The Anatomy of An African Dad Meltdown

I've spent a lot of time in the card section of retail stores lately.  With the sheer number of people in our combined families of origin, the amount we spend on greeting cards during the Spring and Summer months could be a line item in our household budget (Happy Birthday mom).

When I was growing up (does that statement mean I'm officially old?), card categories were pretty simple.  But in my most recent card procurement excursion for Father's Day, a few new categories caught my eye like, "He Was A Good Man," (whatever that means) or "Loss of a Pet Who Was Like Family."  And while eavesdropping on the conversations and under-breath-mumblings of my fellow card shoppers, I'd recommend adding the category, "Someone You're Angry With But Feel Obliged To Send A Card To Anyway."

Though not the case for all interracial couples, some carry years of pain connected to the challenges they've faced from loved ones or family members regarding their relationship choices.  Holidays and celebrations are loaded with unspoken presuppositions about having consistently whole, happy, and emotionally connected relationship with all family members at all times.  But sometimes they feel more like funerals -- where we choose to focus on the positive over truth and reality because there's not a whole lot you can do to change things.

If you have an african dad, or any dad for that matter, what was his reaction when you disclosed your interracial relationship?

I recently came across the hilarious Pranking My African Dad video by Emmanuel "Eman" Kellam.  In the video, Eman sets up a camera to capture him pranking his dad, leading him to believe that Eman, at the age of 16, has impregnated his 14-year-old friend Annabelle.

What I found especially interesting?  The similarities between Eman's father's reaction and my own father's reaction when I told him about dating the man who is now my husband.

My observations have led me to believe that when approached with emotionally charged situations involving their children, African dads will exhibit the following 10 stages of a meltdown:

Stage 1: Engage in conversation like a reasonable human being. (0:30)

When I called home to tell my parents about dating someone, it was just one of our normal, weekly, Sunday calls.  In fact, once I told my dad I was dating someone, he started giving me all kinds of unsolicited dating advice.  I thought to myself, "This is way too easy," which led to:

Stage 2: Confirm all white people involved in the story. (0:47)

Thankfully my father has never referred to my husband (or anyone for that matter) as, "THE WHITE ONE?"  But when I did bring up his race as an aside toward the end of our conversation this happened next:

Stage 3: Scream for wife like a newborn baby calling for its mother. (1:10)

I found this particularly funny because my mom's name isn't Funke but phonetically, it is very close.  And just like in this video, my mother was conveniently out of the house and not immediately available for comment during our conversation.

Stage 4: Slip into mother tongue since English can't capture the magnitude of distress. (1:20)

You can say a lot of things about Nigerians, but you can't say we're not in touch with our emotions.

Stage 5: Call on the name of the Lord due to a belief that death is imminent. (1:21)
We're also dramatic (See also: Nollywood).

Stage 6: Proclaim a series of disastrous yet unfounded consequences. (1:38)

Clearly Eman's father doesn't think too highly of the career prospects at McDonald's.  No discussion about character, integrity, responsibilty... just school and work. 

Stage 7: Ask God a series of rhetorical questions in rapid fire succession. (2:07)

At which point I thought to myself, "Is this what the Book of Job was like?"

Stage 8: Offer irrational, nonsensical, and cost-prohibitive solutions. (2:14 and 2:40)

I mean who just buys commercial, first-class flights to Nigeria the night before a trip? I mean really? Who does that?

Stage 9: Declare that [insert African nation of choice here] is the best prevention. (2:30) 

No comment.

Stage 10: Assault and Battery?! (3:02)

Watching his father get up was like watching a scene in a horror movie.  I was like, "RUN EMAN! RUUUUUUUUUN!"

As I reflect back on one of the most important conversations I had with my dad almost ten years ago, I'm grateful that I only witnessed Stages 1 through 3 with my own eyes.  And after all these years my husband still retains his title as "my parents' favorite child."

Happy Father's Day to my dad, one of my favorite readers.  We'll be thinking of you Monday while watching the USA vs. Ghana World Cup match.  And a Happy Father's Day to all you fathers, grandfathers, great grandfathers, step dads, and father figures celebrating your special day.

