Remembering what Loving Day means in these times
- Melissa Herrera: Not Waiting for Friday
- June 8, 2025
- 815
From the time we re-entered the United States, after nine months in Mexico, at the end of March 1990, we had three months to get married. When you enter with a fiance visa (K-1), the clock starts ticking the minute that visa is stamped in your passport. Before this, we’d had numerous appointments at the American Embassy in Mexico City. The romanticism of it all begins to wear thin when all your hopes and dreams are dependent on a man sitting behind a Plexiglas window.
“Do you have photos or letters to prove you guys are a couple?” he asked.
Tears sprang to my eyes because all those things were back in my little room in Berlin, Ohio.
“They’re in Ohio,” I answered.
“We can’t approve this until you have them,” he said, not even at all interested in what we were saying. I called my mom from a little telephone hut in the center of San Juan, Teotihuacán. The lady there knew us, as we came most weeks to call home, and dialed the number, her long fingernails clickety-clacking on the rotary phone. Ocho-noventa-tres-veinte-cinco-cincuenta-siete. 893-2557.
The line crackled from the long distance, and Mom picked up from thousands of miles away. I told her we needed all our pictures and letters sent to Mexico before they’d approve the visa.
We would have to prove our love to the American government before we could begin our lives together.
Getting mail sent to Mexico in the ‘80s, especially a small package, was no small feat. But when it arrived and all the items spilled out in front of me, I cried tears of relief. We went to our next appointment at the embassy with the goods in hand. The man behind the Plexiglas smiled. We’d been approved.
When I fell in love with George, I never thought twice about the fact we looked different from one another. It wasn’t long before people made sure to remind me of it. In Mexico I had never thought of it; the months we lived there gathering papers were an adventure. We were in love, and every morsel of food and stolen kiss in town under the gazebo was a magical moment. Back in Ohio, reminders that we were “different” from one another were relentless.
We drove the 2,157 miles home, popping the clutch the entire way in my little Mercury Lynx. And those three months we had in which to get married? I stared them down, and we prepared. Nothing would stop us from that altar and saying “I do.” Love remains 35 years later, except the rug has been pulled out from under us. The current atmosphere is one of removing anyone and everyone who looks “different.” We feel unsettled and off-kilter.
But because there once was some sense here, I write this column to celebrate Loving Day.
The “Loving” in Loving Day is actually the last name of Mildred and Richard Loving. They were arrested for being married in 1958 because they were an interracial couple living in Virginia. Their case, Loving v. Virginia (1967), reached the U.S. Supreme Court. Their lawyers argued laws against interracial marriage came from slavery laws, intended to oppress Black people and based on white supremacy. Other states had similar laws. Some of these laws applied to people of other races as well. Nine years after their arrest, the Lovings won their case on June 12, 1967. It was more than a victory for their family. It struck down all state laws against interracial marriage in the U.S.
Our love that has lasted a lifetime was once illegal. It’s hard to fathom it, yet I still see the pervasive fear of others every day in this country. I have mourned and wailed at what I am seeing splinter people that simply want to live in peace, a cup of coffee in the morning and a kiss goodbye as people head to work. I will never understand the swaying of the masses when it’s really all so simple.
We’re meant to love. Today I celebrate that I can love my husband but am aware, like I’ve never been, that it can be snatched away at the slightest movement. One day we will all awaken and wonder what we’ve done.
Melissa Herrera is a reflective writer who captures the beauty and sorrow of change. With a career spanning 14 years as an opinion columnist and the publication of two books, she resides in Stark County with her husband and four cats. She writes to preserve memories. You can reach her at junkbabe68@gmail.com.