As Jimmy started to meet several people in my life, I realized that not everyone had the same reaction as I. Naive oblivion. But, everyone grew to love him as I knew they would. Black, white, purple or yellow. Look at that friggin' cutie pie, how could you not love him?
I remember when he was taking me home to meet his family several years into our relationship. I had to ask, "Is it going to be a big deal your bringing home... someone white?" (Cringe)
Jimmy quickly said: "No. We have every shade you can think of in the family."
I relaxed even more when I saw just how welcoming and warm his family was. It seemed like a big deal that Jimmy was bringing someone home and his family seemed to understand it meant something.
Once in awhile, someone I cross paths with will say something negative about "black people." (Cringe) I take deep, deep offense. But I always have. Well before I met Jimmy. Possibly even a little more now.
I often wonder if those things are being said within earshot because of my husband.
About a year ago, we had a nursing aide came in our home. He had to bring his child in while he was here for his visit, which was only about an hour or so. The child was sitting quietly at my dinner room table playing a little video game while his father helped get my husband out of bed. I came out of my room and the child looked up at me.
He started to look around at the photos of me and Jimmy. He asked me if I lived here. I said yes. His eyes got wide.
He asked, "You live here? With him?"
I said, "Yes, we are married."
I just rocked his world.
He said, "But you're white... and he's black!"
And he just rocked mine right back.
The child looked genuinely confused and a little frightened. Frightened!
Uh, reality check.
What are these child's surroundings like? What is he being told at home? I would've liked to school him on race relations, but it looked like he was still heavily processing the initial revelation. I'm sure Dad got lots of questions in the car.
Surely you have seen the Cheerio's commercial with the bi-racial family. I read somewhere that this sweet commercial actually got a lot of racial backlash.
But, I also read that it was shown to several children who couldn't tell the interviewers what was wrong with the commercial. They didn't see the big deal.
AND JUST LIKE THAT, ALL IS RIGHT WITH THE WORLD AGAIN.
Kumbaya people. Kumbaya.
By Dana Trent
Saffron Cross: The Unlikely Story of How a Christian Minister Married a Hindu Monk is a boy-meets-girl love story with a theological twist. I am an ordained Christian minister in the Southern Baptist tradition; my husband, Fred, is a devout Hindu who lived as a monk and priest for five years.
We were married in July 2010 and began navigating our east-meets-west spiritual lives. One of the first and greatest challenges was discerning how we would spend our sabbaths. Where would we worship? How would we worship? Would we worship together? Or separately?
The following excerpt places the reader into this tough place of exploration.
Formulating and maintaining an active, balanced sabbath-keeping schedule with a devoutly religious partner of an intrinsically different faith is like asking a spatially challenged person to move a wide armchair through a narrow doorway. The victim will try to squeeze the furniture through the doorway as is, struggling and cursing, banging the doorframe repeatedly. She determines she will surely have to saw off half of the chair to make it work until some clever person points out that the chair can be turned on its side, tilted, and gently guided over the threshold. The chair hasn’t changed; its volume and shape have remained the same, but the perspective has shifted.
Our armchairs were the religious traditions we brought to the marriage. The depth or breadth of neither tradition was lost, but we had to figure out the angle by which we could get it in the living room.
This is not as simple as brokering a deal between a Baptist and a Presbyterian. We’re talking about solving a puzzle that has, according to most religious circles, diametrically opposing theological tenets. There was no meeting in the middle with Moses, Abraham, or the Trinity, and no common Resurrection, baptism, or scripture. These were the Mutt and Jeff of religious perspectives.
“Worshiping separately would be easier,” I offered, when I had taken the time to consider the consequences of merging traditions that felt as though they were on opposite ends of the God spectrum.
“No,” Fred replied adamantly. His intuition told him that choice would be the beginning of the end. We’d stop talking about faith; we’d begin to segregate our other interests, and our life together would be over.
“You sure about this?” I asked, mostly because I wasn’t.
“Yep. If we split up our sabbath, we are admitting to God, to each other, and to our friends and family that this was all a hoax and that there was no such thing as an interfaith marriage. We might as well rewind the last three years, be single again, and do our own thing.”
I was surprised by his conviction.
“OK, then. We stick together?” I proposed.
“We’re stuck.”
We shook hands, kissed, and agreed to our own interfaith household
golden rule: always worship together.
We brainstormed about a smooth schedule of Christian and Hindu services—equally balanced, equally attended. It was a circus rose solution—a beautiful hybrid of yellow and red flowers, shimmering in our budding garden of interfaith marriage. But we hadn’t anticipated droughts, malnourishment, questions, resentment, and imbalance that bore thorns on the stems of even the most heavenly of blooms.
Shortly after Fred and I married, Fred’s guru began visiting North Carolina each April and October. Dubbed the “Swami months” in our interfaith household, these weekends were scheduled to the brim with travel and Gaudiya Vaishnava activities.
