Intercultural marriage is not for the weak
Honest perspectives on inter-race and inter-cultural marriages are hard to come by-dive in and see how your marriage is different or similar!
Kristen Munro | Guest Writer for Seeking Veritas on Substack
“I don’t like to lose, and I was losing at my marriage. There was not a single help book for intercultural marriages. Now, they may exist, but they aren’t mainstream yet, most likely because no one wants to talk about this. And why is that? Because anyone that does sounds racist.”.
I have heard many people in my almost 40 years of life share their opinions, positive and negative, on interracial or mixed marriages. Many who like to tout colloquial phrases about being colour blind, and love is more than skin deep, and blah. Blah. Blah. I am in a mixed race AND mixed culture marriage (yes, I will explain the difference), and I am here to say it is a LOT. It is marriage and its wonders and trials, the normal good and bad and ugly…and so very much more. Yes, there is good. But it is a whole extra level of learning someone and oh so many more arguments, adjustments, and disagreements. So very many people like to sugar coat this experience-and top it with whip cream and other cavity inducing sweet crap. Guess what? It sucks! There is good in learning, but mostly it makes life incredibly hard, especially in moments you least expect it! Hi, my name is Kristen, and I married an immigrant, who is Canadian and was at the time we met, who has a different skin colour from my own, different experiences based on just that, raised in a different religion from my own, a different country and a whole different continent. Our cultures are barely similar a lot of the time. That, my friends, is what I have come to share with you. Sit back, relax, open your mind, and get ready for “a white woman’s journey into blending a family of mixed race and culture, act one”.
As an elder millennial woman who grew up in Canada, I had the same vision for my life most people my age and born in the early ‘80s did. I grew up in rural Ontario, was raised with the maternal side of my family, with every adult taking a role and turn in bringing me up, though my grandparents did most of the proper raising. I am white, and most people would agree with me, as my father and his side are Scots, and on the other side there is quite the mix, from European to Portuguese, with a splash of native blood in there too. My hair is dark, and my skin is olive and doesn’t really burn, but I have green eyes and the temper of a Scottish woman, to be sure. However, I was also raised in an all-white area, and only saw and experienced skin colours and culture different from my own through television, music, and not until 1995 when I moved near Toronto did, I have any up close and personal interactions. Once I did move, mind you, I had plenty, and barely dated anyone who looked like me-the white guy list is short.
So, what was that life vision, you ask? Well, go to school, go to more school, find a man, get married, have the babies, and then work while raising them. I expected to have a farm or at least some land. Quite simple really. Colour of skin didn’t really matter given the rainbow on the maternal side I was raised with-a lot of mixed-race marriages, children, and adopted children even. Blended families as well, so I was really indifferent to the looks of a future partner. Boy, I was off in my predictions. I became a young and single mom prior to post-secondary, I had half white and half mixed-race kids, and all in all, I lived that vision quite backwards.
Fast forward to 2016. I began dating a ‘brown guy’. The people I surrounded myself with were fairly relaxed in their speech, without prejudice, but without regard for being trendy with their jargon, or as many would call it, concern with being politically correct, so I will write this article in that casual and relaxed way too. To protect the identity of this man, let us call him…Phil. Okay, so Phil and I started dating. I knew from prior conversations that Phil’s familial background was Indian (yes, India-Indian, I don’t use east and west to differentiate here because he was literally born in India, as were his parents, so you don’t get more Indian than that, and this will mean something later), I knew that he spent virtually zero parts of his life past birth in India, and that he was raised till 17ish years old in the United Arab Emirates. His family had been colonized ages ago and were Catholic, spoke English, had accents, and had very European names. They moved to the Greater Toronto Area in the mid 1990s, worked hard, were small business owners, and really sounded….not that “Indian”. Let’s take a side-step and unpack exactly that statement as it occurred in my mind at that time.
