NICOLA YOON
MY HUSBAND SAYS THIS OF the moment he realized he wanted to marry me. First, he thought, I want to marry this girl. And then he thought: Oh shit.
The moment he had his Oh shit epiphany, I was alone in the shower, singing loudly and tragically off-key. It’s a sad fact that though I love to sing, I’m not at all good at it. I’m reasonably sure I was singing “Cool Rider” from Grease 2 (the far superior Grease movie). Something about my terrible singing sent love bubbles dancing from his eyes.
Why the Oh shit? Because my husband is Korean American and I am not. Not only am I not Korean American, I am Jamaican American, which is to say that I’m black. He thought Oh shit because in that moment he could foresee the trouble that loving and marrying me would cause in his family.
I was pretty naïve back then. We were both twenty-eight years old and in graduate school studying creative writing. It truly didn’t occur to me that anyone would object to us being together. My parents didn’t. It didn’t even occur to me that they might.
A year after that singing-in-the-shower moment, my husband-to-be proposed. By that time we’d been through a lot with his family. When he first told them that we were dating, they threatened to disown him. It scared him so much that we broke up for twelve hours. Back then my husband was the kind of wonderful son who called his mother once a week. After we started dating, those phone calls dried up. Why? Because every phone call became a lecture on why we shouldn’t be dating. And what were the stated reasons? You have nothing in common. Korean culture and black culture don’t mix. She will disgrace our family. What will happen to your children? Black people are . . . less.
After we got engaged, his parents did disown him. This really happened. It broke his heart and it broke mine. I’m certain it broke his mother’s as well. I don’t think she wanted to do it, but she somehow felt she had to. I imagine that she thought the loss of his family would persuade him to do what she saw as the right thing.
And then came his brother’s wedding. As his fiancée I was, of course, invited. Also, his brother and his wife had been nothing but supportive from the very beginning. They insisted that I attend. But I knew if I attended, his parents would not. I made the choice to stay away because I didn’t want to ruin the day for my future brother- and sister-in-law. I still believe I did the right thing. But I am conspicuously missing from those family photos. My husband and I still notice my absence.
Aside from his parents, there are some other challenges to being an interracial couple. These days he and I still get a lot of curious glances. When I put a jar of kimchi into my grocery cart at our favorite Korean grocery store, Korean people stare. When he picks up a can of ackee at the Jamaican store, Jamaican people stare. We get the occasional snide remark from both sides. When we have oysters at our favorite date-night spot, white people stare. One of our white friends jokingly says that this is because my husband and I are two different kinds of nonwhite.
Two years after we married, we moved to Los Angeles. With her son so close to home again, his mother made contact. It would take another year before I was invited to her house, and then only if his father was not there. It would be another eight years before I was invited with his father present.
At various times over the years, my husband has considered breaking all contact with his parents. I’m the one who has persuaded him not to. I thought we could find a place—a narrow island of understanding—where his parents wouldn’t have to lose a son and a son wouldn’t have to lose his parents. Luckily, we did find that island. Of course, our relationship with his parents is not what it could be. There’s a part of my heart and a part of his that is guarded against them. But, having said that, our relationship with them is good. I say this without hesitation or reservation. As complicated as it is, I love his parents. I’m sure they love me. I’m sure they love our daughter.
Are my family and I the exception to their black people are less rule? Definitely.
Are they still racist? Again, definitely.
Still, though, something inside of them has shifted. Maybe it’s just exposure—years of interaction because of birthdays and school functions and Chuseok dinners. Maybe it’s witnessing just how much their son loves me. Maybe it’s witnessing how much I love him. They are more open to the world than they were before I came into their lives.
And that counts for something.
That counts as hope.
One day, a few years after my husband and I were married, my mother asked me if all this drama and heartache was worth it. She was justifiably angry at my mother- and father-in-law.
Was it worth it? she asked me.
Of course it was.
It was then, and it is now. I would do it again a thousand times over. Because here’s the thing: I am completely in love with my husband. I think he’s the best thing ever—the bee’s knees, the cat’s meow, the milk and the crème. He’s my best friend. He’s my creative partner. He’s a wonderful father. Together we made a kind, happy, beautiful little girl destined to make the world laugh. I won the love lottery when I met him. I wouldn’t give him up for something as fundamentally stupid, devoid of hope, and morally corrupt as racism. I wouldn’t give him up for anything.