A few months later, I start dating a white, Jewish boy named Dan. His wry humor and gentle manner had made him a fast friend. The mutual attraction is clear by spring. And his handwritten letters mailed every single day over the following summer cement the bond. Dan is now my life partner of close to thirty years. But back at the start we both had family who might try to stand in the way.
In June 1988 Dan and I drive across the country from Stanford to the New York area where my parents had relocated, and where Dan’s mother as well as his father and stepmother live. It’s a meet-the-parents road trip times three. After the long drive we stop at my folks’ place first. I take the steps tentatively toward a house I’ve never visited before, my new boyfriend in hand.
I know my parents might be disappointed that Dan is white. My mom’s fervent, frequently expressed hope that I would have more Black friends despite living in a white town is always in the back of my mind. But they are an interracial couple themselves, and I’m not going to let them balk at the racial difference between me and Dan. My far greater concern is Dan’s Jewishness. My childhood was peppered with Daddy’s jokes about Jews and other ethnic groups.
Twenty minutes after we arrive at my folks’ place, Daddy has sized up Dan. He walks me out of the living room and into the hallway, turns to me, puts his strong finger under my chin, and lifts my face up to meet his aging, watery eyes. Daddy is now seventy years old.
“It’s clear he adores you. That’s all that matters to me.”