An interracial family takes a beach trip. It doesn't go well.

We went to the beach in New Jersey this past week for a week. The 40th summer for me. The 13th summer for my husband. It didn’t go well.

Now this blog is about trying for joy and I will tell you there were easy, fun moments of joy. Seeing my sons and their cousins play in the sand, watching my son boogie board all day long, having a beer with my sister and sitting on the porch were such great moments. But this blog is also about trying to speak about some things that seem unspeakable. And so this edition is about our family and race.

“Don’t get wet!” … “we won’t!” (I am a fool to pretend this would be true)

As we packed the car to head to the beach, we had a few extra things with us. We brought with us a few months of turmoil in our city. Months where we both couldn’t get to our offices due to the National Guard being outside of our buildings. Months where the stores in our neighborhood were looted, ATM’s exploded, people were hurt and helicopters flew non stop overhead. Months of peaceful, beautiful protests that were rarely shown on TV but that moved hearts, taught children and made me so proud to be a Philadelphian. We brought with us the months of me slowly, like a sloth running in tar, realizing that while the civil unrest in my city was heartbreaking, it was nothing compared to the heartbreak my brown husband felt every stupid day.

And then we took all of that hurt, all of those conversations about where we spend our money and who we support and what choices we make for our family and brought it to one of the whitest, richest areas around. And after one day my husband, the love of my life, the father to my kids and truly, one of the best people going said “I feel like no one wants me here. That they tolerate me but they don’t want me here. I feel second class.”

Let that sink in. That after paying a paycheck to be on vacation and take us there, he feels second class. Kind of makes me forgetting shampoo for the outside shower look less important. And I hate looking less important!

And after two days he asked me to bring the kids and come to the park with him so he could exercise because he was worried someone would call the police on him if he went alone.

And after three days he went for a run at sunset and said the whole time he was just waiting to be stopped.

And after five days, a few early morning swims and a heart full of love for his son who absolutely loves the beach he said he could tolerate feeling unsafe to see his son so happy on his boogie board. He said he can “tolerate it”. Guys. Not, “I’m having an awesome time”. Or, “everyone should come here”. He was somehow willing to come on a trip where he felt UNSAFE- just to watch his boy boogie board. Probably because he is used to this- used to being the only person of color in my family, used to being in white spaces, used to nice places being for white people only.

Should I be a sand artist? This is a still life of Mario on the beach.

A lot of this hurt in past years was offset by my parents being present. They would make up a room for us, buy and prepare our favorite foods and just sit and wait to hear about our lives and what we thought about the world. My parents and my relatives love Mario. They ask him complicated questions about the state of healthcare in America, they try their best to beat him at chess, they go to the movies with him and say “you must have had such a wonderful rest” when he sleeps in. He was beyond welcomed by my parents - he was loved.

In an effort to try for joy I have sometimes relied on memory and tradition to bring back a feeling of my parents being with me still. But I also have in my head their teachings. My Dad told us to protect each other, and to make sure everyone has access to basic rights, like food (for fans of my Dad, you can see him in a video talking about it). My Mom constantly would say that the beach is for everyone- it’s not to be private or just for the rich. In an effort to keep this rigid tradition of a certain beach at a certain time of year, I forgot that what they taught me had nothing to do about location and everything to do with family.

One ice cream eating family. And I know I’m biased, but the little one looks like a model here.

I’m angry at myself and embarrassed that it took me so long to get to this point. It should have been on day one that I made the obvious decision to not return. It should have been me saying, let’s get out of here, let’s never do this again. Because Mario would never put me in this situation of feeling unsafe. Unless it was about taking out the trash at night and him being too scared of the opossum he saw 5 years ago. He’s dead love- you can take the trash out now.

Skating by, hoping it will be okay, or that I can protect Mario with my shield of whiteness is me being a coward. Because to make the actual decisions means there is some loss for me- loss of what I know and have grown up with. And maybe the loss of my husband being scared, intimidated, raw and vulnerable while on vacation. Vacation is for long runs and coffee and fruity drinks and puzzle making. Not for feeling less than, or not worthy. We need to (as much as possible) be around people that see our family as an awesome mix of colors. We need to be in spaces where we aren’t acceptable, normal or welcome because one of the members of the family has white skin. One unit, one family.