Love in Black and White: The Triumph of Love Over Prejudice and Taboo (21 page)

Sometimes it struck me as absurd that women have to preoccupy themselves with so many ridiculous details just to get married. What made it all seem aggravatingly superfluous was the fact that we were already married. I much preferred the quiet, intimate way we first married to this big to-do. But I also knew that in the eyes of society, we would not be considered truly married unless there was a wedding, and I must admit, a part of me did not want to miss out on any of life’s official rites of passage.

There was only one thing more difficult than planning the wedding, and that was handling calls from “concerned” relatives, people I had grown up among, respected, admired, and loved. One relative got right to the point.

“Gail, just remember, it’s never too late to call off the wedding,” she said in a confidential tone. “If you have any doubts, any at all, you can call the whole thing off. Even if it’s two minutes before the wedding is to begin, you can just say, “I’m not coming.” Don’t thInk you have to go through with it just because it’s all arranged.”

When I assured her I was not going to call it off, she seemed a bit disappointed.

One of my cousins called, twice in one week, to vent his strong opposition to my impending marriage to a black South African.

These calls hurt me deeply, because I had been very close to my cousin.

When I was eight I had even convinced myself I was in love with him.

Throughout college we confided in each other about our love lives and hopes for the future, went sailboarding together on the Atlantic Ocean, and visited each other in Boston and Providence.

But now my cousin spoke in such a loud and aggressive tone I had to hold the phone away from my ear.

“Mark went through some horrific experiences at the hands of white people,” he said. “He must have a deep, latent rage against everyone white. His book is very angry. I just hope his anger doesn’t erupt against you.”

“He’s never laid a hand on me,” I said. “And if he did, I’d leave instantly.” I was shocked. at the very suggestion that Mark would ever use violence against me. I felt my cousin’s “concerns” were unfounded and rather racist. My cousin, an Ivy League graduate who lived in Boston, was admirably tall, handsome, and blond with a classic WASPness about him. lIe’s probably aid o/blacks and doesn’t know any, I told myself. You should try to allay his /ears.

“What happens after Mark becomes a citizen?” he demanded.

“Might he dump you? is his family going to stay here? Where will you fit In with all those Africans? He’s doing well now, but what happens when the money runs out? How’s he going to support his whole family and you? How will your views of him change when you’re the main breadwinner and you’re supporting him and his family?”

The questions came in a barrage, and he hardly listened to my answers before jumping to the next.

“I’m concerned mostly about the fact that he’s South African, from a totally different country, and that his father was totally dominant and controlling,” he said. “He must be so angry at whites. And now that he has a white woman under his control-” “Hey, wait a minute!” I cried angrily. “Wait, hold on! I’m not under anybody’s control.”

“Yeah, all right, but he’s from a patriarchal society and has an Incredibly strong will.”

“And he saw his mother and grandmother stand up to that male dominance and win. He admires strong women. He’s not looking for someone to control. Far from it. He’s looking for a friend, a woman who is her own person, whom he can respect, trust, and love.”

I felt beaten down by the conversation. I said I was tired and had to go to bed. I could have refused to answer his questions, hung up, told him to mind his own business, or simply made an excuse to get away from the phone, but I decided to stand firm right in the firing line, and as he hurled his concerns at me, I did my best to shoot them down one by one. I wanted to prove to him that I wasn’t afraid to answer his questions, that I wasn’t avoiding serious issues, that I fully understood what I was getting into by marrying a black foreigner. I only hoped he got my message and would learn to accept my decision.

“This is a difficult but strengthening process,” I wrote that night in my journal. “I’m glad I did not turn and run from talking to him. I want my family to understand me, and the only way to do that is by communicating with them.”

But my dreams that night were filled with images of black-white clashes, race riots, my escape down a long twisted chute into another world, my mother, my father, Mark. I was trying to go somewhere, find someone to talk to, to listen to me, but my attempts were in vain.

I tossed and turned, torn apart by vivid dreams of endless fights and arguments. It was mid-July, hot and humid. My fan creaked as it Sirens, horns, and the constant roar of traffic below my window kept rotated back and forth, pushing warm air over my sticky body.

sleep at bay.

