Last Friday, my husband Andre, and a couple of buddies, took the two and a half hour ride from Providence to the northwest corner of Connecticut, to see Soulive, his all time favorite band.

Norfolk, CT, not to be confused with Norwalk, is a small rural place near the foothills of the Berkshires. Population: 1,709. According to the 2010 US Census, the racial breakdown is: 1659 White, 12 African American, 11 Asian, 2 American Indian, 7 Other and 18 Identified by two or more races.

In other words: 97 percent of the population is white.

In other, other words: Andre, a black man, is probably gonna stick out a bit.

No biggie.

One of the many beautiful things about my husband is, even after living forty-eight years in his dark hued body, that he doesn't look at life with the weight of some angry chip on his shoulder, expecting folks to react in a certain way.

Andre is ALWAYS just Andre. Mellow. Accepting. Nonjudgmental. A quality cat.

His only expectation? That you'll treat him the same.

Friday night was no exception. After dinner at the restaurant downstairs, he started to lead his two friends, tickets in hand, upstairs to the concert venue. The ushers at the top of the stairs, the only official people in sight, were Andre's target.

But apparently, because he'd never been there before, Andre misstepped protocol--and clearly the safety measures that had been put into place to avoid gate crashers.

Even though the place only holds 300 people.

Even though these Three Amigos, one towering way over six feet, would have been pretty easy to spot in the half sold crowd of 150 people, should their intent be to slip past the first checkpoint, a woman who clearly wasn't manning her station.

"Hey! Where are you guys going?" called the woman from off to the side.

"I saw you talking over there," said Andre.

Translation: I didn't think you were working here.

"Yeah, well I thought I was going to have to wrestle you," said the woman.

"I get that a lot," said Andre.

And then? The 'oh, no you didn't moment.' The kind that stops time, where the speaker realizes what she said and the participants wait to see how each other will react.

To Andre, a black man, the white woman said, "Watch it, boy."

Really, lady. What were you thinking?

Sure. I can pause and give her the benefit of the doubt for a (milli)second. What if she was just trying to be flirty? Or show my husband that she was 'down with him'. Sorry. Doesn't matter or work here. There's just certain things you don't do in life, whatever your intent: Say hijack in an airport. Yell fire in a theatre.

And, especially if you're a white person, call a black man, 'boy'.

Way too racially charged. Way too much history. Way too much context.

And truly, what's up with the timing here? Her sorry outburst came just hours after the President's speech on race. It came just days after the George Zimmerman verdict. Maybe its me--and apparently it is-- but is it crazy to think those situations would cause other people to not only reflect about their beliefs, but be a bit more thoughtful about their interactions with one another?

Luckily for her, Andre had that introspection piece covered for both of them.

No doubt, timing is everything. If she had uttered those words to anyone other than my husband, she may have gotten a hugely different reaction. Conversely, if any of this went down prior to the Trayvon Martin case , and his own deep reflections, Andre may have reacted differently. Truthfully, he probably would have opted to say nothing, silently steaming about this ignorant woman.

She would have become part of his negative history.

But instead, because of this Zimmerman verdict. Because of his anger over the senseless killing of a black teen who was much like him. Because of his recent experience developing and teaching a workshop on cultural and race relations, Andre did something a whole lot more powerful.

He looked her in the face and said, very calmly, "That's not very culturally competent."

Andre spoke the truth.

And for a moment, at least, it worked.

Way back in November, 1992, I went on my last first date, with someone dark and handsome. (I initially thought he was tall. Not so much.)

Cue 'Ebony and Ivory'.

In the post Seal and Heidi, current Kayne and Kim world of 2013, where we've elected a black president to two terms, interracial love seems like no biggie. Twenty short years ago, in rural Rhode Island, trust me, it was.

The facts: I graduated from a high school that had exactly ONE person of color. Yes, that would be any color, other than white. My school's integration came courtesy of John, a junior, who arrived on scene during the start of my senior year. Fall. 1988.

Yet, apparently, he wasn't the first black man to call Burrillville home. According to my grandmother, who was born in 1909 and showcased a racial political correctness reflective of her times, John was preceded by a cat, 'fondly' referred to as 'N---er Johnson', as well as a local branch of the Klan, you know, to keep the threat in-line.

My exposure to people of color, first came during my formative years courtesy of Sesame Street (Gordon, I owe you, man), then via a blind college roommate situation that ended badly. Very badly. So, when this dark and handsome co-worker asked me, to see, drum roll please, Malcolm X, this was, on many levels, one of my biggest tests.

Ever.

I wish I could say that I easily stepped up to the challenge. But initially there wasn't anything easy about it. I remember thinking our relationship would be perfect--if we could only stay by ourselves, safely tucked away from the world within the confines of Andre's apartment. Here, there were no judgements.

Part of the problem was that I was used to going through my everyday life without a second glance. Or at least without the addition of complete-stop-in-your-tracks, head turning stupidness. Sometimes in curiosity. Sometimes in spite. All completely new to me. A co-worker once told me Andre and I were a 'striking couple'. Often, I have to go there, in order to avoid strangling someone.

In addition to the rubbernecking, I had to really open my eyes to what it meant to be black in America. As a young white woman, I never had to experience life as a minority--or be at the end of other people's prejudices. No driving while black scenarios for me. No, quite frankly, bullshit situations. There were so many things that Andre had to deal with on the daily that I never even considered. And now, if he was going to be part of my world, I needed to be part of his.

So, I had to make a choice.

Adapt and grow. Or give in, give up and take the easy way out.

I don't think much thought is given to interracial relationships, or the type of person you have to be to work one successfully. You have to be incredibly strong. And freakishly confident. And not care that people are starring, sneering or yelling "OJ stay away from that" from a speeding car. You have to grow a pair. Say I don't give a fuck. And know that real love conquers all.

But there's also a delicate balance. Because while you need to be able to protect yourself in this often non-colorblind world, you don't want to live life on defensive default, making untrue assumptions that everyone is going to give you a hard time. That just makes you a perpetuator of the hate. So, you've got to move beyond the angry, to a place of peace, where you see most people as good. Because, indeed, they are.

Fast forward to 2009 and the Essence Music Festival in New Orleans. The R&B concerts of all R&B concerts. I was in musical heaven. As well as solidly within the minority. More like in the minority of the minority. In, fact, as a white person in America, you'd be hard pressed to come up with a social situation, where you could be more of a minority.

And it was a beautiful thing.

Because I finally realized how truly comfortable I was, both in my own skin, and as Andre's wife. And people responded. A young usher displayed the most gracious of Southern hospitality and lent me a hand down the stairs. Another older woman, gave us directions and told us to 'Hold onto each other so you don't get lost'. Ladies in the bathroom asked if I was having a good time.

No one cared what color my skin was.

Because I didn't.

And really, isn't that how it should be?