I had set up a date to get together with a fellow from one of my dance classes. He and I had partnered in a musical review that semester, and were planning on working on a piece of choreography together for one of our classes. We were to meet at my home (my parents' home, I suppose I should say....a distinction which soon became important); we were on break from school, but wanted to get a jump on the piece we would have to present.
My folks had met the man, having seen our performance, of course. They came, proudly, to all my performances. I mentioned to them, as a sort of afterthought, that he would be stopping by during the week, so we could work on some ideas. Nothing prepared me for the firestorm that followed.
They were aghast! Was I crazy? He was "Negro"....how could I even think of having him to the house? What would our neighbors say, if they were to see him arriving?
At first, I thought they were kidding. Then, when I realized they were not, that I could certainly reason with them. It was not as if I had grown up, blind to their racism, their rejection and condemnation of interracial relationships. But this man was older than me, and married and we were in no way romantically involved!!! They had to know this.
I was met by their blank faces and their words, repeating that, under no circumstances was he coming to our home. I followed with a tirade, arms gesticulating, tears flowing. Were they out of their minds? How could I possibly call him and tell him he could not come to my house? What kind of person does this??? Well, of course, I knew of many such persons, but I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that "we" were NOW "those kind of people."
DISCONNECT!!! DISCONNECT!!! My brain was screaming, WE ARE NOT!!! Or more accurately, I AM NOT. Who ARE these people that gave birth to me, that loved me and supported me all my life? Whom I love.
I fled to my room, slamming the door behind me. I tried to work out what I could possibly tell my friend...obviously I'd be forced to lie, make up some excuse as to why we couldn't meet. My Dad followed me up the stairs and flung the door open, pleading with me to understand. "You're breaking my heart!" he said.
I was young, full of outrage and judgment, and broken hearted myself. My Dad and I were close, but he was seriously flawed. He was not Atticus Finch! And in my girlish mind, THAT is what I longed for. I knew this was a fight I would not win; it was their house; they were my parents; I was subject to their rule. But not for long. A year from that time, I was living on my own in New York City, earning my own living and making my OWN rules. Which, by the way, are still always "subject to review and revision."
— DMRS
My folks had met the man, having seen our performance, of course. They came, proudly, to all my performances. I mentioned to them, as a sort of afterthought, that he would be stopping by during the week, so we could work on some ideas. Nothing prepared me for the firestorm that followed.
They were aghast! Was I crazy? He was "Negro"....how could I even think of having him to the house? What would our neighbors say, if they were to see him arriving?
At first, I thought they were kidding. Then, when I realized they were not, that I could certainly reason with them. It was not as if I had grown up, blind to their racism, their rejection and condemnation of interracial relationships. But this man was older than me, and married and we were in no way romantically involved!!! They had to know this.
I was met by their blank faces and their words, repeating that, under no circumstances was he coming to our home. I followed with a tirade, arms gesticulating, tears flowing. Were they out of their minds? How could I possibly call him and tell him he could not come to my house? What kind of person does this??? Well, of course, I knew of many such persons, but I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that "we" were NOW "those kind of people."
DISCONNECT!!! DISCONNECT!!! My brain was screaming, WE ARE NOT!!! Or more accurately, I AM NOT. Who ARE these people that gave birth to me, that loved me and supported me all my life? Whom I love.
I fled to my room, slamming the door behind me. I tried to work out what I could possibly tell my friend...obviously I'd be forced to lie, make up some excuse as to why we couldn't meet. My Dad followed me up the stairs and flung the door open, pleading with me to understand. "You're breaking my heart!" he said.
I was young, full of outrage and judgment, and broken hearted myself. My Dad and I were close, but he was seriously flawed. He was not Atticus Finch! And in my girlish mind, THAT is what I longed for. I knew this was a fight I would not win; it was their house; they were my parents; I was subject to their rule. But not for long. A year from that time, I was living on my own in New York City, earning my own living and making my OWN rules. Which, by the way, are still always "subject to review and revision."
— DMRS
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