My Top Interracial Moments of 2013

2013 was quieter than usual on the blog, but not when it came to stories about race and relationships in the 21st century. Here are the interracial moments that caught my eye (and side-eye) the year:

The Declaration of Kanye West

"And a lot of what the Kardashians do that I don’t think they get enough credit, is they prep America to understand interracial relationships because I'm not talking about me...whatever they say in the barbershop don't matter 'cause I don't get my hair cut there! But, for the people that do get there hair cut there, and if there is like a white woman that's getting talked down to by her friends because, you know, she's dating a black guy, now you got a point of reference...because don't act like interracial relationships ain't been a problem..."

Clearly, I need to spend more time in barbershops in 2014 because that seems to be where all the deep conversations about interracial relationships are happening.  (See also, Cornball Brothas: Two Robs Don't Make a Right and What Would You Do: Black Guy Brings White Girlfriend to Harlem Barbershop.)  

 Charles "Dead Giveaway" Ramsey

"Bro, I knew something was wrong when a little pretty white girl ran into a black man's arms. Something is WRONG HERE...either she homeless or she got problems. That's the only reason she runnin' to a black man!"

I realize that while breaking the story about the rescue of Amanda Berry may not have been the right moment to say this, but instead of trying to muffle laughter (and failing miserably), the reporter could have responded: "Or maybe, Mr. Ramsey, a little pretty white girl or woman runs into a black man's arms because that black man is her friend, relative or heck, her spouse?" One can only hope that Mr. Ramsey will share his further musings on race in his forthcoming memoir.

The Cheerios Commercial

Rarely do I see a commercial featuring a family where the parents and children actually look they could be related biologically in real life.  General Mills took the radical step of depicting a biracial/multiracial child in a family with parents who are an interracial couple. And what happened? All of racist hell broke loose of course; because we've progressed so far as a society; because we have a black President; because New York City has a black First Lady; because I drink my coffee black, because it's 2013, because it's the 21st century, all post-racial everything, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

Massachusetts State Senator Linda Dorcena-Forry: MC (Microphone Controller) of the Year

Jonathan Wiggs/The Boston Globe

State Senator Dorcena-Forry on carrying on the half-century-long tradition of the state senator from the First Suffolk District hosting the South Boston St. Patrick's Day Breakfast even though she isn't an Irish-American man from Southie: 

“I have four bi-racial children — Irish-American and black. I’ve been to Ireland four times. We celebrate the culture in my house. My two oldest sons were baptized in St. Augustine’s chapel in South Boston. I’m not just a random black woman who has this seat.”

To paraphrase: "Don't get it twisted. I am not the one."  

One Drop of Love's Cambridge Premiere

A true gem. Hope lots more people get to hear this story in 2014.

Thank you for another great year of "challenging the assumptions." I wish you grace, peace, and laughter in the New Year.

Why Boston?

It's been kind of a rough week.

Many of you know that most of my hilariously frustrating experiences in an interracial relationship take place in the city I call home: Boston, Massachusetts.  I've mentioned the Boston Marathon in a previous post and most recently during my own journey from backslidden jogger to 2012 Boston Marathoner.

Last Monday I spent the afternoon camped out near the finish line of the Marathon, at the corner of Newbury and Hereford Streets, cheering on friends running in this year's race.  The intense noise from spectators was so deafening that a simple phone call from a friend became an an exercise in futility:

"WHAT?! HIS PACE? IT'S 6:40! NO! I SAID 6! 40! I HAVEN'T SEEN HIM YET! I DON'T KNOW WHAT COLOR HE'S WEARING! ALL THESE PEOPLE LOOK THE SAME TO ME! HUH? OKAY! OH WAIT, HE JUST CROSSED THE FINISH LINE!"

After a few failed attempts to get through a wall of people and closer to the finish line, I figured it might be wise to make my way home since I had to catch a flight to DC in a few hours.  Within minutes of taking off, it became the most depressing flight ever.

One word that describes my feelings over the past week?  Conflicted:  Should I keep watching a news station if the anchors can't pronounce the names my city's street names?  Where do homeless people go during a shelter-in-place? What if the suspect had fled to Roxbury instead of Watertown?  Why is All-American Muslim considered an oxymoron?  What would our city and our world be like if we harnessed the same energy and resources used to track down these suspects, to search for every child that went missing?  Is an arrest more like chopping off a branch than killing at the root?

