Tammy Medell Gardner
San Jose, CA
I am white. The man with whom I fell in love in 1982 was black. We met in Fort Worth, Texas working at the same company. He grew up in Charlotte, North Carolina, while I was from northern Michigan. Our romance, so new and full of hope, soon faltered with these words: “I can never take you home to meet my momma.” This young man’s proud, traditional, black, North Carolina momma could not accept a blonde, green-eyed, white girl as someone her son should be with. This was the first time in my life that I became aware of racism. Up to this point, I had somehow managed to live in a color-blind world. I was hurt and disappointed that someone could make a judgement about me without ever meeting me. The irony of this situation would’ve been comedic if my heart hadn’t been so broken.
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