Oil and Vinegar
Oil and vinegar do not mix unless shaken and suspended by an emulsifier. It is a great condiment in combination, but let it stand by itself and it soon separates back into two parts. Like oil and vinegar; cultural, geographic, or religious differences, as well as family bias, bigotry and loyalties wreck the emulsifier that otherwise might have had the potential to allow a marriage to stand on its own.
Italian culture assumes that any child will marry another Italian. Jews, Muslims, and many other cultures or races hold the same assumptions.
Protestants do not protest so much if the spouse is Caucasian or unless the family has a self-appointed legacy to maintain. Then there can be big trouble. After all, if the bloodlines get too admixed; there can no longer be any culture. And without sustaining a culture, groups or individuals can no longer sustain bigotry and hatred.
Italian parents have another clannish peculiarity by the fact that they expect their married children to either move in, to move close by, to add on a second story, or if all else fails to even build another house on the same property as theirs; much akin to a Mediterranean Ponderosa. The children then usually remain subservient to the whims of some self-appointed Ben Cartwright until he eventually dies, and a new Capo emerges to take over the clan. Gangster families refer to it as a “compound,” but they need walled protection for other reasons.
Extended Protestant families will sometimes live together if the home is spacious such that the wings can be divvied up and they can avoid each other. This will usually depend on the current status of the stock market or how much of the family fortune some non-frugal ancestor pissed away. The Protestant’s proclivity to limited procreation also assures that there will always be enough room in the house for everyone.
My aunts Rose and Kay had married Italian men. They were both properly married in the Catholic Church by a priest and they both settled in homes within a five-minute travel time to their mother. One could walk over to Grandma’s from Rose’s house; while Kay’s required a 5-minute car ride.
Meanwhile Uncle Mike married an Irish girl in Maryland. However, having sensed the disapproval and probable censure― then not desiring face-to-face daily battles over it with the clan―he never moved back home. Although everyone made excuses for his absence, I know that he then became the family’s black sheep.
- Oh. Poor Mike. His job made him move. Otherwise he’d still be here with Ma.
- Yeah. Right. Some excuse. Trading Ma for some Irish whore. Who’s gonna make his favorite sauce now? Serves him right. Not only did he move; he basically disappeared from the family radar screen after making the wise choice that his wife―but not his mother or his clustered sibling family―should be his primary relationship.
- No. Smart Mike. He moved to Pluto. Otherwise he’d still be here in Hell.
My father, however, committed several unforgivable mortal sins. He was married in the foreign country of Texas, without the family’s consent; topped off by the horror that a Baptist Preacher married him, to a Baptist; in a Baptist Church.
Mike was suddenly starting to look relatively good again, because even though he married an Irish, at least she was a good Catholic, and at least he had done it in the one and only true-faith Catholic Church.
It logically follows that if loyalty to one’s family or cultural or religious beliefs comes first―and even if the Whitney’s or the Vanderbilt’s had issues with inter-breeding―you can imagine what happened when my wayward sacrilegious father brought my heathen mother home from Texas to New York to live in the apartment downstairs in his mother’s house.
If there were no other races
Then whom would we hate?
And what if they gave a war
But nobody came?