The Color of Love

The day I left my parent’s home to strike out on my own, I never expected a life-changing encounter like the one that happened to me. I had been raised to love everyone, and to me, that meant regardless of race, color, or creed. Not to infer that I set out to find a man that my parents would so vehemently oppose, it just happened that way.

Firstly, everything about my short time in the military was a struggle. I had to fight to get into the Army due to my gender and size, I fought every day to overcome issues like simply marching, shooting a weapon, then later I had to fight to remain in the Army after I became pregnant and my commander tried to force me to get an abortion or get out of the military. Of course, back in those days I also fought sexual discrimination every day, just like any woman in the service. The fight to choose who I wanted to love, however, never entered my mind.

Yes, I was boy-crazy, had been since I was eleven or so, and that included any boy I thought was cute or who paid attention to me. Honestly, I think it started in the third grade when a cute boy asked to walk me home one day. Anyway, I guess I was so convinced that my parents would be totally accepting of whomever I chose that it was a complete shock to my system to find out how wrong I was in my way of thinking.

What follows is the story from my point of view, through what was back then my young, naïve eyes.

The time I spent training in Ft Sam Houston, Texas was magical. I was privileged to learn at the academy on two separate occasions. The people I met, the experiences I had, and the city itself is why San Antonio is one of my favorite cities in Texas. My story relates to the first time I was there, training to become a combat medic. I had always known I wanted to be in the medical field, helping people, but this was so different from what I had imagined. I was enjoying it though, soaking it up like a sponge. When we were out of class however, we were free to explore and do as we wished. This newfound freedom was liberating and wonderful, especially after the restrictions and confinement of basic training. I must admit, I was starry-eyed and eager to get into whatever opportunity presented itself, while at the same time, nervous about the danger lurking on base after our platoon sergeants warned us of recent rapes and attacks. We were to use the buddy system on and off base. My bestie Theresa and I were wild with excitement to go club-hopping and see what San Antonio had to offer as soon as we could leave the barracks.

It was on one of these trips out that I met him. I don’t remember if we met in a club or there on base in class, but I was instantly smitten. He was a tall, dark hunk of a guy, a great dancer too, but what really got me was his lips. Ah, that first kiss was one that I’ll never forget. His lips were the softest that I’d ever felt and the first time we kissed was under the tarmac where we lined up for formation each day. He approached me as I stood inside one of the support structures under the tarmac, which made me about a foot taller than I am. I suppose we had been flirting around because I wouldn’t just allow some random stranger to walk up and kiss me, my memory of the event is stuck on the kiss, not what lead up to it. The minute his soft, full lips touched mine was such a pleasurable experience, I almost melted right there on the tarmac. That was all it took; we were inseparable from that moment on. He was so amazing to me that all our teachers, sergeants, and everyone took notice and encouraged our relationship. Due to our size difference, he was always carrying me around, back then I found it endearing. Even our instructors thought it was cute, these days I would find such behavior mortifying. I was young and silly at the time. He was around six foot four and I’m four foot nine, so it isn’t hard to see why he thought it was perfectly acceptable. In addition, he told me he loved me so much that if I wanted to wait to have intercourse until I was ready, he was totally fine with that. He was very kind and respectable. I was never afraid of him and he was so supportive of me. He knew about my medical issues; the time I dislocated my kneecap he rushed to my aide and told my platoon sergeant what was wrong and carried me off the march and to get medical help. He assured me his mother would be so excited to meet me someday, his brother was also in an interracial relationship and his parents had been very accepting. Maybe that was because he was from New York, I have no idea. All I know is it doesn’t work that way in the south, at least it didn’t back in those days.

One of my favorite memories of our time together was once when we stayed in a motel for a few hours off base. I was remarking on how wonderful he smelled and asked him what he used on his skin. He said, “That’s negro, Baby.” I laughed and later I found the jar of cocoa butter on the nightstand. I opened it, identifying the intoxicating scent instantly. I never said a word. We spent every minute we could together, exploring San Antonio, or simply being together. I was young, I thought I was in love, I never gave one thought to the fact that he was black. To me, it was no big thing, much less taboo.

I was so excited to get my first leave so I could go home and share the news with my family! You can imagine then, my horror as my mother proceeded to tell me that this relationship was doomed because, at the time, I had a brother-in-law who was a thriving member of the Klan. Additionally, she said if we were to ever visit our family in Mississippi, he might be shot on the street which I found offensive and ridiculous. Then there was the stereotypical response of my friends and neighbors who claimed that once we married things would change and he would start to be violent towards me. I was stunned, where was this coming from. I had never heard any of this before, I had been raised to love everyone. I had never heard the term racist or witnessed my family members using derogatory language against black people, how was I supposed to know I had made such a huge mistake? Only I did not think it was.

The heart wants what it wants, I was not to be deterred. We continued the relationship until we were separated to go to our individual permanent party destinations. I was headed to Colorado and him to Germany. We wrote letters back and forth for a while, then in my last letter to him, I explained how hateful and intolerant my parents were being and I broke it off. He wrote me back and said I should be stronger than that, our love would get us through, yet I gave in to the pressure my family was putting on me. Threats of disownment scared me to death, and I needed my family. I don’t think they were racist exactly; I just think they were being overprotective.

I never gave my heart to anyone of a different race again, although I did date guys of different races while I was in the service. I have never forgotten him, sometimes I wonder if things could have been different had I been a stronger woman. I had given him my high school ring before he shipped out, I never got it back. I guess he was too hurt by my supposed betrayal and refused to return it.

My husband and I have been married for over thirty years, he knows about my past and has made his peace with it. We moved on. Actually, it’s more complicated than that, but that’s another story…