Nine years ago, my husband and I moved from Chicago to Cedar Rapids, Iowa, to be closer to family. Several weeks after we moved here, we went to a popular family-run breakfast restaurant. We waited in line for a table, only to have the four parties behind us get seated while we were ignored. When we politely asked the host if we would soon get a table, she brushed past us with a sneer and no words. We left the restaurant without ever being seated, 45 minutes after arriving.
In the months and years that followed, we have eaten out at a variety of restaurants. After almost every meal, we are asked, “Will this be one check or two?” Even though we wear wedding rings and often hold hands, servers are unclear that we are a married couple.
Here’s the thing: I am white, and my husband is biracial, black and white.
My husband is handsome and well educated, gregarious and charming. He is well liked wherever he goes. But he is also seen as “the other.” People have crossed the street to avoid encountering him (long before COVID made us all cross the street for social distancing). Many times, he has been asked, “What are you?” by people who cannot put him in a racial box. Mistaking him for Middle Eastern, one man said, “Your name must be Hussein, right? I’ll just call you Hussein.”
And I know it could be much worse. He could get pulled over by the police. He could be the victim of a hate crime. He could be killed because of the color of his skin.
In today’s world, I am scared for him. And because I am scared for him, I am scared for all people of color. I am scared that my white privilege makes me immune to their struggle. I am scared that I am not doing enough to stop the systemic racism that puts my husband and other people of color at risk.
So I will speak up and show up against racism.
Because my husband’s life matters. This black life matters, just as all black lives matter.
—Andi Lewis, Prairiewoods marketing coordinator