“Da-bid, your mom really loved you, Chong, and Doug. She told me how much you changed when you came back from the camp.
“I still remember when your mom called me to let me know how different you were. You had bought her flowers. Da-bid, your mom loved you. She really loved you.”
Through all this, Kim Ahjumma was like my mom and didn’t speak ill of my dad. There was a love and respect for my father that I’m sure she caught from my mom.
The police let us know that they had the purse Mom had with her when she was killed. We picked up the box of her belongings from the police station, took it home, and opened it up. The purse had been dragged with her on the interstate freeway. The black leather was scratched and dirty. Broken glass spilled out of it. Her wallet, with credit and ID cards, was inside. At the bottom of the purse, I pulled out a postcard. I held it close to examine it. I couldn’t believe it. It was the postcard I had mailed Mom at the beginning of my freshman school year. I was surprised Mom kept it. Chong saw me holding the card. She then told me, “Dave, Mom took that postcard to work every day to show her customers where you were going to school. She was so proud of you that you were attending college and excelling.”
It was something I had written so quickly, without much thought, not knowing how much Mom would treasure it.
As I held it, I started shaking. The tears wouldn’t stop.
In the days to follow, I kept asking with greater intensity, “When does this pain stop, God?” I had believed when I connected back to God in Colorado, things would be different. That perhaps my parents would even get back together again. I longed for that. Prayed for their reunion. Yet their relationship only got worse.
Eventually, my grief turned to anger again.
Why did You take her? Why didn’t You take Dad?
I couldn’t believe I even thought that. I couldn’t understand why God had chosen to take the innocent one instead of the one I thought was guilty. It was a horrible thing even to consider but I found my mind would often go to this dark place of what I thought would be justice.
I still kept Dad at a distance. I was probably trying to protect myself from any more pain. He was a no-show to me. He didn’t show up to my graduation, and he didn’t show up to Mom’s funeral even to comfort us kids. I blamed Dad for everything that had happened. It wasn’t fair that she had gotten what it seemed he deserved.
Mom was gone. I was trapped in a vicious cycle of sorrow that wouldn’t end.
The question that Mom had kept asking me when I held her in my arms that late night: “Why?”
That was now my question.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN No Interracial Dating
My heart started to pound. I stared at the small green piece of paper in my hand. I knew I was in trouble. This was the one note you don’t want to see in your mailbox.
Toward the end of my sophomore year, as I checked my PO box on campus, like I did every other day, I discovered the dreaded green slip of paper from the Dean of Men’s office.
Go to the Dean of Men’s office immediately.
If you got that piece of mail, you knew it was bad news. I tucked the slip into my pants pocket in disbelief while preppy students in loafers collected their mail from the muted gray metal mailboxes lining the walls around me. My heart continued to beat wildly. I could be expelled. But for what? I had never been in any trouble with the school before. It could really be only one thing.
Filled with anxiety, I walked down the sidewalk. I arrived at the administration building, a beige brick building in the center of the campus. I felt like I was entering the White House as I passed old oil paintings of different university presidents and administrators lit up by a lot of brass lighting. I made my way up the stairs and arrived at the Dean’s office. With my heart pounding, I knocked on his door.
“Come in,” Dr. Milton said with a raspy voice, probably from preaching hundreds of fiery sermons over his forty-plus years of life.
His frame was lean under his dark suit. He came off as a man of action. His courtesy smile morphed into a serious expression as he looked at me. His eyes were sober and now serious.
“Hello, Dr. Milton. I’m Dave Gibbons. I got this slip to come to your office right away.”
His pronounced square jaw tightened as he glanced at his notes and then looked back up at me.
“Dave, it’s been reported you’ve been dating Caucasian.”
He was absolutely right. I had never dated someone who wasn’t white. No prejudice against other ethnic women; it was just who I mostly grew up with in the communities where I’d lived. Perhaps subconciously it was me ultimately feeling like I was accepted here in America if I was dating a white woman.
I had prepared a response, because this was something that had been a lingering concern since I’d arrived at BJU my freshman year. I didn’t know at this time, but there was a national story happening about Bob Jones University’s No Interracial Dating Policy. All the major news outlets were reporting about this policy. Bob Jones University’s policy was being challenged in the Supreme Court because of the university’s tax-exempt status. The question was, could a tax-exempt institution have a policy, belief, or rule that discriminates because of race? The ramifications of this case would be huge, because it could potentially affect every nonprofit in the country. It was about the legality of believing what you want to regardless of the US government’s approval. It was a fight that Christian leaders, like those at Bob Jones, were prepared to aggressively pursue, because they were ready to fight big government or any growing government assault on what they saw as our “Christian” beliefs and our “Christian” liberties.
With as much calm as I could muster, I responded to Dr.
Milton: “I spoke to my dormitory supervisor and to my staff adviser, Dr. Boyd,” I said. “They both said I could date Caucasian because I’m half-Asian and half-Caucasian.”
“Well, you can’t,” Dr. Milton replied. “You look Asian, and you can only date those of your own race, which is Asian.”
“Dr. Milton, I’m half-Korean and half-white. My mom is Korean and my dad is American, a white man.”
“But you look a hundred percent Asian, Dave.”
As worried as I’d been about being expelled before, I was strangely emboldened to question his beliefs now. Besides, he wasn’t from the Deep South. I reasoned he should know better because he was from Colorado.
“Dr. Milton, how do you determine who can date who racially?”
He carefully measured his words as he said, “We determine who you can date by three things: your physical appearance, your language, and your primary culture.”
“Well, two out of three is good,” I said with a chuckle.
He didn’t laugh.
“Dave—the bottom line is, you look Asian.” Dr. Milton surprised me with his next comment. “Dave, we know you can cause significant trouble around here.”
I had just been elected to a student body office where I shared a monthly inspirational talk to the whole sophomore class. I had also been recently elected to be the vice president of the ministerial class, the largest single major at BJU.
Dr. Milton paused for a moment and gave me a hard stare before continuing.
