A Jamaican Experience: How Black is he?
By: Baron Stewart
Some stories don’t just live in your memory—they breathe there. My story with Berkeley is like that—an oven full of grit, love, and moments that shook and shaped us. It’s not perfect, but it’s real and ours.
We married in the pulse of 1980s New York—a city of dreams, noise, and corners humming with music and tension. And then, interracial couples didn’t exactly blend in. When Berkeley and I walked through Manhattan, hand in hand, people noticed. Eyes turned. Yes, lingering. And when her pregnancy started to show, those silent stares became even louder.
But we kept walking.
Berkeley never made me feel like I had to shrink any part of who I was. She stood beside me like a lighthouse, never blinking. My blackness wasn’t something to be explained or apologized for—it was part of the rhythm we were building together.
Wanting to dig deeper into who we were as individuals and as a couple, Berkeley suggested we do this personal development program—The Forum. Picture this: a dimly lit ballroom in a midtown hotel, walls echoing with the quiet hum of anticipation, two hundred strangers in folding chairs, and three long, soul-shaking days. We went in as observers of our lives and came out with new eyes.
One moment cracked me wide open.
Berkeley stood in front of that crowd—back straight, voice steady—and shared a story that still resonates with me. She talked about the moment she told her mom about me.
“Mom, I’m dating this Jamaican man,” she said.
There was a pause. Her mom asked, “From Jamaica, Queens?”
“No, Mom. Jamaica, Jamaica.”
Another pause. Do you mean he’s Black?”
“Yes, Mom. He’s Black.”
Then came the question that hung in the air like incense: “How Black is he?”
Berkeley didn’t flinch. Black, Black, Mom.”
The room exhaled with her. Some people laughed, not mockingly, but like they’d just witnessed a truth break free. It wasn’t just about race. It was about choosing to be seen, heard, and loved wholeheartedly.
Not long after, we went down South to visit her family—Little Rock, Arkansas, thick with heat and history. Her brother, whom I’d never met, took me in his truck to meet some friends at a local joint filled with families and old stories. He looked them in the eye and introduced me without skipping a beat: “This is my brother-in-law.”
Just like that.
A group of Black folks nearby caught it and burst out laughing—not mean, more like a “damn, alright then” kind of laugh. The type of laughs that recognizes a shift in the usual script. Her brother could’ve gone vague, said “friend,” and played it safe. But he didn’t. He claimed me. That meant the world.
Then there was the Boxing Day trip to her uncle’s farm—an open stretch of land under a vast sky, where the air smells like hay and possibilities. It was me, Berkeley, her mom, and our son, Madison. Berkeley´s extended family was curious to see the Black man their niece had married.
By then, I was used to that curiosity—the questions dressed up in politeness, the eyes searching my face like they were trying to solve a puzzle. I gave them the answers, but more than that, I gave them presence. I stayed open. By the end of the evening, her uncle—gruff, weathered, and silent most of the time—wrapped me in quiet hugs. A man saying, “You’re alright, ” was the only way he knew how.
Over the thirty years Berkeley and I shared, we went through it all. Her mother, who once hesitated at our union, became a warm and devoted grandmother to our kids. She transformed. We all did.
I remember my mentor, Cipe Burtin, pulling me aside one day and saying, “Marriage is hard enough, already. Are you sure you want to add race into the mix?” I understood she wasn’t wrong, but when I looked at Berkeley, I knew I wasn’t walking away from this woman. I married her, and I’ve never regretted it.
Those sideways looks from strangers faded. What stayed were the laughter at our kitchen table, the arguments that taught us how to fight fair, the long trips to Europe with our kids, the quiet Sundays, and the loud victories. Life is a big, messy, beautiful life.
To anyone considering an interracial relationship, I’ll say this: Be ready. Life will still throw shade. But if the love is confirmed, you’ll weather it. You'll come out stronger—maybe even softer. Our story didn’t break us—it built us.
And it’s still building me.
Q&A and Reflections for Interracial Couples
Q1: What was the most challenging part about being in an interracial relationship?
A: Honestly, the most challenging moment for me regarding race with Berkeley was when Berkeley got a graphic design job with Walmart in Bentonville, Arkansas, which required us to move there. At first, I said that I might do it, but after some consideration, I decided that I did not want my children to grow up in that racially toxic environment. Berkeley was very disappointed, and one day, as we drove to Palm Springs, a Walmart truck drove next to us. When I looked at Berkeley, she was crying. I felt terrible.
What helped was creating an environment of friends like Fred and Harriette, who were also an interracial couple, where we felt very safe and acknowledged. Fred, Harriette, and my other like-minded friends mattered more than any glare or sideways comment.
Q2: What would you tell someone whose family disapproves of their partner’s race?
A: First, I see you. Hatred runs deep. It’s not always loud—it can come in silence, of being left out, of small digs wrapped in politeness. Here’s the thing: You can’t live for someone else’s comfort. Especially when it costs you love.
I hope you have the hard conversations. Let them know this isn’t a rebellion—it’s a relationship. Give them a chance to grow. You don’t shrink yourself to keep the peace. Peace that requires you to disappear isn’t real peace.
Q3: What’s your most significant advice for making it work?
A: Two things: communicate and protect each other.
Talk openly about race. Talk about culture. Talk about the small stuff before it becomes big stuff? When the world pushes back, you have each other’s backs. It’s not about rescuing or fixing—it’s about standing with. Always felt safest when Berkeley stood beside me, not in front or behind me. That made all the difference.
Also, laugh together, build traditions, take trips, and make memories that are yours, not built in reaction to the outside world but just for joy.
Q4: What do you say to people who think love “shouldn’t see color”?
A: I say: Love isn’t blind. IT’s brave.
Color is part of our story. Your backgrounds, struggles, and beauty bring you together in a relationship. Pretending not to see that doesn’t get you closer—it builds a wall. True love sees it all and says, “I’m here for all of you.”
Q5: What if one person is more aware or vocal about racial issues than the other?
A: That’s common. It can also cause tension if not handled with care.
One of you might live in the thick of it daily, while the other has the luxury of stepping in and out. That gap has to be acknowledged. The key is staying teachable, open, and willing to accept discomfort. You won’t always get it right. Still, if you’re committed to growing together, that gap will start to close.
My Top 5 Recommendations for Interracial Couples:
Talk early and often about culture, family, race, privilege, and identity. These aren’t “deep end” topics—they’re the foundation.
Build your rituals and language. Whether it’s how you handle holidays, show affection, or debrief after a tough encounter, make it yours.
Travel together and see how the world responds to you as a couple in different places. It will deepen your bond and your awareness. Could you create a support circle? And other couples or individuals who understand what you’re navigating. Solation can make things more complicated than they need to be.
Celebrate the job. Don’t let the challenges define the relationship. There’s beauty in blending lives, cultures, and histories. Remember to dance in that light.