By Renée Bess
Every Sunday I greedily guard enough time
to read one feature in particular of the New York Times’ “Style” section. I
don’t waste more than a moment scanning the postage stamp size photos that fill
the “On the Street” page or the “After Hours” section, although I’ll own my penchant
for glancing at the pictures in search of revelers of color. I’ve read the
Sunday New York Times since I was a teenager, and I’m happy to report that the
photos in the two aforementioned pages portray much more racial diversity than
they did forty years ago.
What kept me glued to the “Styles” section
then was the same feature that keeps me glued to it now, the parade of marriage
and wedding announcements. During my adolescence, I’d read the blurbs and then
fantasize how the text might describe my own nuptials. Don’t scoff. If you were
an African-American child who grew up in an integrated neighborhood, went to
racially integrated public schools, and had parents who modeled a sense of
self-worth, you had the audacity to believe you were equal to the people whose
wedding announcements you read every week. I used to scan some of those notices
and replace the bride’s name with my own.