On Saturday morning I had to remind myself that the last six days were not a dream.

"How do you feel knowing they caught the suspect last night?" my husband asked.
"I feel a sense of ease...but not relief," I replied. "Because I still have more questions than answers."

Cornball Brothas: 2 Robs Don't Make a Right

After six years of marriage, I've made peace with the fact that every time I turn on my television, it will be on ESPN.

Doesn't matter what day; doesn't matter what time of day.  As the wife of an avid sports fan (who assures me, "It could be worse, much worse"), living in an avid sports city (it's not Chapel Hill but it'll do), I've embraced the unanticipated marital duties of scheduling my Sunday afternoon around the NFL; schlepping to work with red eyes and a voice that would give Barry White a run for his money after late night, weekday games; and trying not to avert my eyes from Celtic's games as Kevin Garnett unleashes a barrage of expletives (which, strangely enough, the cameras always seems to pick up with great detail).  Apparently sports and sports entertainment are two of The Five Love Languages.  Even crazier?  How much I've come to enjoy watching sports with my husband and how much I've learned in the process.

While my husband comments on the game and I comment on the player's tangential connections to reality television.  My husband take note of post-injury performances and I notice who's wearing the flyest sneakers.  He rejoices over the success of Celtics rookies while I cry out "Ray-Ray! Oh no, say it ain't so!" upon seeing Ray Allen sporting a Miami Heat jersey.  My husband laments over his fantasy football standing while I lament over the injustice of how physical altercations are treated in the NBA vs. the NHL, make jokes about "intimate relationship" between the Red Sox and Popeye's, and then poke fun at the referees' warm-up routines and calls that look like they came straight from the The Soul Train line at last summer's family reunion.  And yes, I've been known to let out a "Come on man!" every now and again.

But my proudest moment to date was in response to a passing comment that there are "No good wide receivers with dreads," to which I replied unflinchingly: "Larry Fitzgerald."

My husband looked like he was about to cry.

Last weekend as we drove through Back Bay (sorry, no Tom and Giselle sightings) he asked, "Have you heard about that guy on ESPN who got suspended for comments he made about RG3?"  By the end of a full week that included 6 am flights, early morning meetings and Christmas festivities running late into the night, I strained to even remember what I ate for lunch the previous day let alone any ESPN scandals.  Although I vaguely recalled a headline that read: An Open Letter to Rob Parker, and thought to myself: "The guy that used to host The Price is Right?  Isn't he dead?"  I have since learned the difference between Rob and Bob, and no, Bob Barker is not dead (my bad).

My husband began to relay the December 13th episode of ESPN's First Take where RG3 joined the ranks of the B.F.U.I. ("Black Folk Under Investigation," see also, Grant Hill, Tiger Woods, Oprah Winfrey, and President Obama) based on comments he'd made in a recent USA Today interview.  "And Rob Parker was like, 'Well we know he has a white fiancee'--" my husband continued.  And that's when I began to double-over in laughter.  "Hold up.  Wait a minute," I managed to get out between gasps of air, "of ALL professions in the world, he wants to start calling out black men...with women who are not black...in the NFL...really?"

After watching the segment in its entirety I was struck by how most of the discussion around Mr. Parker's comments and his subsequent suspension is centered around two minutes of what was a fascinating fifteen minute conversation about talking braids, whether black quarterbacks can change their skin color like chameleons, an impromptu therapy session stemming from a 1997 Oprah interview with Tiger Woods, and the new paragon of honesty in the modern age: direct quotations from "Joe Regulars" (not to be confused with "Joe The Plumbers") at the barbershop who don't go to college, are struggling, have miserable lives and judge your character by looking at your spouse, how you present yourself, and warn you that braids and corporate America don't mix.

I've often heard athletes refer to sports as "the great equalizer," where all the matters is what you bring and leave on the field/court/rink/gymnasium.  But as we've seen from this story as well as Jason Gay's article in the wake of the Sandy Hook shooting, even sports don't live in a vacuum.  Personally, I think the best response to both RG3 and Rob Parker's comments came from Stephen A. Smith (beginning at 1:17 ending at 1:19:50)

Preach.

Interracial Living

"The goal of the Living Interracial project is simple: it is meant to start a dialogue on a subject that is still seen as taboo in south Louisiana."

