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Out of breath and way heavier, I celebrate my one-year anniversary with my husband. As 20-somethings, I am sure there are many things we clumsily discovered about love, romance, and creating an economic safety net for our future selves. However, nothing seems as important, at least in this last year, as the realizations of the not-so-sexy parts of being in a biracial couple.
This is a woman who was a single mother in a time when being one was sacrilegious, a blue-eyed blonde who spoke enough flirty German to rescue her father from the march to Majdanek, who sawed her own stilettos in half because her daughter wanted a pair of heels and who risked falling out of trees because she wanted to hang birdhouses.