I wasnt a bad kid. I was polite. I knew when to nod and use my manners. I got good grades and took AP classes. Went to two parties in total before the end of my senior year. I smoked a little weed and wore my skirts too short. The usual.
Before having met me, she had told her son I would never get along with his family. I would cause issues. I suppose a black girl with blue curls and a septum piercing would clash with the color scheme planned for that years christmas cards. At the time, I didn't get it. I mean i could get along with just about anyone, right?
My first relationship came with a lot of firsts, duh.
His grandfather, having just met me, asked me the standard get-to-know-you style questionnaire expected of someone in his position. What are you studying? Five-year plan? Where are you from? He told me he was glad I “did it the right way” when the topic of my newly gained citizenship came up.
The first time I went to a party one of his friends threw, resulted in a bit of an “outburst” on my part. Inconsiderate of me, I know. The whole time he was smiling and laughing, having a great time. I was mildly uncomfortable. His friends had opened the bathroom door to us kissing. I was topless, still changing into my bathing suit. A spectacle worthy of hooting and hollering, a spectacle my boyfriend had expected me to entertain. To give his friends a show.
I stopped holding my toungue after the door finally closed. How could he look me in the face and invite me to hang out with his white freinds who throw n*gga around like it’s confetti? Did he not think the invitation worthy of a footnote? Or did he expect me to be okay with it, like he was? To laugh and smile and nod along unfazed as he did.
I wish I could say this was a one-time ordeal. It was not. Alcohol really loosens the tongue.
By the time I first went to his family home, over half a year had passed on our relationship. I think his mom was hoping to wait me out. His house was nice. The kind with a fishing boat in the large detached shed and “live laugh love” plastered over the drywall. His dad had made us dinner. His mom off on a trip. In her place, I was greeted with a photo. Her and her mom smiling beneath a Confederate flag.
Looking back, I understand what his mom had meant. I would always feel out of place in his family. Not because of anything I had done, but because they would never make the room for me. As much as her son loved black art, culture, and girls, he would not push to make room for it.
His spotify wrapped was filled with JPEG, Death Grips, Paris Texas, Tyler, and the like. Everytime tiktok got a hold of some “new” (black) slang, he was using and abusing it. As we dated, he started buying chains, dressing better with the wardrobe I helped him build, styled the haircuts I pushed him to get.
Blackness was something he could pick and choose from. So when his mom gave him a list of her favorite conservative politicians, he took it to the voting booth and cast his ballot (literally). When his friends said things they shouldn't have, he was unfazed. He didnt want to cause trouble. unwilling to have those uncomfortable conversations, a luxury I could not afford. More than anything, I don't think he said anything because it never occurred to him he should.
While this is not a grudge I hold, it is a lesson. One that I take with me everywhere I go.