The Living Interracial Project which includes stories, video interviews and photo galleries runs on theadvocate.com/livinginterracial from August 13 - August 25.

Rest in Peace Sherman Hemsley

Well if this isn't a Yes, We're Together moment, I don't know what is...

Checking In

I know what some of ya'll are thinking. My bad.

When I saw my mom's missed call and voicemail shortly after landing in California a few weeks ago, I thought:

Oh how sweet!  An early birthday call!  I bet she's calling to see what gift I'd like her to dip into her retirement savings to purchase for me.  No, no, actually, I bet she needs our address so she can send my birthday card that I'll carefully rip open, shake, and watch cash or a check fall out.  I know, I'm coming to DC next week and she wants to know what I want her to cook for me...

And my pipe dream remained just that: a dream.

Instead I listened to my mother's quick, obligatory greeting immediately followed by, "YOU CAN'T EVEN CALL TO SEE HOW WE ARE DOING! WE HAVEN'T HAD POWER FOR THREE DAYS!!!"

While I'd been galavanting across the country, a "derecho" (also known as "kind-of-tornado-but-not-really") did some extensive damage in the Washington DC Metro and I had no idea.  Then my husband made the passing comment, "Hey you haven't posted on your blog in a while..." and I knew at the very least I needed to post a quick update and check in.

Truth be told, I've actually spent the in-between time seeing old friends and meeting their new babies; trying to finish a draft of a different kind of "baby" (my first book); listening to Chief Justice John Roberts accept the motion for my admission into the Bar of the United States Supreme Court in the same room he would deliver the health care decision just a week later (only to have it butchered by almost every major media outlet); reflecting on death as I celebrated another year of life; and most importantly: successfully leading an entire wedding reception in the Cupid Shuffle (yes, I can hear you humming "down, down do your dance" right now).

So needless to say, we have a lot to catch up on.

Boston Marathoners See The Darndest Things!

Even after four months of training, I'm not sure anything could quite prepare me for what I saw and experienced while running in the 2012 Boston Marathon this past Monday.

Going into this weekend I was well aware that we were in for warmer weather on marathon day but like many, I think I totally underestimated how warm it would feel.  This photo from the front page of yesterday's Wall Street Journal just about sums it up:

It was HOT.

Over the weekend, the Boston Athletic Association began sending out cryptic emails strongly discouraging anyone who hasn't won a gold medal in the last two Summer Olympics from running in the marathon and to defer to 2013 (I'm pretty sure their attorneys drafted those).  But Coach Rick encouraged those of us who felt able to take the appropriate precautions and run.  So for me it was a no-brainer, I was running.

Arriving at Athlete's Village -the pre-race staging area--was pretty amazing.  I found the port-o-potty experience slightly traumatic and saw things in the toilet bowl that I'd rather forget, but otherwise, had a great time.

While walking around I noticed a large group of Korean runners taking a photo with the Korean flag.  I walked up to the group and asked, "Can I take a photo with you?"  The (Korean) photographer looked me up and down and said, "Do you know what flag that is?" "Of course!" I replied "Korea!" Geez, did she just assume I thought they were Chinese?!

Me infiltrating the Korean Dance Circle

One of the sights that surprised me the most along the Marathon route were the many, many, many interracial families.  Not so much that I saw them but where I saw them Hopkinton, Ashland, Framingham.  I was like "Wow! Who knew?"  I think I saw more along the Marathon route in the suburbs than in the city.  Challenge the assumptions!

So aside from the Kenyans and Ethiopians, the most popular runner yesterday--hands down--was Flo Allen-Hopson, a.k.a. "Momma Allen," the mother of Boston Celtics shooting guard Ray Allen.  We were actually keeping pace with each other for a couple of miles (yes, before she smoked me, but it's Momma Allen so that's okay), and it was so fun seeing people realize who she was after she passed them.  They'd invariably start screaming "Oh my gosh! That's Momma Allen! MOMMA ALLEN! I LOVE YOUR SON! I LOVE YOUR SON!"  And she would just give a little wave and keep it moving.  She is the first woman I've even seen run a marathon with perfectly coiffed hair.  And this year was her third Boston Marathon.