Not that Indian was never meant as a racist thought. My 2016 self was curious about Indian culture, was eager to learn, and didn’t have concerns about anything. In fact, I probably didn’t give it much thought. I liked Phil because of things beyond being ‘brown’ and being from somewhere exotic to my very Canadian self. I knew this: Phil knew my 90s tunes I loved. He ate at all the same restaurants I did, and also at some very shi-shi (ahem, posh) places. He dressed very metrosexual business-y, wore great cologne, and sounded almost muddled British when he spoke. Except for the colour of his skin, Phil fit the stereotypical white guy profile. What do I mean by that? Well, he didn’t have the thick accent, he didn’t move his head side to side when he spoke, and there were no strong odours of food lingering on him. In place of those things one might envision based on the inputs of satirical shows and stories, Phil was quite, well, non-exotic in any way, not foreign, rather, he seemed just like me.
Stereotypes aside, there were many things that drew me in. He was well read and articulate, and it was captivating. He was also a great story-teller, and I liked that. Although Phil’s family were Catholic, he informed me he held no beliefs surrounding god and religion-he was a science-minded man who liked tangible evidence for everything in life. I saw things that I thought were similarities, would make us compatible easily and without needing to compromise. Those first 6 months, there was not a single non-white Canadian culture thing that I noticed about him; and then bit by bit, this changed.
“From the first 5 minutes I knew I was in way, far, incredibly so, over my bloody head.“
Just after our sixth month together, I met Phil’s family. We spent several family events and such going to big family get-togethers and meals. And there my friends, is where things started to unravel…but slowly still. Let’s go to the first family affair. As we walked in the door to raucous laughter and noise, I first noticed that Phil sounded not a single bit like his family members-all of whom had very thick accents. They sounded truly like cartoons I’d heard growing up, and I had to really listen to understand what anyone was saying to me. I also had to not giggle at the stereotype I was hearing and caught myself feeling like I must truly be racist, and then felt horribly embarrassed for my thoughts and inner monologue. But right or wrong, it was a real experience. I learned that when we arrive and leave, we have to greet each person individually and we kiss cheeks and hug and shake hands and repeat all the same lines of greeting, and boy his was a huge family. From the first 5 minutes I knew I was in way, far, incredibly so, over my bloody head. I sat there taking in the room, seeing that ‘global conversation’ as his mother called it, was preferred, and not sectioning ourselves into smaller groups. I also learned that Phil happily moves around the room, and I am expected to sort out and navigate this without a tour guide. I internally palmed my face, as I felt like I was doomed to make an ass of myself and offend someone. Phil seemed oblivious, and I loathed him in that moment. ‘Oh, just wait till we get to the car’, I thought, as I steamed.
Well, I thought I was steamed. It got more interesting. Food was served. Women were to get up and serve themselves first, and no man over 12 years old was allowed to help themselves until every woman had a plate. Where I grew up, my Nana served the male head of the household, her husband and my Papa, and then everyone dug in equally. I had expected that since Phil seemed so ‘white’ this too would be the case here. Phil came over to tell me I was being rude and need to go get a plate as I was holding things up. I grabbed a plate, begrudgingly given my toxic relationship with food and self-image, and then the horror began truly. What was on the table were many dishes, some that looked like tasty Chinese food (wait, his dad was the chef of this meal…?), and then so many curry dishes, and I am, um…not skilled at spicy food. I didn’t want to be racist, so I grabbed some of everything, since I couldn’t understand his aunt’s descriptions of anything.
Proud of myself for accomplishing the sweat and nerve-wracking task of piling my plate high with foreign foods, I found a seat on the floor at the coffee table, as I was not versed in holding my plate in one hand and eating with the other. I attempted to dig in. I immediately was choking and sputtering and realized that my temperamental digestive system and sensitive ‘white people tongue’ (that I was about to be mocked for) were not ready for this. I thought my face was bleeding. My nose ran. My eyes cried. I ended up in the powder room holding my tongue under the faucet, angry at Phil for being crappy at boyfriend-hood and duping me into thinking I had this, what with all his false-whiteness. After an eternity (it seemed) Phil came to the powder room door. I expected comfort and a giggle. What I received as I opened the door a crack was mild annoyance and genuine confusion. I tried to explain what was taking so long, and he quizzically looked at me, and let me know they reduced the spice because they knew I was coming. I couldn’t not finish my food, given I took so much, and he offered some yogurt…what the heck? Who eats yogurt with their dinner, and meat and…. ew! I composed myself, mostly soaking wet now, and returned to the floor and my plate. And then it went from bad to worse.
