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He’d go to work and disappear afterward for hours on end, leaving my mom in the dark as to his whereabouts.On the nights he come home, his live-in mother would insist on accompanying my parents on their date nights.Yes, during the brief time my mother and father were married, my mom’s mother-in-law lived in their house, which is a pretty standard familial arrangement in Indian culture.I was too young to process her presence, but from what my mom told me, she was like, Cinderella-stepmom evil.
(I thought he was being tongue-in-cheek, but it turns out he was just being an assh*le.) Whenever John and I walked down the street, people would look at us funny.
But I couldn’t tell if my insecurities were all in my head. Was it because we just so happened to look really f*cking good next to each other?
Disclaimer: I’m not here to generalize Indian culture or Indian men. Tim* was British, blue-eyed, and had this tousled, beautiful, blond head of hair you absolutely couldn’t resist running your hands through.
But living through the dynamic between my mom and dad turned me off and made me want to avoid that dynamic. After Tim, I noticed a pattern in my love life: I began to exclusively date blond-haired, blue-eyed guys.
Traditional Indian homes are predominantly run by the family’s patriarch, so I’d have a higher chance of running into that issue with an Indian husband. Since I’ve spent my entire life dating white guys, I’ve always been one half of many interracial couples. Anyone who didn’t straight-up look like a Ken Doll wasn’t a viable relationship candidate. First, there was John*, whom I’ve written about extensively.
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He was my first love, and he also happened to look just like Tim.