New Englanders get a bad wrap when it comes to friendliness and hospitality, but all I know is I couldn't have made it without them: the passerby reminding me just how far I'd come and how little I had to go; the other runners who came up beside me shouting "Looking good! You're doing great!"; the kids standing on the side of the road holding out handfuls of quickly melting ice and saying "Good job!"; the tailgating, Newton suburbanites who went to great lengths to give me ice and water; the people screaming from the windows of their apartments for me to "KEEP GOING!"; and yes, even the inebriated student in front of Boston College who tried to hug me.  To the countless, anonymous faces that helped me make it across the finish line, THANK YOU.  I couldn't have done it without you.

Me crossing the finish line :)

Smashing Eggs: Easter 2012

If you've come across the new JCPenny catalog recently, then you may have gotten a glimpse into how we'll be spending part of our Easter Sunday:

Yes, we will be smashing eggshells filled with confetti on the heads of complete strangers.

For years I've heard friends, colleagues, and acquaintances speak about "Easter at Maria's" like folklore or legend: only happens once a year, tons of people, lots of food (even lobster?!), but most importantly: cascarones -- egg shells that have been emptied, washed, dried, (sometimes dyed), and then filled with confetti. 

Here's a video of my friend Maria providing her explanation of the Easter tradition (that's also her and her family in the JCPenny spread above -- she's one of the few people I know that could make separating eggs look that glamorous).  

Judging by Maria's comment, "So on Easter, I put my tequila in a sippy-cup," it sounds like things get pretty messy:

I must admit, I'm a little concerned about my hair.  Just a little.

Turning The Haters Into Believers: My Mom's Campaign To Preserve The Engagement Ceremony

My engagement ceremony: mom, me, dad, and the drummers because what's a celebration without drummers?!

Last November while preparing to host Thanksgiving dinner for my family of origin and our friends in Boston, I started picking up on my mom's ulterior motives for the visit.  During a pre-Thanksgiving phone call that included my requests for jollof rice and rum cake, she repeatedly inquired about my engagement ceremony DVD.

"But mom, you have a copy."

"I know but I gave it someone and they never gave it back."

"Um, well, you might need to go on ahead and give them a call and say, 'Where is my DVD?!'"

"Please, just give me your copy."

"Why?  So it'll go missing like the one you had? Mom, you can't just go around passing out copies of our engagement ceremony like it's a bootleg copy of a Tyler Perry movie.  Why don't you just call the guy who did the videography and ask him to make you another copy?"

"I did and he said he doesn't have it anymore."

"He doesn't have it?!  It was only five years ago!  See...some of these Nigerian vendors...what kind of shady business is he running?"

"Tinu PLEASE! I promise I'll give it back."  Then I heard my father's voice in the background, coming to my defense: "I don't blame her!" he said to my mom. "I wouldn't give you another copy either." 

Clearly, I am my father's daughter.

As a compromise we spent the day after Thanksgiving wading through Black Friday crowds to kill time while waiting for Staples to make a copy of the DVD.  My advice to my mom: "As soon as you get back to Maryland you should take this copy, keep it as your replacement for the one you gave away, and then make a copy so we don't have to do through this again."  So you can guess my reaction when I recently received the following voicemail: "Hello? Ah, yes -- Tinu? This is your mom.  How are you? Look, please can you help me make a copy of your engagement ceremony DVD? Please, I really, really need it.  So if you could do that for me I would kindly appreciate it. Say hello to Josh."

*sigh*

Now before you start leaving comments about how I'm such a terrible daughter, rest assured, my mom has yet ANOTHER copy of the DVD made at the SAME Staples.  In fact when I dropped it off, the gentleman looked down at the cover and said, "Oh! I remember copying this last time!"  But before I sent it off to her, I was curious as to why her Nigerian friends, intimately acquainted with the custom, were asking for the DVD.  Her short answer: "Well all their children are getting engaged and marrying white guys."  Dissatisfied with her response, I kept pressing her on the issue.  I mean, there are lots of other Nigerians they know whose children have married someone who isn't Nigerian so... why us? "Well," my mom added, "their children said that won't do an engagement ceremony unless their parents  do it the way you guys did."