“I tell you, whatever notions I had of them being like me, or perhaps this monolithic stereotypical Indian family…it was really none of the above and yet both...and yet still, neither.“
Many of the aunts asked why I was on the floor, and as I looked around, I realized only the children were sitting with me, and that they were trying simply to keep me company given my weird seating choice. Then, the questions began. I realized, as they fired away from all directions, that I was more of a novelty than any other non-white boyfriend’s family had ever treated me. I was asked about my upbringing, what food I can actually handle (apparently everyone was keenly aware that I was dying as I attempted to clear my plate, though no one offered me to just toss it), if I thought my pants were appropriate for a party, was I Christian too, and so on and so forth. Surprisingly, they seemed okay with me having kids out of wed lock, which, given Phil was twice divorced and a single father, I’d never before thought I should be concerned. But the thing is, they put words to it. They pointed it out. As I sat there, listening to an aunt say my chest was too small for the cut of top I was wearing, I realized that all these nicely stated things…weren’t so nice. I just wanted to go home. Oh, but I forgot to mention they pour wine like water, and when I got my legs beneath me when it was finally time to depart, I was quite past my limit-it was a blurry ride home.
When Phil and I debriefed a few days later he told me he thought I did well, though I could talk and be more personable, and less proper he suggested. I mentioned the unflattering comments and he laughed them off, letting me know that’s just the world they live in, where they are quite frank. I tell you, whatever notions I had of them being like me, or perhaps this monolithic stereotypical Indian family…it was really none of the above and yet both...and yet still, neither. Oh yes, figure that one out. Guys, this is the moment. This is the foreshadowing, the very thing that is analogous to my marriage.
“Officially, this event was the beginning of rapid learning. We married in June 2019, and we were two snowballs, holding hands, running down a hill.”
We wed in 2019. Ten days before our wedding day, Phil’s father went into the hospital while his wife was overseas. Phil and his brother weren’t well versed in medical terminology, and I did what any white woman would do-I swept in on my dark horse to save the day. I went back and forth bringing Phil food, questioning nurses and doctors, and translating medical-ese into regular language. What I never truly realized is that this family, not necessarily an Indian trait, don’t talk about their medical issues with one another. While they seemed so frank at every meal over 3 years…no one truly knew anything about the other. And…I had been caught in the middle of calling everyone in the family to let them know of Phil’s father’s illness and see if anyone wanted to get type matched, when Phil called me to see what my day held. I told him what I was doing and, well, he was not happy. That really rocked me. But it rocked Phil even more. He felt a need to protect his family from the truth of his dad’s dire condition, to protect their privacy, yet bring his condition harshly to light for his parents. I learned then that he, the eldest son, was expected to handle all affairs when they are passing or passed, but ‘we don’t talk about it, no plans, no wishes’ and that he is to ‘figure it out’. I was floored. This made no sense to me-and I pushed that Phil make it make sense. Officially, this event was the beginning of rapid learning. We married in June 2019, and we were two snowballs, holding hands, running down a hill.
Marriage, you see, is filled with battles. In the same race, same culture marriage, you will have many disputes. What to name your kids, what the grandparent names will be on each side, where you’ll live, and so on. In a multi-cultural household, there are more battles than you might think. Those could be what religion the kids will be raised under, if any. What their first and second languages might be. But instead of whose family get Christmas this year, it may be how holidays and which holidays are celebrated. The arguments can get slightly more intimate. For Phil and I, we learned just how not similar we were culturally-and it turns out that the man I married wasn’t as like me as I thought. If you know me at all, you know I love a good battle (insert cheeky grin here)!
Determined to make ‘good choices’, we had waited to cohabitate until we were married-and that was perhaps another in a list of mistakes we made. That first year of marriage threw some crazy curve balls, and not just because of the pandemic. While figuring out co-parenting our own biological children with the other, and our non-biological children with the other, we learned we were miles apart on our parenting styles. Although we had made choices along the parenting road, we came to see just how much family and culture played a role in who we were as parents, family members and spouses. Let me share the three biggest lessons that we still have not learned.
