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The below essay is adapted from Ashley Graham's new memoir, A New Model: What Confidence, Beauty, and Power Really Look Like.
Four months into our knowing each other, my now husband, Justin, said, “I really like you, and I really want to be your boyfriend. Will you be my girlfriend?” I said yes. But the truth is, I wasn’t sure. One reason: Our first kiss was terrible. (To this day Justin says I’m the worst kisser he ever met and that he had to teach me how to kiss.) But the real reason was more complicated and had to do with the cumulative effect of bad relationships I’d had over the years. Let me give you the backstory.
I started dating at 16. My first boyfriend and I were together for three months, until he said, “I have to break up with you because you won’t have sex with me. And I’m afraid you’re going to be as fat as my mom.” Thus started a pattern of going out with anyone who thought I was hot; I lost my virginity to a guy I barely knew because he gave me compliments like, “Ashley, you look really pretty today,” or, “I like when you wear your hair like that.” (The next day he ignored me in school.) When I left Nebraska to start my modeling career in New York City, my dates followed a similar pattern: A guy took me out, then we had sex, then I wouldn’t hear from him again.
Eventually I joined a church. I didn’t go there to find a boyfriend; I truly wasn’t looking for anyone other than the person I wanted to be. One Sunday my volunteer position was to stand in the elevator welcoming people, passing out candy and pushing the button to the eighth floor. When two tall men walked in, I didn’t bat an eye. One nudged the other and said, “If you don’t talk to her, I will.” His friend left the elevator, but he stayed on.
I shrugged. This guy wasn’t my type. With his short hair, ill-fitting, baggy Old Navy jeans, white Hanes T-shirt, and Converse sneakers, he exuded a major nerd factor. But there was something sweet about Justin, and I was at church, so I had to be polite. He rode up and down with me a few times, and he seemed to be looking into my soul when we talked. He was smart and funny and had traveled the world. So I agreed to go out for coffee.
The day arrived, and we had a great time—until the check came. I went to the bathroom, and when I returned the check was still resting on the table with his half on top. “Here you go,” he said, handing me the bill. I paid my share of the $5.25 and thought, This is the last date. For a month Justin called, texted, and emailed, but I stuck to my guns. Finally he persuaded me to go out for falafel. “Let me explain,” he said. “I’m going to pay for dinner tonight. And I’m going to pay for the next dinner after that. When you told me you were a model, I assumed you were one of those beautiful women who uses guys for a fancy dinner. I don’t play that game. I do well for myself, and I’ve been burned because of it. I don’t want to go out with anyone who only has me around so I can pay for stuff.”
And just like that, I had my first experience of what it meant to communicate with a man. It was profound; all I wanted to do was keep talking to Justin. The consistency and openness was so new it felt weird. I told him this all the time: “You’re weird.”
My romance with Justin was innocent and sweet. He cooked for me. We went rollerblading and biking; we did karaoke, went to the movies, took an improv class together. Because we weren’t sleeping together—for Justin, abstinence was a firm commitment to his faith—we never tempted ourselves by going over to each other’s apartments late at night. But we’d go to late movies or take walks through the city together. We had a spot on 14th Street and Seventh Avenue where we loved to sit and chat.
Yet despite how wonderful everything was, I still kept part of myself in reserve. While Justin offered so much of himself through our conversations, I answered his probing questions with this: “If I know you in six months, I’ll tell you.”
So how did I finally know he was the one worth putting myself out there for? I brought Justin home to Nebraska. Now, I should probably mention that Justin is black, and that I didn’t grow up around many black people. The sum total of what I learned about African American culture in school was Martin Luther King Jr., Rosa Parks, and the Underground Railroad. This was more than my mom knew; she didn’t even see a black person in real life until she was 18 years old.
I never told Justin any of this, and I never told my grandparents that the man I was bringing home was black. I naively hoped everyone would be color-blind—which is not what happened. When my grandparents met Justin, my grandmother was cordial but cold. She greeted him and immediately walked away. When it came time for them to leave, my grandparents didn’t even acknowledge him. Instead my grandmother looked me in the eye, with Justin standing behind me, and said, “Tell that guy I said goodbye.”
I had never seen my loving, hardworking, and wonderful grandma be so hurtful and so racist. I was in shock.
After they left I took Justin on a ride to get out of the house. I’ll never forget what he said as we drove around town: “Racism is never surprising but always disappointing.”
Justin made me understand that someone like my grandma only saw black men depicted on television in situations involving guns, rape, and violence—situations that perpetuate racist stereotypes against black people in general and black men in particular. She had probably never looked a black man in the face, let alone had a conversation with him, and now one was in her daughter’s home, dating her granddaughter.
As if his understanding wasn’t generous enough, Justin called my grandmother on her sixtieth wedding anniversary. He’s not a texter or an emailer; he’s a pick-up-the-phone-and-call-you person, and anniversaries are a big deal to him. Afterward Grandma called my mom and said, “You’ll never guess who called me.” And from then on out, she loved him. Loved him.
I’m so grateful that happened, and it never would have if Justin hadn’t put his hand out there. He always puts love before pride, which is what he did with me. When I was playing games, he called me out on it. When we began dating, he did it with intention, always asking the difficult questions: “What do you bring to this relationship?” and “What role do you see yourself in beyond girlfriend or wife?” I wasn’t always sure how to answer. I didn’t like my mom and dad’s marriage, but I couldn’t put my finger on why. But thanks to Justin’s constant communication, I envisioned a marriage that was more than just two people loving each other. And now we have that marriage: a partnership dedicated to building something bigger than ourselves.
Ashley Graham is a model and body activist. This is her first book.
