Prodigal Son

​"I wanna meet your family Alex," Karen said as we laid on the floor between rounds of rigorous lovemaking. The tone in Karen's voice let me know that she had that round in the chamber but waited for the perfect moment to strike with the precision of a military sniper. I sighed heavily and moved to get up but she mounted me. I didn't resist.

We've been dating almost two years, you don't think it's weird that I haven't met them yet?" she asked while running her fingers though my hair. Deep down I knew she had a point.

"Karen, its not as black and white as you make it out to be," I replied. Actually, it was very black and white. As in I'm black and she's white. Throw in the fact that I hadn't been back to Memphis in six years our interracial relationship would serve as the light on the fuse of the Johnson family powder keg. To a good percentage of the world our relationship is the equivalent of the master's daughter sneaking out to the shacks near the fields.

Contrary to what most major news networks would have you believe, modern society hasn't evolved as much as people think. For the last two years we have dealt with resistance from both sides. On my side there were frequent stares of disapproval, and whispers of being a traitor. On Karen's side there was talk of her descending to the gutter for love, and advice that she should "get it out of her system now". Karen comes from a wealthy clan of blue bloods. From her description they've built their fortune on the labor of minorities and have no intentions of changing their views on social equality.

Getting away from the South allowed me to see Karen as the beautiful lover who complements my very being. She's a couple inches short of 6 feet with dirty blonde hair and a body tightened by yoga 3 times a week. Her high cheekbones only compliment her aqua eyes. Those same eyes caught me from across the room during senior seminar. She's an amazing lover, but one event in particular solidified her place in my heart.

It was our second or third date. We were walking through downtown holding hands and I noticed a couple of black girls headed our way. I conveniently bent down to tie my shoe and prodded Karen to continue walking. She grabbed my hand to lift me up and after serving a toothy grin to our audience wrapped her arms around my shoulders to pull me into a passionate kiss.

"I can handle whatever flak that comes with what we have, as long as it means being with you," she said. That moment is the reason an engagement ring is currently stashed in my underwear drawer.

"You're heading back to Memphis for the first time in six years, can you think of a better time to tell them?" she asks. Yeah, never sounds like the perfect time.

"It's complicated," I reply.

"No, what's complicated is cropping Facebook pictures at perfect angles like we're trying to win a Pulitzer. You can't keep running from your family."

"All right, but don't say I didn't warn you."

"Remember, whatever flak I'll take."

The sniper bagged its target.

Friday

I could feel the change in Alex the closer our plane got to landing. The hands that were usually warm and comforting were cold and fidgety. Eye contact was non-existent as he held his head down, deep in thought. I wasn't sure if I was heading to a family reunion or a firing squad. Those broad shoulders on his 6'5 frame slumped as he prepared himself for the moment he had thought he could outrun forever. As we settled into the hour-long drive to his childhood home he came alive as he gave me the rundown on his family.

"Ok, my grandfather Willie has diabetes and resents Madea for cooking elegant southern cuisine he can't partake in. He will beg, plead and bribe but you can't give in and sneak him anything," he instructed.