The plain fact is, it calls for an act of consummate heroism to withstand real hostility from one’s family. It is not only a matter of the ties of love. It is a matter of who you are, finding and preserving this “who” ... and you may lose it utterly if you deny your family, just as you may lose it also by failing to break the bonds of childhood.
Even when people try to be understanding and decent, they can be tripped by their vocabulary. In the protective and highly specialized environment in which Hope was raised, anti-Semitism was as much a matter of vocabulary as of practical experience. Even the mild jibes of pet names often involved reference to purported Jewish traits. This atmosphere is so total that those who breathe it scarcely think about it.
This beautiful and vital girl with whom my heart had become so deeply involved, brilliant and well-educated, loved and admired by family and friends, could not possibly make the break that our relationship would call for without the most terrible kind of struggle. Hope’s parents were dead, but she had an aunt and uncle and a sister and brother. Their reaction to my impending descent upon their world was one of violent shock and bitter protest.
Hope’s relatives were vitally concerned about what she was getting herself into. As if I wasn’t! I think if they had pointed out to her that, in addition to being Jewish, I had three small children, that there was an age difference involved, and that she herself might be running away from some nameless fear, they would have stood a better chance of prevailing. But the social impossibility of the case seemed to be the overwhelming obstacle.
If it were all really a dreadful error, I could only pray that Hope might be convinced of it. I was afraid of marriage. I couldn’t afford a love that was not meant to be. I had to think not only of Hope and me, but of the children—they couldn’t be subjected to another tragedy. There mustn’t be a mistake.
To me, it was a terrible thing to have to remain passive, to ask Hope to shoulder the whole burden of our relationship. We sought out a psychoanalyst to help us—one I had never met socially or in a business way (not easy; I knew nearly all of them on a first name basis) and who, if at all possible, was not Jewish. I did find such a man and Hope arranged to see him. He gave her the facts about the risks involved in marrying me. He also gave assurance that she was neither neurotic nor in need of analysis. And that threw the whole thing right back to Hope again.
Hope left the city to hold counsel with herself. I stayed and did likewise, on the crossroads of my own experience. We had a hard time of it ... and love won through, feeding, obviously, on struggle, obstacles, impossibilities, and growing all the better for it.
I am sure God was beside me when I married Hope. Since then, everything I do seems right and good. We do everything together ... my life is empty when she is gone even for a few days. Hope’s brother and sister have learned that the “impossible” thing, social acceptance, does not interest me, but that there are other areas of living equally important. We are friends.
Life with love is not without struggle. The struggle is continuous, but so is our love for each other and our family. With the addition of Amy Rebecca, Lisa Jane, and Joseph Peter, the Brent children now number six. It gives us much quiet amusement to hear parents complaining about the difficulties of raising two or three. Hope is responsible for naming Joseph Peter, our youngest. “He looks so much like you and your family,” she said, “I think it would be very wrong if we didn’t name him after your father.” And so we did.