Interracial Dating at Harvard

“You’re a threat to his culture.”

“My mama would kill me.”

“Your kids will look gorgeous!”

“Wait…aren’t you from Georgia?”

“How big is his…you know…”

“How mad are your parents?”

“You date black guys?! You didn’t strike me as that type of girl…”

No, these are not comments from people in my hometown of Savannah, Georgia, but comments from students at Harvard in response to the fact that my boyfriend is black. Harvard students have a reputation for being open-minded, but I have experienced countless microaggressions from my peers for being in an interracial relationship. (This comment itself makes people bristle as if it is impossible for a white woman to experience microaggressions in the first place.)

Too many of my friends here—even after recent developments in racial discourse on campus like the “I, Too, Am Harvard” campaign—seem comfortable being vocally critical of my decision of whom to love.

I will never forget sitting in the Quincy dining hall with two of my (nonwhite) friends who spent about 10 minutes picking and choosing which features from my boyfriend and I would create the “perfect baby.” I remember sitting there, feeling extremely uncomfortable, because although the comments of “Your eyes, your hair” and “his lips” were meant as compliments, I was hurting. I would love it if our children had his hair, or his eyes, not because they are “black features,” but because when I would look at their faces, I would see their father.

I would like to see a Harvard that recognizes that, even though we have checked the legal box of interracial marriage, there is still much to be done. In the same way Lowell’s House Masters are a breath of fresh air for gay couples on campus, seeing Harvard acknowledging the beauty of more racially blended families would be a source of comfort and inspiration for students in interracial relationships.

Between the white anxieties of being viewed as rebellious or being “washed out” genetically by giving birth to black children and the pain thrown at me from black people who understandably have reasons to be angry—but not at me—I do not have the energy to defend my life choices on the same campus that attempts to address inclusivity.

I am already frustrated that when my friends hold hands in Harvard Yard, they’re viewed as just cute couples. When my boyfriend and I hold hands we are never “just a couple”. We are a brochure. A political statement. A category of porn. A fetish. Something that triggers pain and fear, despite the fact that at the end of the day, we are two college students who love each other very much.

The result is me, a white descendant of slave owners and Robert E. Lee, standing virtually alone on my supposedly progressive campus, trying to dispel stereotypes of what a “southern, Christian, white girl” is. I’m not trying to prove a political point. I just happened to meet someone with skin of higher melanin content and fall in love with him.

I want to challenge Harvard’s student body to do better, and to practice what they preach. I did not choose to be born with white skin. I have no control over the choices of my ancestors. I did not choose for my face to be a source of irritation, discomfort, or pain for the peers in my classes.

I did not choose to date my boyfriend to be provocative or to make a statement. I chose to date him for the same reasons I’ve dated my past boyfriends. We laugh at the same jokes. We share the same faith, and we enjoy spending time together. I am willing to fight for my right to love whomever I love, but I shouldn’t have to fight here.

Julie Coates ’15 is a government concentrator in Quincy House.