Lesson number one was families and the bars of expectations. Phil’s family expected regular and on-going interaction. My maternal family was more the text with their blood relatives sporadically but see each other on holidays type. We could not have had more different family structures and upbringings so, can you imagine the feelings and conversations coming from such different places? I felt smothered to death by his family, and he felt barely, perhaps superficially, welcomed by mine. When it came to our household and kids, I believed in a lot of independent time for kids, given I was raised by a toxic and overbearing mother. Consequently, I was also neglected by her, so on the other hand I also saw the value in the room to make mistakes and find your own way. Phil, alternatively, was overly involved and spent all the waking time possible with his child, always entertaining him. You see, Phil’s parents thought kids should be seen and not heard, so while divorced parent guilt played into Phil’s parenting style, so too did his desire to do better than his folks did. My bio-kids were with me 24/7 and 365, and his bio-kid was with him every other week, so of course we approach things differently. I believed kids should be flying solo, sink or swim, come adulthood, and my counterpart feels you are responsible for your child for life. We were worlds apart there too.
Lesson two was quite comical. The simplest thing in the world, one might think, is time. It is a construct, sure, but you don’t expect to run on different times entirely. Now, you might chuckle and think every couple has one person early and one person running late. In my inter-cultural marriage we fight about time a LOT. Who has more or less of it. What time dinner is to be eaten at. What time work ends and family life begins, bed time for kids, bed time for us, times to show up at events, the normal timely events like what time meals are served. The running late versus early is like the junior leagues version of what time can be when time means something wildly different culturally. How do I know it is culture? I once, just once, asked his family if they noticed the time issue Phil seems to have. Oh boy did they laugh. At me. You see, there apparently is something called ‘Indian Standard Time’, and I didn’t know that, as it were. Turns out it wasn’t a Phil-problem, it was a normative and acceptable way of being. And his calling me uptight and a nag was universally accepted as true. Oh, how I wanted to poke my husband in the eye for this.
Lesson three came along too in those early years. It is called Privacy. I learned that while Indian families and couples may argue, may have all out fights, may have health issues, or financial struggles, have kids with issues, We. Do. Not. Talk. About. It. Instead, we put on our company faces and present a happy, upbeat, and united front. Well (cough cough), I learned it is what my husband and his family do. I heard from family friends that yes, it is a common norm. Where I grew up, if you had a difference of opinion, you let it be known, be it with your company, your spouse, happened yesterday or in the now, you wore that out loud. The value I grew up with was transparency, but the value Phil grew up with was privacy. When Phil came home in that early period and found out I shared our dispute with a trusted friend, he all but lost his marbles. When we had a row and his family came by, I lost mine when he acted as though we were best of pals-given I wanted to rip his head right off and throw it at him.
“Sometimes we go out in our biological pods, as I call it. I still hide from his family’s incessant calls, and he still makes excuses for me. I apologize for my family’s aloof behaviour, and he pretends it is normal when he is around them the two or three times a year he sees them.”
Four and a half years later, we still squabble over when to be ready and when to leave. We have learned that it is okay to do some friend things and some family things separately from one another, to allow for natural behaviour with our loved ones that’s genuine and not forced. We have learned that we cannot impose our culture on the other; that sometimes there is a middle ground, sometimes there is just giving in, and sometimes there is acceptance, and acceptance allows each of us to do things our own way. Sometimes we eat at the table, like the nuclear family that was the goal in his culture, and sometimes we eat when each feel like it, like is normal in mine. Sometimes we all go out as a family of five. Sometimes we go out in our biological pods, as I call it. I still hide from his family’s incessant calls, and he still makes excuses for me. I apologize for my family’s aloof behaviour, and he pretends it is normal when he is around them the two or three times a year he sees them.
Peeling back the layers of our identities and figuring out why we are at odds is not easy. In a same country, town, race situation, you’re really just battling immediate family influences and individualities. But when you grew up on opposite sides of the world, where family values differ, normal family structure and organization differs, the way you approach gender roles, family-ship roles, extended family, communication, and so much more, there is a lot more to unpack and sort out. In our home we all have different skin colours, kids too-we both had mixed race kids coming into this relationship. We have different countries of origin. We have very different extended family involvement, expectations, and demands. We are a blended family, with different custodial arrangements and different ‘other parent’ involvement in our kids’ lives. We found out that beyond a love of food and reading, we are different on many levels, and the hardest to overcome is the culture that is ingrained in us-right at the core of our identities.
