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Some time ago, I stated that I'd offer an explanation for why me and Kenyatta aren't married. A few weeks ago, when the Prop 8 stuff hit, my Pops called to laugh at me. He was laughing at the irony that I, a dude who would not marry, could be so adamant about gay marriage. As I'll explain in a second, I don't see much of a contradiction. Then this morning, I happened to be hanging out over at Postbougie and saw this Cynthia Tucker piece arguing that Barack and Michelle will somehow improve the marriage rates in the black community. You guys know what I think of these Barack the Magic Negro arguments. Still, the constant harping on the marriage rates in the black community, and the brandishing of that shockingly dubious 70 percent stat (70 percent of black babies born out of wedlock) always gets me going. So you're in luck fellow travelers. Today's the day you get to read what makes Kenyatta and Ta-Nehisi tick.

I met Kenyatta twelve years ago on the yard of Howard University. I was walking with another girl (not my girl!) and she was standing out there in jeans, her hair wrapped in African fabric. Over the next couple years we got to know each other pretty well, but seriously, at that moment, right there, I was undone. We were good friends for like two years after that, and then we started dating. She was, in a word, perfect. Where would you find a black woman loved the Gza as much as Fitzgerald? Who could move from Paula Giddings's latest to Seinfeld jokes?

Anyway, I think we must have been together for about a year when she got pregnant. It helps here to know a little bit about me. I came up in a time of chronic absentee fatherism. I also come from a family of seven, by four women and one father. As I say in my memoir, I've got brothers born to best friends, brothers born in the same year. Still, in my house, and in the minds of all my dad's children, fatherhood was a sainted calling. Particularly in my mind, it marked the barrier between boy and man. That isn't fair, but I'm only speaking to my state of mind. In the late '80s, the community was going to seed, and I think a lot of us felt like black men had abandoned their posts, had just threw up their hands and said "Fuck it. Crack. AIDS. Saturday Night Specials. Kids dying over Jordans. Whatever. We're out."

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Again, that isn't fair--it's a statement about my own emotional reality, not my intellectual one. This is how it felt, for me, coming out of that era. I saw Kenyatta's pregnancy in the most romantic possible light, the way people who are military legacies see war. Here I was, a young man, and all my friends were getting high, chasing girls, and getting drunk, but I could make my life about something. I could go out there and turn a black child into a productive member of the community. It was my time to go to war. I was out of my fucking mind, no doubt. But damn, was I excited. Let us not get too angelic here. Me and Kenyatta huddled over the course of a week about what to do. Samori was not planned, and for whatever reason, I don't see any disgrace in that. Anyway, in the end, we decided to go for ours.

As soon as we started telling people, the first question we got was, "Are you getting married?" Now, if you talk to Kenyatta, she has been a feminist since the day she learned to read, and she never put much of a premium on marriage. Still, up until then, neither of us were opposed to the idea. We just didn't think we needed it. But the constant questioning put us in a place where we were able to ask why. Why did people think we should get married? What did that have to do with pregnancy? We both knew we were committed to the life of the child. But we did we think about each other? Truthfully, I don't think we thought much past the child. We'd been friends for two years before we started dating. I knew Kenyatta would be a great mother. I knew we wanted the same things for our kid. What else was there?

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Ta-Nehisi Coates is a national correspondent at The Atlantic, where he writes about culture, politics, and social issues. He is the author of the memoir The Beautiful Struggle.

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