In 7th grade my geography teacher — in the name of celebrating our respective heritages — split us up into cultural groups and had us research our personal and group ancestries.
The summer before I started high school, my family was in a bad car accident in upstate New York. When we returned home to New York City, we were still nursing a number of injuries from the crash.
In second grade, my teacher surveyed the class' ethnicity make-up to teach a lesson on sorting and categorizing. I remember looking at the paper, seeing the list of ethnicities, and reading those words: “Choose one”.
It was an unusually warm March night in Northern Indiana. The expansive Midwestern sky was illuminated with starlight, but the beauty of the night was dimmed by the ire in my heart.
“I’m in an interracial relationship.” I remember the moment I heard those words. I was sitting on my girlfriend’s couch as she talked on the phone with her parents, and she had just — after three months of dating — stumbled upon that revelation.
After unloading the last box of books into my new office, a voice echoed from the hallway. Eat na tayo! Eat na tayo! Pastor Kevin, let’s eat!
My romance definitely started out in a recognizable way: I swiped right on Tinder on an incredibly attractive 21-year-old guy named Cory. We matched, but I thought little of it.