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My gramma was formidable. Short but not tiny, with shoulders and arms like a wrestler, from working on the assembly line all her adult life. She was especially tough on her husband and oldest son because, in her opinion – and in reality – both drank too much. She did not hide her displeasure about who her children married. They were the first generation to go so far afield, marrying people from outside of our town’s Irish Catholic ghetto. They were from our same town, but raised in the Italian Catholic, French Catholic and Polish Catholic churches and neighborhoods.

Gramma had many grandchildren, but I was her darling and everyone in the family knew it.

At the wedding of one of my cousins, I was dancing with the uncle who drank too much, who took it as an opportunity to say, “I hear you are going out with one of those guys I spent four years trying to kill during the war.”

Ah. Word was out in the family that I was dating a Japanese American guy way out in California. I stopped dancing, yanked my hands from his shoulders and sharply declared, “He was born here, so were his parents, he’s as American as the rest of us.”

From the sidelines, my father saw what was going on and came to my rescue.

“That’s enough now.” He escorted me off the dance floor.

When I brought this guy, Kenji, home to Massachusetts to meet the family, our first stop was my parents’ place outside of Boston, which was about 100 miles from the factory town where we were raised and where the rest of the family lived. At the little peninsula in the kitchen, Kenji and I sat on stools across from my parents. They broke out a celebratory bottle of Asti Spumante and were soon entranced by his effortless charm. I was stunned when my mother broke out a second bottle – they were not drinkers, but they had fallen in love with Kenji.

The next stop was introducing Kenji to the whole family back home in the factory town. My parents took the entire gang out to lunch at a favorite place, with Gramma seated at the head of the long table. I was the first person in the family to love someone of another race. Could this be what finally shook me off the pedestal? Everyone tuned in, alert to every expression on her face. Under those watchful eyes, Kenji was unintimidated, his usual lovely self.

After lunch, in the parking lot, with everyone lingering within earshot, Gramma declared, “I like him. He will take care of Nanny.”

Everyone gave a “that girl is aways going to be her favorite” shrug, got into their cars and drove away.