That night was the beginning of the two-week period before the wedding during which I did not have a single night’s sleep. I was a walking zombie by day, a restless insomniac by night. My dreams were alternately wild, majestic, beautiful, confusing, grand, strange, and surreal. I dreamed of parading triumphantly down the aisle leaning on my father’s arm, of saying my vows in a blur of joyful tears as I gazed into Mark’s dark and startled eyes, of dancing to my favorite songs in my mother’s satin wedding dress as beads of sweat slid between my breasts, of seeing the smiling faces of my family and friends.

The minister who was to marry us, Reverend A. Wayne Benson of Middle Island Presbyterian Church, insisted that Mark and I go through premarital counseling with him. This was difficult, as Mark was in North Carolina, but we made it to one session. Sitting calmly side by side in front of the minister in a small book-lined office, we were quizzed about our expectations, fears, and hopes in relation to marriage. The whole time I kept thinking, Should I tell him? This is ridiculous. Who ever heard o/premarital counseling/or people who are already married?

One week before the wedding, I could keep our secret from the minister no longer. I went to the church and told him he did not have to bother with securing a marriage license for us.

“What do you mean?” Rev. Benson asked.

I told him, in a roundabout and hesitant way, about my reluctance to face my family’s opposition head-on and our decision to go down to City Hall quietly.

“You mean, you’re married?” he said with a start.

“Yes.”

“Oh, well,” he said, leaning back in his swivel chair and chuckling to himsetr “This changes things a bit.”

“But I don’t want anyone to know,” I said, leaning forward. “It would spoil the wedding. You see, I wasn’t ready for a public wedding then, but now I am.”

“I won’t tell a soul,” he said. “I’ll give your father a church wedding certificate, but it won’t be an official one registered with the state, since you already have one of those.” He smiled knowingly.

I thanked him profusely.

A few days before the wedding my mother called from Minneapolis just to tell me she was proud of me and loved me very much.

“Oh… thanks,” I said, a bit overwhelmed. “But, why are you so proud of me?”

“You’re so grown up. You’ve planned this whole wedding by Iyourseu You’re so organized and efficient and, most of all, you’re able to do what you feel is right.”

“Thanks,” I said, feeling a warm glow within me. “And I love you, too.”

Over the next few days several people told me they admired my courage and were proud of me. In spite of the negative stereotypes about white women who date and marry black men, I realized that most of my friends, family, and acquaintances truly admired me for what I was doing, for my courage in marrying interracially. And yes, it did take courage for me to marry a black man, just as it took a lot of courage for Mark to marry a white woman, but we knew the bond woon iiQ wPfl ctn0 And nip.

I did not sleep at all the night before the wedding. I was in a hotel room with FIorah, whose shower cap crinkled on the pillow beside mine each time she moved, and my mother, who occasionally snored and knocked the phone oft the nightstand in her sleep.

The next morning, surrounded by my bridesmaids at breakfast, I could not keep my leg from bouncing up and down in nervous agitation. Joanne Matzen, my maid of honor, kept putting her hand on my leg to keep it from shaking. As I walked down the aisle beside my father, my bouquet vibrated and I tried in vain to control my trembling. I felt a sea of faces turned toward me. Were they smiling? Who had decided to come?

Which relatives had boycotted in protest?

One of my bridesmaids, Brita Heimarck, played flute for us, our friend Phyllis Reed sang a tune she had written lyrics for, my father stepped into the pulpit and gave us his blessing to be “fruitful,” and Rev.

Benson led us in our vows. As I looked into Mark’s gentle eyes, clasping his hand and promising to love him in sickness and In health, for rich or for poor, my trembling ceased and the onlookers faded from my consciousness. I felt it was just the two of us standing there, whispering promises into the hollow emptiness of an echoing cathedral.

Through my tear-fllled eyes the wedding gnests appeared to be one huge mass of smiling humanity as I walked down the aisle arm in arm with Mark. It was not until we were standing in the reception line that I was able to look around me. What I saw overwhelmed me: every single one of my relatives, except those who had sent gifts and notes of apology, had come to the wedding-that is, all but one uncle.

