My mother’s proper English friend expressed her condolences that I was choosing to marry an Indian man. I was deeply offended when her racial bias was made known to me. This was in 1976. Now, nearly 45 years later, still married to this wonderful man, I watch an explosion of rage and hurt erupt all over the world, and I am exploding too, in retaliation to the death of one black man and racial injustice against innumerable human beings.

My three daughters and I recently filled out a questionnaire about white  privilege. My score was highest. My white privilege exceeds theirs and certainly, by far, their father’s, who made a career in law in Canada despite being shunned and discriminated against by other white members of the bar. He has had to work much harder than my own father, also a lawyer, to achieve the same end,     a measure of prosperity, the ability to educate our children, and the enjoyment of a peaceful life as a visible minority in a predominantly white community.

My education has been daunting as well. I started out as a white bread girl and over time have learned to expertly roll out chapattis and make chicken curry and vegetable dahls. My world thankfully opened up when I met someone different. I have always reminded my parents, “I didn’t marry the boy next door.” Cultural differences are real and they require understanding.