Two Points

During our twenties in the San Francisco Bay Area, Steve and I noticed a slow proliferation of interracial couples. We developed a shorthand, private descriptor--IRCA, which stood for "interracial couple alert"--that we'd say aloud whenever we saw one.

At first, when we started dating twenty-seven years ago, there were hardly any. Since then, there are ever more IRCAs all throughout America, so many now that we often don't bother to mention a sighting anymore. In recent years, we've even spotted a few IRCAs in magazine ads and brochures, something we never thought we'd see.

Some of the couples we saw years ago appeared to be in the lowest socioeconomic class; they looked down and out--ill-kempt, sometimes obese or driving rusted out cars, swearing at kids in the back seat. I feared we might become like them--social outcasts--and I didn't want my life or my children's lives to be drastically limited by interracial marriage.

But, eventually, finally, I committed--not only to Steve, but to an interracial marriage and family, and to being defined by it, whatever it might mean.

* * * *

At dinner, Colette says she really likes the new freshmen on her basketball team this year.

I nod and observe out loud, "Almost all the girls on the team will be black this year." She knows I'm happy for her that she's such an integral part of this select group of girls within her diverse school. She knows I even envy her insider status with these varsity basketball players. Gently, I tease her, knowing I'm pushing the boundaries of what I should say: "You think you're so black," slips out of my smiling mouth.

She harrumphs. "Uh...yeah...blacker than you."

"But," I counter, "it counts to marry a black man and have biracial children."

"Not as much as being black," she says, in the dry manner we use to humor each other.

"I know," I acknowledge, "but you have to admit, it does count for something."

Trainable

Over a glass of wine Saturday evening, a volleyball mom told me she doesn't know what she'll do when the season ends this month. "The screaming is so cathartic!" she said. Our high school daughter doesn’t play volleyball, but we were invited to dine with team parents because of friendships forged on the bleachers during basketball season.

I come from a family of sports fans. Growing up, I didn’t count myself among them. The noise of the TV during football games irritated me, and I sequestered myself in my room to color, play or read books. Even as a teenager, I preferred to study or talk on the phone while the family roared in the den over each touchdown, each interception.

I happily married Steve, who had little interest in football.

Only in the past ten years have I become a rabid sports fan, screaming like a wild woman at my daughters’ soccer and basketball games. I started out slowly--quietly observing my big, non-competitive firstborn move from dance into soccer. But, within a year, I was overshooting all parental boundaries, calling out critical instructions to Colette from the sidelines.

The season of my distasteful yelling culminated in an embarrassing Sunday afternoon when I walked purposefully down the sideline toward the goal my daughter was protecting and screamed for the entire soccer complex to hear, “IF YOU DON’T WANT TO PLAY GOALIE, THEN TELL THE COACH AND GET OUT OF THERE!”

Eventually, Colette taught me that the only thing she wanted to hear out of my mouth while she was playing a game was “YAY!” or “Go team!”

Both of my daughters have impressed upon me that since I can’t dribble well and I can’t do a decent lay-up, I have no business calling out advice to them. I’m still loud, but I keep what I yell entirely positive. If I really need to curse their performance, I do it quietly, to whoever’s standing next to me.

It's True

Like our new president, my longtime husband is brown-skinned and biracial--a black man for all practical purposes--and I am approximately the same age and height as our new first lady. We also have two lovely daughters, but ours are older, almost seventeen and twelve now. The similarities end there for the most part. I'm white; I wear tee-shirts and jeans; I'm treated for anxiety; and I tutor part-time in a college writing center.

Last February, we pulled up to a motel on the outskirts of Memphis, on a weekend trip to watch our older daughter's varsity basketball team play in the sub-state tournament. Second-born Adele asked, "So there's an indoor pool?"

"I think so."

"Awesome!"

"True dat!" I said, for fun.

"Stop it, Mama."

"What? I can say that."

"No. You can't."

"Why can't I? There's nothing wrong with that."

My husband answered for her. "It's not something you say when you're a middle-aged white woman."

"That is so mean!" I said in disbelief. "I can't believe you just called me that."

"What? That's what you are," he said as we got out of the car. "What do you think you are? A hip, young black woman?"

"Um. Yes!" I shut my door assertively. "Don't ever call me that other thing again."

He shook his head, chuckling. Since then, Steve and the girls regularly refer to me as a hip, young black woman, which I do appreciate. I want to be whoever I want to be, and I don't want anyone to put me in a stifling box where I'm expected to talk and act and dress a certain way. I want to be free to imagine the whole world, to try to understand and laugh with everyone in it.