The first involved age — no going on dates until I turned 16.The second was about sex — no boys allowed in my bedroom. The only boys that ever saw where I slept were glossy ones I duct-taped to my bedroom walls from magazine cutouts. So did a third (and final) parental limitation on dating.
Janna Lynn Imel is in a wonderful relationship, she says, but some of her family members won't speak to her anymore. As the American identity changes we will be there to report it. Maybe it’s the shade of your skin, the place you grew up, the accent in your words, the make up of your family, the gender you were born with, the intimate relationships you chose to have or your generation? I'm white." "' I made this video in hopes of showing people that their attitudes toward my boyfriend and I are not right," she said. It still exists in our lives everyday and it's time that more people take a stand." What defines you?In America is a venue for creative and timely sharing of news that explores who we are. I was saying goodbye to my mom and dad as I watched them raise their eyebrows at the mob of diverse freshman unloading their college supplies. Knowing the dynamics of the word “home” were about to change, I let a nervous giggle escape without unleashing my usual well-meaning but uniformed 18-year-old ideas about racial injustice.
“Don’t come home with a black boyfriend,” my dad said in a raspy whisper as he pointed one finger unintentionally at my heart and gestured towards my co-ed dorm. A perpetual comedian, my dad’s parting words were not unlike his jokester self.I could see the muscular definition in Qinisela’s arms and better inspect his sexy skin that was the color of my parent’s fears. But like every daughter of an Irishman knows, there’s a bit of truth to every sarcastic remark. They were everywhere — complimenting my dress on the street, asking to borrow a pen in class, and filling my beer at parties. But I drifted to anyone who was different from what I was used to.Between water refills and a shared plate of quesadillas, we realized we had nothing in common. Throughout my time in North Philly, my dad’s harsh command never came up. I don’t believe my parents are racist, but they’re uncomfortable with the unfamiliar. It was time for my undergraduate liberal education to put me in a cultural blender and press puree on everything I thought I knew about religion, feminism, and race.It was time for my inner-city girl, wannabe journalist self to roam free. When she asked where he grew up, I said France, quickly choosing to edit out the part about Africa. I told her my relationship with Quinn was off and on. He graduated and found a sought-after desk job crunching numbers and salivating over spreadsheets.After my fair share of empty make-out sessions on the weekends, I started fully embracing singlehood without much concern over finding a boyfriend. He cooked African cuisine and introduced me to plantains for dessert. Throughout my relationship with Qinisela, I lied by omission (the worst kind of lying, in my opinion) every time his name came up in conversation with my parents. I was running my student magazine, planning photo shoots and designing advertisements.One summer night after my junior year, my girlfriends and I went to a bar known for its outdoor deck and dance scene. College ended and I was back home with my parents in-between four years of make-believe independence and a lifetime of uncertainty.