They're All Precious In His Sight

(This is an essay I wrote in creative writing class, for "This I Believe" via NPR.)

Sometime in 100 degree days and afternoon thunderstorms, I learned to believe in equality. Maybe it was church every Sunday, Jesus Loves the Little Children, or maybe something about elongated syllables rounded by men on the radio who said things like, “the only time I want a woman around me when I’m watching sports is when she’s bringing me a beer.”

Born in a trailer-and-fireworks-stand town in South Carolina, I hear things like this all the time. That might be why I believe in biracial marriages and civil rights. I believe in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and that He would love thy neighbor as thyself, whether dark-skinned or light-skinned.

Sometimes it’s easy to ignore the background mindsets of traditional Southerners. I now live in a diverse town; almost everyone has friends of different races. On top of that, most of the people I know are artists—liberal by definition. However, when elections roll around, I mute political ads. At family get-togethers, I slip out of the room when the conversation heads toward America’s choice of leaders.

One Sunday night, my grandmother was talking softly to my mother, the way adults do when they don’t want kids to hear. Later, I found out that, in discussing the preparations for my cousin’s wedding, they talked about biracial marriage. She learned that my aunt told her daughter that marrying a non-white man would be unacceptable.

I wasn't raised in the segregated south, so I don’t understand the social faux pas. But it seems dichotomous that a society of chivalry—ladies first, "yes ma'am", please, after you—can have such backward ideals. Marriage is a sacred bond between a white man and white woman, a black man and a black woman. Better an evil white man than a good black man. White Christian children don’t play with black Christian children.

This can change, though. My brother Ryan began dating a girl I’ll call Jocelyn White. Someone would mention “Jocelyn, Ryan’s friend,” and “oh, Jocelyn’s black, but she’s a really nice girl.” I’m not sure who finally connected “Jocelyn” as “Ryan’s girlfriend”, but my grandmother’s reaction was a small nod, an acknowledgment of something she’d already known.

They didn’t talk about it again until June. After my brother’s graduation, Jocelyn’s mother, Mrs. White, came over. After the talk of “our babies are all grown up,” my mother introduced her to my grandmother. They were true social butterflies; within five minutes, they were laughing and chattering like best friends.

Later, at Red Lobster, after biscuits and drinks but before salads, my grandmother said that Mrs. White was very friendly and that she was glad Ryan had a nice girl like Jocelyn. Some black girls, she said, are preferable to some white girls.

Ryan and Jocelyn are still together. She’s in Indiana for college, but coming home for Thanksgiving break. They’ve talked of engagement, and I can see them walking down the aisle, a happy couple, and not two ungodly sinners.