Garrison Keillor vs. Michael Jordan: Interracial Dating in the Midwest

“Mom, Dad, I just want you to know I’ve met the man I’m going to marry.”

It was 1985 and I had just gotten home from my first day of fifth grade. My Mom looked at me intrigued, “Oh really? Tell me about this special guy.” “Well, his name is Kevin and he just moved here from Texas. He is a really good basketball player and so sweet, smart and friendly. He looks just like Michael Jordan. I think I’m in looove,” I said as I skipped around the living room. “He looks like Michael Jordan?” my mom asked, “So he’s black?” “Yes, and he is soooo cute!” I answered. My mom and dad looked at each other and asked me to sit down. They explained that while they were sure Kevin was a great kid, they would prefer I marry someone “like us.” My mom began to outline the difficulties surrounding interracial relationships but to me Kevin was just… Kevin. His family moved to Ohio in eighth grade, so a marriage there would never be, but I never stopped thinking about what my parents said.

I grew up in Lutheranland: home of Garrison Keillor and the “Minnesota nice”. We were a middle-class, white family surrounded by the same. I was taught to treat everyone equally and to NEVER EVER repeat the few racist remarks uttered by my grandparents over the years. As a child, this all made sense, but as I got older, certain comments made by my parents seem to contradict the very basis of what I was told.

When the 18 year old girl next door got knocked-up, the story always ended in the whisper, “The father is black”. Asians were referred to as “Orientals,” and talking about someone who was gay, always ended with, “But, we don’t agree with that lifestyle.” Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents. They are good, honest, caring people. Racially, they are strides ahead of where their parents were, and instilled in my sister and me the tools to take it even further.

Most of my friends growing up shared the same liberal viewpoints I did, but could we really put them into practice living in Midwestern suburbia?

I went to college in Milwaukee which, in the social sense, was like taking Diversity 101. The real cultural awakening happened when I moved to Chicago shortly after graduation. I remember telling my mom my first job was in Skokie and her saying, “That is a really Jewish neighborhood.” I took this to be more of her subtle racial commentary, but in all fairness, this statement was actually pretty accurate.

Chicago truly was a melting pot of different cultures, races, foods, and traditions I had never been exposed to, and I ate it up with a spoon. Some aspects of this exposure, however, left a bad taste in my mouth. Hearing friends making outwardly racist comments, many of which my “Minnesota nice” ears had never heard before, was uncomfortable to say the least. Was this a result of upbringing? True beliefs? I remember hearing a Caucasian friend refer to a certain type of nut with the “n” word followed with, “I can say that. I had a lot of black friends growing-up.” Does that really make it OK?

Living in a city of diversity also opens up the dating pool significantly. I wouldn’t say I’ve ever necessarily had “type”. If you are nice, smart and funny, you’ve got my attention (being good looking and tall doesn’t hurt either). Initially upon moving to Chicago, my dating pool was made up of mostly Caucasian men. As I’ve gotten older, however, this has changed. And with that change have come challenges.

I met Deon at happy hour. Some friends and I had met for drinks; he was sitting next to us waiting for buddies of his own. We got to talking and he asked if I’d like to go out sometime and I said of course. He was nice, charming, tall, a former Arena Football player, and currently was working with under privileged youths. Oh, and Deon was black. My mom called the afternoon of our date and asked what I had planned for the evening. When I told her I had a date she immediately launched into the third degree: “What is his name? What does he do? What does he look like?” I answered the first two questions and paused at the last. “Um… well… Deon is African American.” Silence on the other end. I hurriedly launched into all the other great qualities he had, but I had lost her. “Well,” she said, “I hope you have a…. nice time.” A month or so later when I told her we were no longer seeing each other I could hear her muffled joy as she said, “Oh honey, that’s too bad.”

A couple of years later, I met Michael. We clicked immediately. He was in his early 40’s, had two kids, was tall, extremely funny, personable, dressed impeccably, owned a house close to me and in general, really had his shit together. In addition to studying for his PhD, Michael also had a prestigious job working for the City of Chicago. He was the full package. OH, and did I mention, Michael was black.

After dealing with the judgment of Deon, I kept Michael under wraps from my friends and family for a while. This being my first “serious” interracial relationship, however, I thought about the challenges my mom had outlined years earlier. Did these still ring true even in 2013?

On our second date, Michael took me to an art gallery featuring an African American painter he had read about on blackartistnews.com. As we were leaving, an older white woman working at the gallery asked us how we heard about the exhibit. Michael said he read about it on the website and in an instant the woman retorted, “Blackartistnews.com? Huh. Never heard of it. I bet there isn’t a whiteartistnews.com.” Michael, without missing a beat responded, “I think that’s actually just called artistnews.com.” In that moment I knew this guy was a keeper, and that ignorance and bigotry was still prominent, despite the year.

As we continued to date I would tell my mom about Michael’s amazing qualities (sans race) and she, in turn would ask questions. Mom: What does Michael look like? Me: He is tall, has dark brown hair and brown eyes. Mom: What is his nationality? Me: I’m not sure we’ve never really talked about it. Mom: Does he have a religion? Me: I think he’s Buddhist? I’m not sure. Ok that last bit threw her a bit but the nationality thing kept coming into play. “How can you not ask his nationality? I mean that seems like something you would eventually talk about?”

After hearing the last question for the 300^th time, and feeling confident in my three plus month relationship, I decided it was time to drop the race bomb. After the initial, “I knew it had to be something like that!” response, my mom was surprisingly calm. I think it finally began to resonate that her daughter wasn’t dating a “black” man, but a man who treated her in a manner she deserved.

When we broke up six months later, I could still tell my mom was somewhat relieved but I felt like we had taken baby steps from that conversation 28 years ago. I know my parents still would prefer I dated someone “like us” but perhaps what is being slowly realized is “us” is who we are on the inside, not the outside. Hopefully these baby steps turn into great strides within my family, our community and beyond.

~Equality Now~
TJ