The conversation still left me scratching my head. A traditional engagement ceremony serves as the official introduction of two families being joined together through marriage because in Yoruba culture, as in many non-Western cultures, when you marry the person you do marry the family (and sometimes the whole tribe).  More importantly, it also serves as the groom's opportunity to beg for the bride.  The most indelible memory from our engagement ceremony was how hot it was in my parents basement where the ceremony took place even though we had the A/C cranked up (but hey, it was August in Maryland).  And while ceremonies can have unique elements, many elements are pretty common like the entrance of the groom's family, bringing out the bride, prostrating to parents/elders, singing, and reading the groom's family's "letter of intent" (which I think my family actually drafted).

My mom kind of tip-toed around the issue but I realized that one of the main elements of our ceremony that her friends' children wanted to replicate was the absence of "the D-word": DOWRY.  

From the time I was old enough to attend engagement ceremonies and understand their significance, my father made it abundantly clear that he would NEVER accept dowries (money) for his daughters because there is no amount of money in the world anyone could ever give for his daughters.  So while our ceremony included an exchanging of gifts between families -- I'm pretty sure a case of Martinelli's Sparkling Cider and some fruit baskets were involved -- a dowry played no part in the ceremony and my husband was not complaining.  I'd say my dad's view is pretty rare among Nigerian men of his generation.

So I thought I'd give my mom suggestions for engagement ceremony resources that would not involve me spending so much time making DVD copies: "Have you look on Youtube?" I asked, totally expecting my mom not even know what Youtube was, "There are lots of engagement ceremonies on there."  But mom never ceases to surprise me: "Oh please," she responded, "There are so many stupid ones on there. I don't have time for that foolishness."

The Black Girl's Guide To Surviving A White Christmas

After last year's guide, I thought it might be time for an update.

And no, these are not tips for surviving your first Boston winter or how to become "Queen of the Slopes" during your first ski trip to New Hampshire -- I'm talking about surviving your first Christmas with your white in-laws.

5. Have an escape plan.
Not just physically, but conversationally.  So when your husband's Aunt Ginger corners you and begins her "20 Questions" drill to find out why you haven't popped out triplets when you've been married for 4 weeks, instead of screaming: "MIND YOUR OWN @#!*&$# UTERUS!" at the top of your lungs,  you can simply deflect and say: "Man this cube of cheese is good! I think I'll have another! Pardon me."

4. If you can cook, BRING IT...
Word on the street is I caused a bit of a "ruckus" one holiday when my North Carolina Sweet Potato Casserole went head-to-head with some one else's sweet potato dish that consisted of drained canned sweet potatoes topped with marshmallows.  Now I have nothing against Bruce's Candied Yams, but you can guess which recipe relatives were emailing me for after the fact.  I'm not bragging, I'm just saying...

3. ...And if you can't cook, LEAVE IT.
You have one chance to make a first impression, especially when it comes to your cooking.  When it comes to holiday gathers, how many of you try to ascertain who brought or made which dish before putting the food on your plate?  Go on ahead, raise your hands...I'll wait.

Mmm-hmm...thought so.

Don't be that person whose food everyone avoids because it gave them the runs last year. If the culinary arts isn't your strength, just stick to something that's hard to mess up like a bottle of Two Buck Chuck.


2. Bring your own playlist.
If your in-laws are part of hip-hop's allegedly, largely white audience, you might want to make sure the word "n*gga" isn't repeatedly blasted over the sound system throughout the evening.  Because having a conversation with your grandmother-in-law or your 5 year-old niece while 50 Cent is in the background rapping "...hoes down, G's up I see Xzibit in the cut, hey n*gga roll that weed up" is just...well...awkward.  I mean do you want to explain those lyrics to a 5 year-old during the family Christmas gathering?  Me neither.  Problem solved.

1. Smile and nod...or at least just nod.
Maybe you don't understand why Cousin Bucky believes the President is the antichrist, or why Aunt Melba's dog has its own seat, name card, and place setting at the grown ups table while you and your husband are still stuck at the kid's table.  Maybe no one told you that between every round of Yankee Swap everyone bursts into the Notre Dame fight song or Uncle Amos insists on asking about your "Oriental" friends he met at your wedding when he should be asking about your Korean friends.  The bright side is you can still be remembered as the pleasant, always smiling in-law, but in your mind think whatever you want!