Swami’s semi-annual visits to North Carolina were what his Hindu students called “nectar.” These visits were the sweet patches of life—the concentrated good stuff of the spiritual journey. For Hindus, a guru is a miniature God here on Earth who demonstrates to his or her students how to love and serve God. The guru’s role is one of mercy because God is merciful enough to show us what to do through a human servant. Protestants have a difficult time with this concept; Baptists, especially, get worked up when anyone tells them how to follow Jesus. But I knew it was important for Fred to take advantage of Swami’s proximity. And because I did not want to be the first offender of the “worship together” rule, I wanted to take advantage of Swami’s wisdom too.
I participated in the first Swami month eagerly and willingly, happy to see Fred inspired. But I hadn’t armored myself for the frustration and resentment the Hindu season would bring—a bitterness whose culprit was not the Eastern tradition itself, Swami, or his students. Rather, it was a blend of disapproval from my usually sweet-natured husband and my own gravitation toward feelings of spiritual inadequacy.
Fred is a good man whose one tragic flaw is his persistence toward spiritual perfection that actually makes him a little edgy. He has high spiritual ideals, a quality that served him well as a monk and priest. But in the secular world, this tendency manifested itself as a critique of his own actions and, ultimately, of mine as well. During the Swami months, I felt like Fred was holding a spotlight to all of my religious shortcomings.
Hinduism, when practiced devoutly, is an intense religion in which all things are sacred and every aspect of life from dawn till dusk flows toward the hub called God. There are no notions of one-hour sabbaths and we’re done; Hinduism is a full-on commitment to living a life oriented to devotion. Hindus sit for hours on hard floors meditating, chanting, and focusing on intense exegetical sermons offered by wise gurus. Hindus are austere creatures, putting aside material desires, grumbling tummies, and wandering minds to worship God.
Swami’s students do this very well because he has modeled the way. His students keep impeccable standards of study, worship, and dietary habits. Fred’s monastic training with Swami gripped him, leaving deep imprints on his heart.
And now Fred had married little ol’ me, whose constitution is not made for fasting and sitting still in two-hour shifts. My first Swami months were filled with flubs, mistakes, and a lack of reverence that overcame me once I slammed into the one-hour mark of Hinduism. Fred’s embarrassment manifested as critical statements and looks that felt like a heavy chain of insults flung at my soul.
Fred’s comments stemmed from a near decade of intense study and subsequent monastic training. In order to be a priest at a remote Hindu monastery who rises each morning at 4:00 a.m. to preside over predawn worship, one must have cultivated more spirituality than the average person. Though his comments to me were typically justified, I found it difficult to bear up under the weight of the critical observations he made of me throughout a “Swami month” day: “You’re not doing that right! Don’t put that music sheet on the ground! Don’t point your bare feet at anyone! Don’t stand too close to the deities! Don’t eat before the food has been offered! Think pure thoughts if you’re helping in the kitchen! Don’t touch the monks! Don’t talk about meat! Wash your hands before you go back for a second helping!”
Fred’s assessments came from a place of devotion, yet I ended up feeling paranoid in the temple setting and constantly fearful of messing up. My inadequacies and Fred’s grasping for spiritual idealism were more than enough fuel for our first interfaith fights. A part of me expected Fred to blanket me in compliments of how I was the most tolerant interfaith partner who lovingly made sacrifices to worship with her husband these two months of the year. But instead of compliments, I was constantly receiving critiques. Finally, I cracked.
“This isn’t working for me,” I said.
“What’s not working, Dana?”
“The Swami weekends, Fred. They are not working for me.”
Silence. No reaction.
“You think I am not good enough for you, Fred! You think I’m not good enough for the Hindus! I don’t know what I’m doing, you always yell at me, and I feel stupid! This just isn’t working!”
“What are you saying?”
I kept the silence this time, and the air grew thick between us.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
“I dunno. Maybe we need time and space to think this through,” I replied, as if the next word to roll off my tongue would begin with D, and I didn’t mean Dallas.
The conversation ended there, but my internal monologue got worse, as each day shared with Hindus was like surrounding myself with Mother Teresa’s clones. Everyone was pious; everyone loved God. Everyone thought of what he or she could do for God before breakfast, while the lone, grumpy Protestant snarled to her husband and Jesus: “You two owe me one!”
In the presence of others on their own spiritual journeys, I always felt like a mess of a Christian. I replayed thoughts of my inconsistent prayer life, lack of daily Bible study, and apathy toward making the sacrifices Jesus calls his followers to make and found these to be my heaviest, most insidious flaws. But worshiping with Hindus brought the perceived inadequacies I’d carried in Christian circles into bright lights, and I felt like a slug among gilded angels. Swami’s students never implied that I was a repellent creature; they never offered me anything but grace and love and hospitality. But worshiping with sojourners who made God the center of their lives was a reminder that I was a me-centered Christian with immature religious tendencies.