Why am I telling you this? Because marriage is the hardest thing you will ever do, and intercultural marriages are harder still. Now, some will tell you it is parenting that is the hardest thing, but they are wrong. As a parent, you love that child unconditionally, whether you have one or one hundred. You may not like them, you might hate the things they do, but the love-that is forever. You would sacrifice your life for them. Marriage is a choice. You are picking a person, and there is no forever or survival instinct that overrides the self-and if kids are involved, you’ll instinctually choose the life of your own child over your spouse, even if you don’t want to admit it. It is hard to love someone forever, even on that person’s best days. So throw in all of these monkey wrenches, and while those wrenches may bring fun and cool experiences, they bring a whole host of new problems that we don’t like to talk about. Us crazy lovebirds? We decided to learn all this and more, while also learning to live together, teaching our kids to live together, while going through a pandemic, and surgeries, and acquiring two puppies. You know the old adage, go big or go home? Yeah…we went big alright!
Not to be defeated, I went to the marriage help aisle at my local library in 2021, because I knew I needed help. I don’t like to lose, and I was losing at my marriage. There was not a single help book for intercultural marriages. Now, they may exist, but they aren’t mainstream yet, most likely because no one wants to talk about this. And why is that? Because anyone that does sounds racist. It sounds like we are making value-based statements, holding one race or culture above another. Everyone wants a winner, someone that is right and someone that is wrong. No one solves a marital problem if that is their focus, I don’t care what their original nationality or skin colour is. You both win, and you both lose. Together. In intercultural marriages, the truth is, it won’t look like many other relationships. There may be more individuality and less blending on the surface, because at the end of the day, you are just not the same. Blending culture and families and race is all complicated. Throw in blending kids from past relationships and it can get worse. But trust me, it can also get better. Everyone says marriage is all compromise. I think that is sort of right, but maybe it is also letting your partner be an individual, accepting the differences in one another’s approach to life, and realizing somethings just aren’t compromisable. I won’t blow smoke up anyone’s anything-intercultural marriage isn’t for the faint of heart.
About the Author: Kristen is a proud elder millennial, mother of 3+1, born and raised in rural Ontario, with a background in Social Sciences. Kristen enjoys taking the most human subjects head on in her writing, as life is often messy, and so is human nature.
Wow, what an awesome, hilarious read! The visuals from that family get-together, my goodness!
My marriage to a Hungarian-Jamaican was intercultural. We divorced, so clearly there were issues, but not really related to cultural differences. That we both had mixed backgrounds and lived life straddling multiple worlds culturally actually served as a point of connection for us; plus we had the Jamaican side in common. My partner after that was Indian Parsi, and we were actually surprised at the similarities and overlap between our respective East Indian and West Indian backgrounds.
There seem to be two key factors that have a huge impact on intercultural relationships: 1) how similar/dissimilar the two cultures coming together are, and 2) how strong and distinct the cultural identities are for the two parties coming together. In both my situations, even though we weren’t from identical backgrounds, we had far more in common culturally than we had differences, so that made things easier. (We had other issues to contend with around personality, temperament, values, life goals, and expectations in general.)
Beyond the intercultural issue, this is such a valuable post offering so much on so many levels. It hits the nail on the head regarding how/why any marriage is so hard. I really appreciate the honesty that loving someone means working through problems and differences (and sometimes wanting to tear their head off.) And I love the concept of being flexible in one's approach, in that there’s a time and place for compromise, for finding middle ground, for giving in, for giving space, and for giving acceptance and freedom to let someone simply be the individual they are.
Thanks for sharing your perspective, this was a meaningful piece for me and greatly appreciated.
Thanks Kristen for your honesty in sharing your experiences and insights. My dad remarried when I was about 21 to someone with 3 kids all in their late teens/early twenties. There was not a chance in hell that we were going to be anything close to the Brady Bunch. Still, eventually it all worked out. But as you so clearly illustrate, as much as we all bring our unique micro-cultures to the table when we get married, it can be a whole lot tougher when you throw in macro-cultural differences.