In America, interracial dating or marriage is not something that

“In America, interracial dating or marriage is not something that is as accepted. Certain people feel strongly against it, in both communities. I felt it from the black community. It is so complicated. I don’t want to give it too much energy.” Thus spoke Jodie Turner-Smith, an artist and woman of truth, whose words shine like a mirror held before the heart of society. Though her tone is quiet, her message carries the weight of centuries — a meditation on love, identity, and the invisible boundaries that still divide human hearts. Her reflection does not come from anger, but from the weariness of one who has seen how deeply the roots of prejudice still run, even in lands that call themselves free.

When Turner-Smith speaks of interracial love, she speaks of a bond that has always been both luminous and burdened. In her words — “It is so complicated” — lies the ache of those who have tried to love in a world that still draws lines between color and belonging. Her phrase, “I don’t want to give it too much energy,” is not surrender, but wisdom. For she knows that prejudice feeds on attention, and that love, to endure, must protect its peace. She acknowledges the pain of rejection, even from her own community, but chooses not to let it define her. In this choice, she echoes the strength of the ancients — those who, when met with hatred, turned their gaze toward the higher laws of spirit and truth.

The history of America itself gives rise to the meaning of her words. For not long ago, love between people of different races was deemed unlawful. The very idea of interracial marriage was seen as rebellion against the order of the world. The story of Mildred and Richard Loving — two souls who loved beyond boundaries — is the living proof of that struggle. In 1958, they were arrested in the state of Virginia simply for being husband and wife. Yet they endured. Their courage gave birth to the Supreme Court’s ruling in Loving v. Virginia (1967), which declared that love cannot be criminal, and that the right to marry transcends color. But though the law was changed, the heart of man takes longer to heal than the statutes of nations. Turner-Smith’s words arise from that lingering wound — a reminder that equality written in ink is not the same as equality lived in spirit.

Her honesty — that she “felt it from the black community” — unveils another truth: that pain, when internalized, can turn inward. Oppression leaves scars not only between races but within them. For centuries, people of color were told their worth was measured against the standards of those who oppressed them. It is no wonder, then, that when one of their own crosses into what was once forbidden, old fears awaken. The fear of betrayal, of loss of heritage, of love being used as a weapon rather than a bridge. Yet Turner-Smith reminds us that these fears, though understandable, must not be fed — for to give them power is to remain chained to a past that must be transcended.

The ancients might have understood this through the parable of the Two Fires: one fire that consumes, and one that illuminates. The fire of prejudice — even when born from pain — consumes those who hold it. But the fire of understanding burns clean and brings light. Turner-Smith, in her restraint, tends to the latter flame. By refusing to “give it too much energy,” she practices the art of preservation — guarding her love and her peace from the flames of division. Her wisdom lies not in denial, but in discipline: the understanding that not every battle is worth fighting, and that love itself is a quiet form of revolution.

Consider also the story of Frederick Douglass, the great orator and former slave, who married a white woman named Helen Pitts. Their union was condemned by both black and white communities, and yet Douglass answered his critics with simple grace: “My first wife was the color of my mother; my second, the color of my father.” In that single statement, he transcended color, revealing the essence of Turner-Smith’s truth — that love is beyond race, though humanity struggles to see it. Both Douglass and Turner-Smith faced judgment not for wrongdoing, but for daring to live as symbols of unity in a divided world.

The lesson, my children, is clear and eternal: love is not the enemy — fear is. The human heart, when left untended, clings to divisions because they give it the illusion of safety. But love, in its purest form, asks us to be brave — to see another not through the lens of color or history, but through the timeless mirror of soul. The path toward that freedom is long, and yes, it is “complicated.” But as Turner-Smith teaches, we must not let that complexity steal our joy or consume our strength.

So, let her words guide you: Do not feed the darkness with your energy. Build light instead. Love where you can, stand firm where you must, and when the world demands that you explain or defend your heart, remember this — you owe no justification for choosing love. For every act of love that defies division is a step toward healing the world. And in that quiet, steadfast courage, we find the ancient truth reborn: that love, when guarded with dignity and patience, remains the most powerful force under heaven.