As the braids of hair intertwine with one another forming to make a bond, so too has this biracial marriage. Thirteen years we've shared together learning about each other differences and similiarites.

He had nine children when we met and I had one. He was 16 years older, almost 40 and I was 23 years old. I was practically disowned by my family and friends of my race. Even threats by some of an attempt to take my 5 year old son away. We spent our courtship wandering back and forth from one another. I went to Spain to study for a semester, hoping I would be able to leave the relationship behind and forget about him.

It was there however, that I found out who I was and what I had neglected to see in the relationship that held us so close to one another. There I found a world full of loving individuals, seeking to find only the best in one another and holding on to the traditions of family life and love.

I realized shortly after I was there that it was our differences I craved to learn more about and to understand. I continue to yearn for more experiences and opportunities to learn as much as possible about his heritage.

But it wasn't until the birth of our daughter that I saw a change in our social circle. It was the first time women of his race took a sincere interest in our marriage. I would soon be approached to be questioned about how I would raise my biracial daughter. I was given advice about tending to her hair and her manners. It wasn't until this time that I understood the beauty of African American women and the pride I witnessed in their footsteps.

Now some people would have been appalled at another woman telling her how to attend to the raising of her child and how to manage her hair. Not I. I took this opportunity to learn about why we had received so many odd looks and rude words from others. I began to gather a new understanding of the African American race.

I had grown up in a poor white country town with the worst abusive father, I have ever heard of. I lived in strong incorrect racist lifestyle. I well remember the day my father had me digging dandelions out of the front yard. There I kneeled down digging away and heard a soft voice say hello. I looked up and saw a young boy around 14 years old. I smiled and said hello in return. My father had been watching me out the window and hollered for me to come in the house.

He screamed his cruel words of racism and accused me of wanting sexual acts with the young boy, whom I had never seen before that very morning. I was beaten over and over again that day.

During the beatings, I was only remembering what had happened a few months earlier. I had called a young girl at school a racist name and didn't even know it was wrong.

My teacher asked me in front of the entire classroom, why I had called my classmate this name. I said in honesty, I didn't know it was wrong, my father had always said it.

I felt terrible after my teacher explained to me what racism was and what I had said was hurtful. So during the beating for smiling at the young boy and saying hello, I felt my father's fists as true punishment I deserved for my wrongful act at school.

When I hear people speak prejudice words today, I judge not. I simply pray. Each time I prepare my Nessi's hair and send her off to school, I think of all the women who took the time to tell me why her braids are so important.

And so when I saw the opportunity to write about "Love Stories" amongst different cultures, not only can I share the love my husband and I have experienced but of the love I have found from African American Women. So when you look at Nessi's braids and see the history crossed in, perhaps now you will not see braids of hair grease or rubber bands, but a history of pride and tender loving care.