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Of course we get the furtive looks and stares of bald curiosity or distain that comes along with being different.

And I must admit I still hold my breath when we walk together passed a cluster of black men.

My mother insisted on it, perhaps as a not-so-subtle reminder to me from where I’ve come.

So with clenched teeth and sweaty palms I took the leap with my white husband, and into world that wasn’t quite black or white, but brushed with of wisps of gray. You join the ranks of odd couples that abdicate their anonymity and risk ridicule.

I realize that some black women, steadfast in their quest to find the ultimate brother, may bristle when they read this.

Defiant lovers still found ways to express their eternal devotion by jumping the broom, which symbolized the leap into a new life, lived together.

Such “frivolity” did not stop the slave owners and foreman from raping the women, while husbands and sons watched, helpless and impotent. My husband and I jumped the broom the day we married.

I sometimes think about that person who once told me that marriage was a fairy tale in which white people cornered the market. Imperfect and glorious, this little black girl got her fairy tale ending.

My marriage works, just not in the confines of tradition or with the ease of anonymity.

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