Some of the best stories start with an unexpected phone call that changes everything. In this case, the call came from Christelyn. On the other end of the line, she was breathless and talking faster than her normal rapid-fire gabbing. She was excited, ecstatic really. Having just returned from New York days before, where she had attended a conference of the American Society of Journalists and Authors, she had been pitching a story to literary agents about how she came to marry her husband, a story that she had pitched to Elle
earlier that year, a personal essay she thought the editors might be receptive...
Jumping the Broom with a White Boy
Marriage is for white people.
It’s hard to say what I felt exactly when I read that Washington Post
editorial a few years ago—offended, outed, but mostly just sad. Finally, writer Joy Jones had exposed the furtive secret, the dirty laundry. Despite the fact that my own parents had been married for forty-five years, I learned early that marriage for whites and blacks was distinctly different. In my pubescent, wide-eyed youth, I remember the image I had was of hands clasped against one cheek, me sighing dreams of love,...