My cousin, the one who had plagued me with his concerns over the phone, threw his arms around me, hugged me tight, and whispered in my ear, “You look beautiful.” Later he apologized to both me and Mark for the phone calls, said that he had overcome his reservations and wished us happiness. Those words, coming from someone who grew up with me and who had to struggle so desperately with his own prejudices and fears in order to accept my decision, meant a great deal to me. It showed me that the prejudice of some people is not inborn but the result of ignorance and unfounded fears.

The reception was held at the Bellport Unitarian Fellowship, a small white building overlooking Great South Bay, which was a bright and shimmering blue, studded by white caps. The hours passed quickly, speeded on by animated conversation, an array of food, tall glasses of champagne, and heartfelt toasts, dancing and laughing, hugs and smiles, the cutting of the wedding cake, the throwing of rice, and the tossing of the bridal bouquet. My cousin Debbie caught the bouquet but Diana tore it out of her hand.

Carol, who was one of my bridesmaids, whispered in my ear from time to time exactly what I was supposed to do and when.

“you freeze the top layer of the cake and eat it in one yearn your anniversary,” she whispered.

I grimaced. “you mean eat this a whole year later?”

Later she whispered urgently, “you and Mark need to leave right away.”

We hurried out of the church under a shower of rice. I had rice in my ears, rice sliding down my back, rice in my bra. As Mark and I drove off, In a car loaded with wedding gifts and wrapped in pink and white streamers, I turned to get one last look at all those beloved people who were cheering the two of us on, who not only accepted us and our love, but who genuinely celebrated it.

Why was I so to have a public wedding? I asked myself.

Look at them, waving and wishing us happiness. Perhaps there’s little to/ear as long as you/ollow your heart and stand byyour convictions.

Mark and I spent two very rainy but wonderful days of our honeymoon at the American Hotel in Sag Harbor, then rejoined his fainlly and headed down to Hilton Head, South Carolina, to visit Stan Smith and his family.

Laaving my friends and coworkers at the Gerihan Information Center was dilflcult, but the worst part of leaving New York was saying good-bye to Carol and leaving the apartment we shared. Carol was still embroiled in her painful relationship with Robert, which ended a year later in a divorce as secretive and quiet as their wedding had been. l regretted that I would no longer be there to support her on the days his constant absence and numerous affairs particularly depressed her.

She helped Mark and me carry boxes loaded with my belongings downstairs to the rented van on Flatbush Avenue and, wishing us the best, gave me one last long hug good-bye.

Despite leaving my friends and job, part of me rejoiced at leaving New York. As I lost some of my Midwestern naivete and became more acutely aware of the dangers and pressures of living in a large city as a single woman, I had begun to feel harried. At times my fear of rape rose to such a pitch that I wished my breasts and hips and blond hair would all disappear and that I could become invisible. I would cringe, shudder, and walk faster across Central Park or down Flatbush Avenue, my head bent and eyes averted, whenever I heard men murmur from a park bench or from the shadows, “Hey, baby, you lookin’ damn good, you make me wanna…”

A few days later we were on Hilton Head Island. In all my wildest childhood dreams I had never expected to go on a honeymoon with seven South Africans. But there we were, all eight of us, stepping onto an exclusive but crowded beach on one of Hilton Head’s many plantations.

The beach looked like a scene out of any grade-B summer film: teenagers playing volleyball and Frisbee, Coppertone-covered bodies clad in skimpy bikinis baking and burning in the sun, motley towels strewn across the hot sand, couples strolling along the shore as waves crashed and swirled around their ankles, seagulls screeching and fighting over bread crumbs, transistor radios blaring.

As we walked across the beach I was acutely aware that there were no blacks in sight except Mark and his family. People stared at us intently, probably wondering how so many blacks, some dressed in African tribal garb, had managed to gain access to their exclusive vacation site and what I, a blond American in a blue bikini, was doing with them. Were they my servants? After all, most blacks on Hilton Head were servants of one sort or another.

Granny stared about her in dismay. She probably wondered how so many women could get away with wearing so little, and why whites, who usually seem so proud of their light skin color, were trying so hard to turn her color. She wrapped her long African print mucheka closer about her legs and headed for the shade of an umbrella. She was immediately confronted by a muscular lifegnard with white cream smeared on his sunburned nose.