The Genesis: Premarital counseling

“How does being an interracial couple impact your relationship?” the counselor asked in our premarital counseling session.  We were meeting with a priest, and neither of us Catholic. 

 We look at each other confused.  “We aren’t an interracial couple.”

“Well, you’re Mexican and you’re African-American, so. . .”

Here’s where the counselor had it wrong.  Technically, he’s Mexican-American generations in.  I’m Jamaican, African-American by default.  I’m the immigrant.

“But neither of us are white.”

“You are from different cultures.”

After seven years of dating, we were confused.  We never thought of our cultures as different from each other.

“How did your parents react when you started dating?”

It is hard to explain to a priest that a healthy dose of indifference is a good thing.  Our parents didn’t look at us twice.  My mom just wanted to know how soon we’d be on the Christmas tamale list.  His mom just wanted to know how many children I was willing to have.  What culture divide did we have to cross?

La Bodeguita Del Medio: On your third visit you're family

These are the rules when you come to our house. On first and second visit, we’ll treat you like a guest.  You can have a nice glass of water or wine.  More than likely we’ll serve you something to eat.  You can keep your shoes on.  You are not expected to do anything other than be charmed by our hospitality.

On third visit things change.  There might be a child who needs a cup of apple juice.  You should get it for them. A diaper may need changing.  Then there’s the cat box.  Help yourself.  Chop an onion, pour your own glass of wine, and take off your shoes.  On your third visit you are family. 

This didn’t start with us.  My spouse and I learned this from our families.  Our traditions are there, and we’ve added new details to make our family real.

I make the babies, and I cut the grass.  He does laundry with military precision and cooks with a religious passion that would make that priest proud.  Our children’s sometimes dine on organic food and wash it down with a high fructose corn syrup popsicles or Krispy Kreme doughnuts.  Opposite is our standard.

La fin du monde as we know it: And I feel fine

Some families define themselves by food or holidays.  I love food.  I love holidays.  But we eat standing up and spend our holidays dozing at the kitchen table.  Our family life is in a developing stage.  Right now we are speeding. We rush to work and dinner and soccer and ballet and bedtime.  We read books in the bathroom like guilty children.  We cannot accept that we are husband and wife or adults.  We are still kids.  We sneak away from work and have day dates so we can see each other without the confusion and chaos of the night. We only have time for the moments in between.  We’d probably believe in love if we were awake long enough to contemplate it. 

Exhaustion, like indifference, is a good thing.  We walk in cemeteries and dine with our neighbors.  We are painful normal.  At one point we, the Mexican man and Black woman, were the only straight couple on our street.  The rest of our neighbors were single or gay.  We, the diaspora, represented the middle of the road.  When a white couple moved in across the street, we thought it odd that they didn’t have a dog or a baby from a third world country.  Maybe we should tell them the need some kind of gimmick to fit in these days.

The world is full of racism, social elitism, and oil spills.  There are plenty of things to polarize us.  Political and religious issues to get our ire up.  That is until we turn to our families.  At home, we close the doors on the outside world and make something, not perfect, but perfect for us. 

I love the way he cooks.  He jokes about the way I smell after mowing the lawn.  We still take off our shoes.  Sometimes we pause.  We are a family at rest and in motion.  I’d love to have you over and let you sit for a spell, watch the chaos, and help us change the litter box.  Even if you find us tiresome before the third visit.