So I prayed. When I sat for hours in Hindu worship, I begged Jesus and the deities and all the holy creatures for mercy.
“Mercy,” I breathed. “Grace,” I repeated.
Nothing happened at first; but over time, I experienced a shift. Deep in my heart, I realized Jesus loved little sluggy me, and he loved me so much that he wouldn’t let me stay in this shape forever. He wanted me to grow, and that may have been the reason he introduced me to the Hindus.
As the cycle of Swami months passed, I embraced two rules of survival: one, not to allow Fred’s monastic idealism to feed into my own self-loathing and two, that Jesus was bound to be lurking around the Hindu weekends somewhere, I just had to find him. After all, he wasn’t banned from Gaudiya Vaishnava functions.
Over time, I learned not to take Fred’s appraisals of myself so seriously. I told him to lighten up and tried not to allow his spiritual expectations to change how I felt about myself. I did my best, always showed respect, and sought to learn what I could from each interaction with Hindus. And Jesus always showed up—through a devotee’s kind words, Swami’s sermons, or shimmering Holy Spirit moments during deity worship.
Jesus had been there all along; I just needed to see him.
Our temporary intensity toward Hinduism for two months of the year was a small price to pay for the theological and spiritual wealth Fred experienced through the association with his guru and friends. It was worth the by-product I received too, albeit stubbornly.
I began to see Hindu weekends as a time for nourishing my own faith walk. I meditated on Christ and Krishna, prayed the Lord’s Prayer with my japa beads, and learned how universal principles can be applied to both Hinduism and Christianity. Christians paid big money for Christ-centered weekend retreats, and I had been gifted with a whole slew of them—the benefit of marrying a man whose devout faith attracted me to him in the first place.
I just had to tilt the armchair.
_________________
From Saffron Cross: The Unlikely Story of How a Christian Minister Married a Hindu Monk by J. Dana Trent © 2013. Used by permission of Fresh Air Books®
By Jane Flint
I never agreed to provide a tart and I certainly never said I would ask my husband to produce the confection he made for our special holidays. But as the afternoon waned, the full biff, bang, wham of my son’s crushed and guilty voice on the phone and what it might mean for his relationship to his girlfriend, grafted itself first to my throat, then my lungs, and finally to my heart. And while I didn’t really believe that a frangipane pear tart could pave the way to forgiveness from his girlfriend’s parents, I knew I wanted to do something that might demonstrate my good intentions to them.
We all loved her. Not only was she a beauty, she was a good and genuine person – caring, smart, and in love with my son. When he first brought her to meet us, I lightly dismissed the fact that she was the first in her family to be born in this country. After all, my son’s dad was Jewish and I was not. One of my cousins was married to an Argentinian and another was married to a Japanese-American. Most of my son’s friends were self-described as “mixed.” We all lived in 21st century California. I assumed that all those issues of mixed-race/mixed religion relationships had ended with my generation.
But, in retrospect, I see that I had watched myself as their relationship developed and I learned more about her family. I wanted her to know I cared about her and at the same time I wanted to honor her family’s traditions. I didn’t push to meet them but made sure she felt welcomed in my home. When Christmas came and she and my son had been together for eight months, we sent her home with a pear tart to share with her family. I was hopeful that such a gift was enough, but not too much; hopeful that, in some way, sharing food would open up the door between us and them just a bit; hopeful that my son’s and their daughter’s love for each other could bridge the cultural divide between his American expectations that you can love and be whoever you want and the traditions of love and marriage her family still honored.
Then, when the story poured out on the phone that day, I could see that my son’s comment to another girl on OK Cupid, posted very early in his relationship to his girlfriend but only recently discovered by his girlfriend’s sister, could be a big thing to them, even though it seemed like a small thing to me. And so I agreed to ask my husband to make a pear tart.
It was a Sunday. The New York Times was spread all over the kitchen table where the tart was cooling, waiting for my son to come for it and carry it with his flowers and his written plea for forgiveness to her family. That’s when I saw the story: two young people, each from different sects, who worked together in an ice cream factory; how after several months of sharing glances, she had tossed her cell phone number, written on a small tight wad of paper, onto the sticky ice cream floor; how he had picked it up discretely several minutes later; how, after eight months of courting with their eyes, they became a couple; and how, the first time they got into a car together, they were surrounded by an angry crowd who threatened to drag them out and beat them.
I felt sick. Even though the couple in the story was not from the same country as my son’s girlfriend, I was stunned at my naiveté and hopefulness. The sun was down. The air was chilly for August. In the garden the sunflower’s leaves were still turned towards the last place they’d seen the sun. I watched them like oracles, my heart gelling like custard. Two hours. Three, now four since I had sent him off armed only with a tart. How could I have ever hoped a tart could mend a breach and difference that stills runs deep, like a fault line through our earth’s crust?
