The glass doors flew open with the wind. I heard laughing, voices and then silence. I looked upfrom my Wendy's Greek Pita and saw a group of young African- Americans in frontof me. As I scanned the group, I realized their silence was directed toward Andreand me.

"Hopkins," one of them read aloud.

"Is thata high school?" another questioned.

"Yeah,private."

"Oh," remarked another, as if that explainedeverything.

"They're reading my jacket," Andre said through aforced smile. His white teeth shone next to the darkness of hisskin.

Every time I looked up, I caught a member of the group staring inour direction. After they ordered, they chose a table behind us. As each swishedby in his Nike wind pants and Fubu jacket, I pretended to be intently interestedin the napkin dispenser. There were a dozen other empty tables, but the group satdown behind us.

Throughout my meal, I could feel their eyes on my back.Andre looked up once or twice, and his eyes lowered each time. Finally, after onelast glance, he took my hand and whispered, "Let's get out ofhere."

As I drove Andre home that night, I remembered one of thetimes I had gone to visit my relatives in Oklahoma. My nana and papa had taken mybrother and me to McDonald's. As we ate, an interracial couple sat next to us. Tomy surprise, Nana preached to me and my brother about the couple's sins. Iremember my papa hiding his head in shame and telling her to quiet down. When wegot back to my grandparents' house, I ran to my mom and told her what my nana hadsaid. I asked what Nana would do if I married a black man and my mom replied,"Well, she'd just have to live with it." My mom assured me the mostimportant thing is that I marry someone I love.

As we approached Andre'sstreet, he asked if I was okay. "Yeah, sure," I responded mechanically.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to scream to the world how much I hatedevery black and white racist. I wanted Andre to take me in his arms and tell methe group in Wendy's didn't matter. I wanted him to tell me he felt the same way.But I didn't scream and Andre didn't take me in his arms. Instead, we drove on inan overwhelming silence.

As I pulled up in front of his house, Andre tookmy hand and gave it a squeeze.

"What?" Iasked.

"Nothing," he replied. Somehow, this made everythingokay.

I dropped him off and drove home in silence. Somewhere in the backof my mind, I had assumed Connecticut was free of racism, or at least New Havenwas. In some way I had accepted the racism of my nana, excusing it because of herage and location. The group at Wendy's, however, was young, northern andapparently just as racist.

A few months later my mom handed me an articlefrom National Geographic about an interracial couple living in England. As itturns out, London is very accepting of interracial couples, whereas the U.S. isnot. Andre and I have experienced angry stares and wild whispers; the disapprovalis apparent.

Over the past few months, I have perfected the art of beingoblivious. With each passing day, I find myself more willing to turn my head andsimply look in the opposite direction. I know I will never be able to root outracism, but I also know I will not allow myself to be pulled down by it. In hisown silent way, Andre has given me the strength to turn my head and move on.