COMMITMENTS : Black Couplehood Is Alive and Very Well

I’ve been married for nearly one year. To the same man. An African American man. A black man. That makes us a black couple.

So what?

Well, judging from the fairly regular media bashing of black men and the black family, you would think that my husband and I were something of an anomaly. But as I look around at the reality I know, I see, happily, that it ain’t necessarily so.

So I just thought I’d take a moment to say a few words in support of black couples, as I approach anniversary No. 1. (We are accepting paper anniversary gifts, as long as they contain pictures of dead Presidents).

We’ve all heard the stories, seen the headlines, watched Oprah. We as black women have been waiting to exhale for so long it may be causing oxygen deprivation to our collective brain. We bought into the hype. We’ve become part of our own undoing.

To be sure, we’ve had help, a good deal of it from the media (of which, yes, I am a part). The sad truth is, unhappiness sells. We are much more likely to read about brothers who have shown some disrespect to sisters like Souljah than we are about couples, of any hue, celebrating anniversaries well into the double digits.

There’s no shortage of negative notions out there, and you can be sure that sooner or later you’ll get to read all about them.

From the same school that holds that “white men can’t jump” come the myriad myths, most of them much more pernicious, about black men: Can’t commit, won’t commit to a strong black woman, got to have a white woman once they get successful.

Of course there are African American men who fall into those categories. Lots of them. But it’s not all, and I think the case can be made that it’s not even most.

In any event, whatever the worldwide reality may be, I’m here to relate my experience. In this world--of the Robinsons and Means, the Hubbards and Harrises, the Wheelers and Le Sanes, and Pinckneys and Perkins, et al.--the black family and African American couplehood is alive and well.

This is no scientific survey by any stretch. It’s just one perspective. But it’s a perspective that deserves to be heard, at least once in awhile--if even just once a year.

My parents have been married for 42 years. It hasn’t always been fun. It hasn’t always been pretty. But it’s always been. And the smart money says it will continue. Four-plus decades of love, commitment and compromise make that a pretty safe bet.

They are both African American. Each comes from a long line of African Americans.

My grandfather stayed married to my grandmother until he died. I’m told he loved her. African Americans both.

Michael and I promised each other we’d be together for at least 40 years. If God is kind, we’ll be able to keep that promise. If the first year is any indication, 40 years won’t be nearly long enough.

We’ve already gotten sort of a running start: Even though legally it’s only been 12 months, chronologically we’ve been together for five years.

When I met Michael, just a few months after moving to Los Angeles, I did not know he was Him. I’d been looking for Him all my life. Like many black women, I’d almost come to believe I’d never find Him: A black man, gainfully employed, educated, no prison record (that I could find in my database search), not abusive, not running from the law or from commitment.

When I went to that party thatSaturday night I was ever hopeful, but ever mindful of the hype and the headlines: “Blacks Face Extra Challenges on the Road to Love,” “The Marriage Gap: Black Women Seeking Black Men Find That the Numbers Are Against Them.”

Yet there He was, leaning against the kitchen wall, eaves-dropping on my conversation with someone else, trying to come up with a decent pickup line. (It wasn’t great as pickup lines go, but his persistence was impressive.)

Cutting to the chase: We got together, and a few years later we got married. And we’ve been, for the most part, pretty happy.

(I say “for the most part” because I don’t really think you can count that trip to Palm Springs, when I was going to leave his lifeless body rotting in the desert sun and tell the authorities he’d just gone hiking.)

*

If you’re waiting for the part where I get to the eternal truths about love and commitment, or give the definitive word on how to find a good mate, sorry. We just happened to be in the right place at the right time. We were lucky. God smiled on us and we had the good sense to take him up on his offer.

And in the bargain, on a rainy Saturday in Chicago, we promised to love, and to share and to work at it and to not go to sleep on the sofa even when tempers flare and angry words fly.

Admittedly, it’s only been a year, but so far, we’ve kept our word.

So here you are, Honey. Happy Anniversary. And here’s a big “I Love You” for all the world to see.

(Yes, I did get you a real present. Look in the den closet. Under that Dict-A-Phone, circa 1962, that you insist you’re going to use some day.)

And here we are, world. A strong black woman who loves her man. A strong black man who loves his wife.

Wow. What a concept.