Safe travels to everyone making their way to be with friends and loved ones! Best wishes to all of you during this holiday season.  Enjoy!

"We'll Bury You But We Won't Marry You!" : How To Make Interracial Couples Feel Unwelcome At Your Church

If you've Googled the words "church" and "Kentucky" over the last couple of days, chances are you didn't stumble up on articles about fried chicken establishments accused of deep frying animals other than chickens.  Most likely you read about Gulnare Freewill Baptist Church and a recent vote by its members to control the movement of interracial couples within its four walls.  In a previous post I've mentioned some of the dynamics my husband and I experienced while dating, engaged, and married as it relates to our experiences in church, but in light of current events, I found it apropos to highlight some additions that at times left us scratching our head:

Referring to someone in the third person while he/she is standing right in front of you.

Last Sunday I noticed my husband chatting with a gentleman I didn't recognize, so  I walked over to introduce myself, standing next to my husband and across from the gentleman, politely listening as they carried on their conversation.  The gentleman kept asking my husband questions about me even though I was standing right in front of him.  I thought it was a bit strange as he went on talking to my husband using the term "your wife" but then I realized he hadn't put two and two together nor my husband and I.  When he finally stopped long enough for my to introduce myself, I did so as:  "Tinu DIV-HER. HIS WIFE." And yes I did roll my neck and raise my voice while I said it (forgive me Lord).

Placing the entire responsibility for the "test" in your testimony on one ethnic/racial group.

Recently, my siblings and I were discussing some of the crazy shenanigans that go on during testimonies at New Year's Eve/Watch Night church services.  Invariably, the first people to grab the microphone are people you haven't seen at church since last year's New Year's Eve service.  But my personal qualm is the inappropriateness/irrelevance/offensiveness of some of the things that people get away with sharing.  I've heard everything from people blaming the white man for their delayed promotion, to referring to someone that treated them unfairly as "oriental," to talking about situations where some is trying to "Jew you." So essentially what is meant to be a moment for the body of Christ to come together and encourage one another by hearing about how God is at work in individual lives gets hijacked by people who want to vent for forty-five minutes about topics not suitable for anyone under the age of eighty-five.  Yes, you may be tired and your feet hurt and your gout is flaring up again, but consider whether bringing that up in front of an entire church congregation (including visitors) on New Year's Eve in the right venue for sharing that information.  

Degrading an entire continent, nation, or people group... through prayer.

When it comes to churches supporting mission trips and missionaries, historically the continent of Africa has been a "popular" destination for people, money, and resources.  So to sit in a church service and listen to a prayer for the individuals and the work they are carrying out is nothing new to me.  However, what does catch me off guard is when these prayers are basically a laundry list of diseases that people hope to avoid contracting during the mission trip.  Now don't get me wrong, I have no issue with people staying healthy while traveling,  however, I do have an issue with the single story that we tend to project on the people and places we consider "the other."

Because this is a humor blog about interracial relationships, I was a tad reluctant to write anything about this topic.  I can't say I find anything funny about a congregation determining that the only church activities my husband and I should participate in are each others' funerals.  And yet it reminds me of the need for grace and the fact that there are no perfect churches, but rather broken churches filled with broken people.

Think YOUR Family Has Issues? You Haven't Seen 'Stick Fly' on Broadway

Photo of the marquee while waiting in line for doors to open

The first time I learned about playwright Lydia R. Diamond, I was sitting in a small, windowless conference room on the campus of Harvard University.  Sitting next to me was one of my best friends Rachel who was visiting us in Boston during a break from her studies at Oxford University as a Rhodes Scholar.  Across the table from us sat her former professor at Harvard’s Graduate School of Education, John Diamond.  Seeing as though I considered myself the third wheel, I sat quietly during most of their conversation as they bantered back in forth about all things academia such as her research in England and his experiences as a member of Harvard’s faculty.

But the most indelible part of their conversation was the palpable pride Professor Diamond displayed while talking about his wife Lydia, her work as a playwright, and the strides she was making in expanding her firmly established reputation from Chicago to Boston.  I made a mental note to look up her work and began following her career from afar, catching news about her local productions and her interviews in local publications and shows.  So when heard earlier this year that her play Stick Fly was Broadway-bound -- being directed by Kenny Leon and produced by Alicia Keys no less—the first thing I did was call Rachel saying: “Dude.  This is huge.”

