This story began as your typical love story that took a tragic turn for the worst. We met in college and fell in love during a semester of nearly failing Biotechnology at NYU. He was from small town Kentucky and I was from Long Island, NY. We came from two separate worlds and I loved his accent as much as he loved the way I pronounced "New Yawk." Our different worlds, however, could not stop what we felt for each other; that chemistry was authentic. For the most part, we fell in love with the uniqueness of each other. We eventually began sharing the same group of friends and grew closer. Everything was great and he met my parents that year during our Thanksgiving break. They loved him instantly and as a result, we discussed having me meet his folks, back in Kentucky.

What was an 11-hour drive felt like days. I almost died of boredom and exhaustion. We made fun of it though by looking for the things states were famous for and singing at the top of our lungs like no one was looking. When we finally got there, I could feel my stomach sink. I was unsure if the uneasy feeling was my nerves or my intuition telling me something bad was going to happen. However, I took a deep breath and swallowed the lump in my throat that felt like a piece of gum. He stepped out first, I followed after, shaking like a leaf. I could feel the sweat rolling down my forehead and I blamed it on the dry heat since I wasn't used to that kind of weather. He quickly walked inside and was immediately met by his parents' warm embrace. I, on the other hand, drenched in sweat at this point, was not what his parents expected. Instead, they paused and gave me one look. They seemed to have been analyzing me and it destroyed every bit of self-confidence I had. They stared at me for a good minute and the tension was as thick as a tree trunk; you might have needed a chainsaw to cut it. I couldn't even wrap my head around why they looked at me with such, I don't know, disgust maybe, but I soon found out.

I was a disappointment to him and his family. I drove 11 or more dreadful hours only to be told, I "wasn't the right girl for their [precious] son." I did not fit the standard and they demanded I leave that instant. I was devastated! I've only every felt this hurt when I lost the 7th-grade talent show because I tripped on stage. I wasn't the "right girl" for him and he didn't even defend me. Once I realized he was missing a spine to stand up for me, I walked for miles in this unfamiliar area, until I found a bus station. I purchased a ticket back home and cried the entire 13 hours it took. I let their words replay in my head and doubted myself for believing this trip would have turned out any differently.

That experience opened my eyes to an entirely new world of love. I suddenly understood the strange looks people would give us when we were out in public. Our images weren't compatible because he was him and I was me. What I failed to mention about that scene with his parents was, I wasn't right for their son because I was Black. Ironically, this was my first real experience with racism or my first time noticing it, at least. I mean, I was aware it still lurks in the soul of American society, but I have never had a notable personal encounter. I blamed it on my little Long Island living where I was in my little happy bubble as the token Black Girl cheerleader with long hair. I was kept sheltered by the white friends I've known all my life. Suddenly, I was aware that I was blind to my identity. It was like I didn't even notice I was Black. How stupid I was! In turn, the wound from the blades of reality bled me for weeks. I cried every time I made eye contact with or brushed past "he who shall not be named" at school. I dropped the classes I had with him and practically divorced our friends. I was also mad at my white adoptive parents who'd never given me the talk on why I was actually "different" from the others. Don't get me wrong, I have always been fully aware that I was Black, but I was ignorant of the reality that in 2017, there was still people who would not like me because of it. As if I could control my skin color.

For a while, I wondered if I wasn't "right" because his parents were marinated in hatred. Sometimes, I even figured it was because they were worried about what others would say or how their grandchildren would turn out. Whatever the reason, I did not let that affect me. I simply moved on and tried not to let wonder and resentment have a hold on my life.