The Extra Layer of Complexity in Interracial Relationships Between People of Color
By: Miguel Machado
Tags: Relationships, Interracial Relationships, Race, Culture, Dating

The Complexity of Interracial Relationships

Just how complex depends on the trifecta of race, culture, and ethnicity

Photo: Sara Monika/Getty Images

Almost six years ago, on an unseasonably warm day in March, I first met my partner.

She was an editor for our college literary magazine, and we’d decided to meet up at a coffee shop to work on a piece I submitted. Walking into The Bean near Union Square, I had no idea who I was looking for beyond an email and a name. Sarah sat at a corner table; the sun poured through the glass facade behind her. She waved me over, and we spent the next two hours discussing all manner of things. Chekhov’s gun, Marxism, the allure of ’90s New York.

Our first official date would be much the same.

Walking beneath the marble arch of Washington Square — the buildings rising around us like some great urban sierra — our similarities seemed infinite. We were both writers, both New York City kids, and shared a similar lack of religion and love of the arts. These traits solidified our bond despite the lack of shared ethnicity. Sarah is Korean American, and I am Puerto Rican. But on that day, we were just two youngins vibing in the park.

Our friends love our story. I guess they think it embodies a romantic ideal that many so desperately want to believe — that love is the great unifier. And maybe it can be: Almost six years later, Sarah and I are still just vibing. But it has required tremendous work from both of us. Even though our union is based on a million other things besides race, we’re still affected by it.

Sarah is Korean American and I am Puerto Rican, but on that day we were just two youngins vibing in the park.

Worlds apart

Relationships are hard enough. But being part of an interracial couple adds an extra layer of complexity, as two lives from separate cultural foundations intertwine. How they do that depends on the trifecta of race, culture, and ethnicity.

From a heritage perspective, our foundations are worlds apart. She is a first-generation Korean American; I’m a third-generation Puerto Rican, Afro-Indigenous at that. Her parents have been together since the ’80s. My parents split up when I was five. While Sarah has 19 first cousins, her family is very immediate — just her father, mother, and brother. My 14 first cousins are basically my siblings. I’ll stop by my mother’s house and will likely stumble upon one of them there, even if she isn’t home.

These aspects may sound insignificant, but they constantly impact our relationship. Dinner at my family’s home is like walking into an argument; bodies crowd around the table while everyone screams over one another. If you’re Puerto Rican, you know there’s no argument happening at all, it’s all love. But it can be overwhelming for any newcomer, let alone one raised in a culture where the juniors listen intently to the elders and wait for their turn to talk. The first time I tried this, I almost had an aneurysm.

The art of relearning everything I ever knew

Our backgrounds express themselves in other ways beyond just contrasting conversational styles. Pursuing an interracial relationship with a woman of color forced me to recognize what racism looks like from another person’s perspective and, more importantly, how I am complicit in it.

I had been raised to view Asians as a monolith. Sure, I knew the difference between Filipinos, Japanese, and Chinese people, but I’d learn to use one word to describe them all: Chinito. Being with a Korean woman, I learned how that word erased entire languages, histories, and cultures for the sake of convenience. I became aware of the stereotypes she carried with her every time she walked out the front door, stereotypes she actively tried not to embody. And though they were different from my own, I began to understand their weight.

What was harder for me to understand was her family’s exclusivity. Coming from a culture that values treating strangers like family, sometimes I felt phased out. Her family hosted dinners during the Harvest Festival or Lunar New Year, but Sarah would attend alone. She explained that this was normal for Korean families; it usually wasn’t until marriage that partners became integrated into the family unit.

I’d known that dating outside your race was frowned upon in some Asian families. I’d heard stories about parents cutting their daughters off for dating a Black man. And whether true or not, these perceptions weighed on every encounter with Sarah’s family. It felt like my race and ethnicity were being uninvited, not just my standing as “the boyfriend.” It led to many arguments, as you can imagine.

Now, I am happy to say that when I greet Sarah’s family, I do so with a bow, and they return it with hugs. When her mother picks up the phone, she laughs with delight at my broken Korean. She appreciates the effort, and that means the most.

A common language

Yes, there are times when our relationship is effortless, and I am absolutely confident we made the right choice. But behind every perfect moment are hours of trying to communicate expectations, patiently explaining why cultural norms like greeting my family members one by one is so important.

Then there is the translation work. While both of our families speak English, our native languages are fully embraced at family gatherings. It leaves us pulling double duty, serving as the language bridge for our partner. Many jokes have died in translation. And then, of course, there are more serious aspects; Sarah’s mother worries that she won’t be able to communicate in her native language with her grandchildren. There is simply no shortage of moments to remind us of just how different we are, both within our relationship and without.

On days we used to stroll around New York City, well-meaning people would stop us in the street to compliment what a beautiful couple we were or what beautiful babies we’d make. If you think this is “just a compliment,” ask yourself if you’ve ever seen this happen to White couples. We’d go out for drinks, and men would ask Sarah if she had a boyfriend right in front of me — the thought that she could be with someone non-Asian or non-White seemingly never crossed their mind. I get it.

As we strive for a post-racial society, it is easy to dismiss the construct of race as merely a hangup of the prejudiced mind. I used to think that as well. But now, I realize that shared race or culture is a kind of shorthand, a silent form of communication that finds its counterpoint in those considered kindred. It’s the shared experiences that inform how deeply we laugh, the songs we were born singing, the feeling that rises inside when the bass drops. I’ve seen this at work on nights out with Sarah and her Korean best friend; I’ve watched them finish each other’s sentences almost telepathically, watched their smiles grow wide and deep. You would think they grew up together as opposed to meeting late into college. Shared culture makes for an effortless connection. And it’s a beautiful thing.

The song of the city

Not sharing an ethnic shorthand doesn’t mean Sarah and I don’t share a culture. If anything, the knowledge of just how different our backgrounds are forces us to focus on where they overlap. As is the case for so many people of color and immigrant children, that place is New York City.

One day we read an article where a transplant claimed they realized they’d become a New Yorker when they equated the smell of hot garbage with a sense of “I’m home.” We both died.

“Remember how bad it used to smell?” Sarah asked with a laugh.

In the ’90s, the city smelled like collective shit for what seemed like the entire decade. Walking past South Street Seaport is indelibly etched in my memory, as are mornings stepping over the remnants of spoiled produce on the Lower East Side. Neither one of us misses those smells.

We laugh about how our parents, despite all their differences, were the victims of multiple carjackings back in the day. Sarah’s parents searched Flushing streets for their white Toyota and stole it back once they found it — usually with a few improvements made by the jackers. My parents had become attuned to starting their red Hyundai with a screwdriver left behind by the last failed jacker.

Each of us has our map of the city inside, made more of memory than anything else. And sometimes, it’s incredible how those maps overlap. Hard days at work slip into a calm night listening to a jazz record and our neighbors arguing, wondering if that’s how we sound. Breakfast in bed is sometimes as simple as an early-morning trip to the bodega, coming back with a bacon, egg, and cheese, and coffee in styrofoam cups.

There will always be conflicts exacerbated by our differences. Things as simple as choosing baby names become loaded cultural affairs. But at least, when those moments pass, our return to center is the same place. Maybe we’ll just call the kids Ghostface and Rae and be done with it. After all, “Wu-Tang is for the children.”