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."
