As children, we’re taught many things – like how to properly pass a pair of scissors or raise our hand in class or excuse ourselves when we burp. We’re taught all of this so that we’ll be better equipped to teach others when it’s our turn.

But at some point (generally during adolescence) some of what we’re taught begins to conflict with what feels right – like whether or not we’re obligated to practice a certain religion or have same-sex relationships or fall in love with someone of our own race.

School doesn’t provide lessons in these topics. No, this education comes from within the stern but shaky walls of our own homes. Homes that, we’re taught, may no longer be ours should we defy our parents’ teachings.

Such was the case in my own house. As a kid, I was warned that if I strayed outside the anthropological guidelines my parents observed, I would pay a price. Without ever uttering the word “disowned,” they made clear the consequences my actions would reap should I violate their beliefs.

Despite these warnings, when my mother asked me during a phone conversation four years ago if I was gay, I said yes. In an instant, my parents’ cautionary threats materialized; the penalties for my insubordination came down like a hammer.

Consumed by emotion, my parents – my mother especially – made sure I knew exactly how they felt about my admission. And while neither one of them went so far as to tell me I couldn’t come home, they made my life difficult for rebelling against their authority.

In their defense, this reaction was consistent with how they were taught to regard homosexuality.

To my credit, I defended what I know to be perfectly acceptable.

As if my first declaration hadn’t unraveled all that my parents worked so hard to instill in me, a short time ago I let them in on another little secret: my boyfriend is biracial.

Once again, wide-eyed with disapproval, my mother asked, “Now you’re dating a black guy?”

“No,” I quipped. “He’s only half black.”

She kept to herself whatever remarks were bubbling inside. She understood – having previously dealt with my resistance to her dictatorial parenting – that imparting her opinion on how to live my autonomous, adult life would result in further disintegration of our relationship.

In the interests of maintaining that relationship, over the past four years, my parents’ perspectives concerning homosexuality and, more recently, interracial relationships have changed. They’ve transformed from indignant opponents of “immorality” to students of moral evolution. As such, they’ve both learned a lesson, a lesson in loving without conditions. They’ve learned that when the initial embarrassment – however unsubstantiated – of having a gay son subsides, love – above personal convictions – matters more. And in meeting my boyfriend, they’ve found that despite the color of his skin, he’s as handsome, charismatic and intelligent as any white guy I’ve brought home.

In fact, proof was delivered just last month. My mother, upon first glance at the man I love, said he was cute – a compliment that would never have left her lips even a year ago.

My father, a man of few words, was “impressed.”

And so was I – impressed at how defying what I was taught has forever altered the foundation of my family for the better.