When I was 18, the 20-year-old white guy I was dating wanted to introduce me to his parents. He still lived at home, a completely normal thing for a Mormon-raised boy, since most marry by 22. We walked through the front door down a long hallway into his high-ceilinged living room, where his parents sat on the couch, wrapped in matching blankets and holding caffeine-free Diet Cokes in their hands. “Mom, Dad, this is Shaq,” he shouted. “We’re going down to my room. Yes, she’s Black. Bye!” I froze, awkwardly waved, and followed him down the stairs. We dated for three years. But that’s what it’s like to be Black in Mormon Utah: Most relationships start with a disclaimer.
