He was a doctor. I was a struggling Pre-school teacher making a little over $9 an hour. We bantered over everything from religion to politics. He had Wentworth Miller good looks and Cornell West’s affinity for debate.
We spent most dates over looking the Hudson and bantering about our backgrounds.
He came from a legion of doctors. I was from a college drop-out and a Camden born school teacher. He had a house in “the vineyard” and I had trouble remembering which fork was the dinner fork. Still, I challenged him intellectually in spheres in which he was unfamiliar.
So, when it was time to meet the parents I honestly believed I was prepared to hold my own. I played games of medical jeopardy to be abreast of the latest in health and technology. I knew the symptoms and causes of every celebrity who was suffering with a health problem – Patrick Swayze’s battle with pancreatic cancer was the latest to hit the news. I understood the statistics of Black women and Aids in New Jersey. I was ready.
However, I wasn’t prepared for what his mother said when she opened the door. “So…I’m not aware of the meeting rituals they have in Camden but I hope it’s not an imposition for you to remove your shoes before you come in- we just had the carpet shampooed.”
So, it begins I thought. I was born and raised in the suburbs. I attended an affluent private school with a graduating class of 39. I vied with hundreds of other applications before being chosen for the 2 available spots. Still, the minute “Blake” told his mother about my mother’s upbringing it was no longer about me but my pedigree.
It didn’t matter that I ran circles around her son in politics, history, religion and in some cases health. It didn’t matter that I rose from being labeled “special” in 2nd grade to speaking in front of governors.
I was not “good enough” for her son. It was a losing battle before it began. His family’s approval meant everything because his financial future and legacy depended on it. As amazing as this man was I realized that classist prejudice would keep us apart. I couldn’t blame him for loyalty to his blood. I couldn’t blame his mother for wanting the best for her son. I couldn’t blame the family for not wanting an outsider to stain the family crest they had worked so hard to preserve. My original thought was to grin and bare it because eventually I crush her rush to judgment.
However, the nail in the proverbial coffin was when she asked me over brunch, “How many children do you have?” Blake scolded her and I held up my hand with a smile to calm him. “Well…that depends on which of my babies’ fathers you ask,” I spat back. She almost choked on her salad. My guy laughed out loud. I didn’t think it was funny and it was past time to make my exit.
I was 25, childless and as of that moment boyfriend-less.
I no longer wanted to “fit in”. I wasn’t interested in “measuring up”. In my line of thinking, there is no such thing as “measuring up” when you are the ruler.
Fact: Blake skated into medical school with mediocre grades because of his pedigree. Fact: I climbed out of the “developmental hell hole” and into the presence of Vice President Jo Biden because of my Aunt’s determination to set me in front of the unabridged version of the Webster’s dictionary and put a pen in my hand.
So, I walked out on four inch heels with no regrets. Still, I wonder sometimes if I let a good one get away by walking away. Should I have fought through it? I don’t know…what are your thoughts?