So last week my husband and I headed down to New York for the first preview performance of Stick Fly’s Broadway production.  Stick Fly delves into a host of topics including race, color, class, privilege, education, sibling rivalries, and of particular interest: interracial relationships.  The play is set on Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts, in the vacation home of the LeVays, an affluent African-American family.  The two LeVay sons Kent (Dulé Hill) and Flip (Mekhi Phifer) arrive for a family vacation weekend -- one with his black, entomologist fiancée Taylor (Tracee Thoms) and the other with his Italian white, European-backpacker turned Peace Corps member turned savior of Black and Latino inner city children girlfriend Kimber (Rosie Benton).  Add to the plot some family dysfunction and well-kept secrets that come to light and you have two hours of jaw-dropping, gasping, and laughing out loud.  And don't be surprised if you hear the person behind you let out an "Oh no s/he didn't!" or an "I KNOW that's right!" before the night is over.

Photo of the set from our seats

Having read the play this summer, I knew that the foundation of such excellent performances by the cast (particularly the character of Cheryl played by Condola Rashad) was Lydia Diamond's writing, particularly her knack for voice and dialogue.  On more than occasion, my husband commented: "These actors are really good at improvising.  I mean, they just made that up that one line on the spot right? That wasn't in the script was it?"  And on more than one occasion I'd reply, "Um, honey, it's in the script.  Lydia Diamond wrote that."

 

I have no reservations giving this play two, enthusiastic thumbs up.  If there is any play that would leave you challenging assumptions, Stick Fly would be it.

The cast of Stick Fly at curtain call: Rosie Benton, Mekhi Phifer, Dulé  Hill, Tracee Thoms, Condola Rashad and Ruben Santiago-Hudson

Life Imitating Art: Herman Cain Speech Writers Inspired By Modern Family?

My Big, Fat, Racially Segregated Wedding

(This piece is featured in the Fall issue of Wedding Nouveau, "the premiere digital and print-on-demand bridal resource for multi-ethnic weddings and intercultural brides who dream in culture.")

Out of the 365 days of the year, for 364 of them, our wedding DVD collects dust on a bookshelf in our living room.  But every August 19^th, my husband and I dust it off, watch and remember the day our family began.

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From Beans to Chocolate

I knew something was up when my husband came home from work one evening, disappeared into our kitchen without a word, and reappeared in our living room holding two glass of bubbly.  Now you'd think I'd get the hint that he had something important to share with me, but as I am wont to do, I tried (and failed) double-tasking as long as I could, assuring my husband that I was hanging onto his every word by grunting a few "mm-hms" and "uh-huhs" every thirty seconds while clicking away on my keyboard, eyes locked on my computer.  When I realized the looming shadow suddenly cast over my screen was from my husband standing over me and not the sun setting, I had no choice but to put my computer aside and give him my undivided attention.

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(Black) Cookout Etiquette

Obviously my husband isn't the only person who thinks cookouts are a "unique" cultural experience.

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Your People Ain't My People

"Going home is not a vacation."  Don't get it twisted.


Because women are most often the 'kinkeepers,' that is, those who preserve and continue traditions within a family, this role can cause stress when their traditions collide with those of their in-laws.

- "The Daughter-In-Law's Survival Guide: Everything you need to know about relating to your mother-in-law (Women Talk About)"

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"No, My Wife Is Not A White South African."

As lawyers working in a city where educational pedigree and professional achievement serve as ones calling card,  my husband and I meet lots of really smart people with tons of book sense and absolutely no common sense.  No matter how hard we try--no matter how BIG or OBVIOUS the hints--some people just catch on to the fact that our family consists of a white man and a black woman married to each other.

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By Way of Introduction: Laura K. Warrell, Tart & Soul

I love all things local, including bloggers, and last month I had the pleasure of hosting Blogging While Brown's first (of many) Boston Meetup.  One of the many new friends I made is this week's guest blogger:  Laura K. Warrell, writer, teacher and author of the blog Tart & Soul: A Search for Connection and Meaning.  Before she takes over the world, I want to make sure you remember where you read her first.  Enjoy!
-Tinu

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