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Love in Condition Yellow: A Memoir of an Unlikely Marriage

Love in Condition Yellow: A Memoir of an Unlikely Marriage

3.5 2
by Sophia Raday

As an activist, Sophia Raday ran away from cops dressed in riot gear. Then, much to her surprise, she fell in love with one. Barrett was not only an Oakland police officer but a soldier as well: a West Point graduate, an Airborne Ranger, and a major in the Army Reserve. Today, his nightstand holds reading like Terror in Breslan and American Rifleman; hers,


As an activist, Sophia Raday ran away from cops dressed in riot gear. Then, much to her surprise, she fell in love with one. Barrett was not only an Oakland police officer but a soldier as well: a West Point graduate, an Airborne Ranger, and a major in the Army Reserve. Today, his nightstand holds reading like Terror in Breslan and American Rifleman; hers, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle and a printout of the Anusara yoga opening chant.


Love in Condition Yellow tells the story of their marriage. Barrett is loving, loyal, and steadfast, but in his world, a threat lies around every corner. The 9/11 attacks occur just after their first child is born, and Barrett asks Sophia to stay in Condition Yellow—always aware that her life may be in danger and prepared to do something about it. When he is called back to active military duty, Sophia is thrust into the role of army wife, first accompanying her husband to the Army War College and later facing Barrett’s deployment to Iraq. The result is a vivid, poignant portrait of an unusual union, one that tells a larger story about how love and compromise can uncover the common ground beneath clashing cultures. 

Editorial Reviews

Kirkus Reviews
Can a Berkeley feminist social activist find happiness with a gung-ho Oakland police officer?Raday met Barrett on a blind date, an event she initially viewed as a sociological experiment. She swiftly discovered that he was more complex than the stereotypical gun-toting cop. Several years later, after breakups and couples therapy, they married. Up to this point her account of her reservations about their basic cultural differences have a light touch. Besides a clear understanding of who she is and what she wants, Raday has a solid sense of humor, an ear for dialogue and an eye for telling detail. After 9/11, his usual reminders to her-"Remember, stay in Condition Yellow" (a state of awareness of danger and readiness to deal with it)-no longer seemed quite so paranoid. A major shift in their relationship came when Barrett, a West Point graduate and an officer in the U.S. Army Reserve, discovered that his sense of honor and duty would not permit him to go ahead with his planned retirement, to Raday's dismay. His commitment to the Army and hers to family-by now they had a son-were in direct conflict. As disagreement over the war in Iraq sharpened, Raday writes, "I felt a chasm developing in our country, with the deepest crack running right through my heart and my marriage." Uprooted from California when her husband decided to attend the Army War College in Pennsylvania, she found herself a misfit among the other Army spouses, and became increasingly isolated when he was deployed to Iraq. As the misery index goes up, the laughter fades. Her earlier attempts to get inside her husband's mind, to understand a way of thinking so different from her own and to convince him that his views were wrongare replaced by a somber acceptance of the fact that their worlds are in separate orbits. At the memoir's end, the future of their marriage remains uncertain. Honestly and perceptively explores the strains of a peacenik/warrior relationship.
From the Publisher
[In] this ultimate bipartisan love story . . . the most important thing Raday has culled from her relationship is that it is not essential to agree with your partner to be emotionally close.—Jessica Yadegaran, Oakland Tribune

"A lovely book filled with stunning, substantial prose."—Kayt Sukel, Literary Mama

"A refreshing and penetrating look at how respect and willingness to compromise can span seemingly unbridgeable gaps in a marriage founded on differences more than commonalities."—Deborah Donovan, Booklist

"Raday has a solid sense of humor, an ear for dialogue and an eye for telling detail. . . . [She] honestly and perceptively explores the strains of a peacenik/warrior relationship."—Kirkus Reviews

"Love in Condition Yellow takes us on a true adventure: into a marriage that is both riven and strengthened by political differences that run nearly as deep as those that divide our country."—Julia Scheeres, author of Jesus Land

"Love in Condition Yellow tells the tale of two opposites. . . . Their relationship is unique; as their love grows closer, America drives itself further apart. . . . A work of true romance."—Midwest Book Review

"[This] story will entrance anyone who has ever wondered if love can last between two people with fundamentally contrasting beliefs."—Library Journal

Product Details

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5.80(w) x 8.60(h) x 1.00(d)

Read an Excerpt

My cousin George frowns at me. “Did you ever call my friend Barrett? Remember I told you he went into the
Reserves and then became a cop in Oakland?”
I am instantly wary. Lowering my wineglass from my lips, I put one hand against the textured plaster wall to steady myself. I have prepared myself to talk about politics, about the Dayton Accords,
Rabin’s assassination, or the budget impasse. But George’s question is going in an even more unpleasant direction, a direction that could lead into my love life in general. I want to avoid that at all costs. In fact, my mom had to cajole me into attending this party, assuring me no one would notice the redness around my nose and the way my eyelids are slightly swollen.
I stall, mumbling, “What? Barrett? Oh yeah . . .” and glance around my cousin Molly’s house. Is there some way I can derail this conversation from its inevitable terminus? The house is eclectically decorated with my aunt’s modern paintings and my nieces’
artwork; the Christmas tree, strung with cranberry garlands and popcorn, gives off its heady smell of pine. I want to chitchat and drink my glass of wine in peace, avoiding the tangle in my chest. So what if I am over thirty and not married? So what if I got dumped yet again?
I point out a woodblock near me, gray clouds against gold and auburn mounds. “George, is this Taos? When did your mom do this?”
George waves away the art, saying, “I gave you Barrett’s number,
right? Did you ever call him?”
I shake my head. Yes, George gave me Barrett’s number a while ago, probably at another family holiday party. I’ve heard about Barrett for over a decade now, ever since he was a cadet at West Point with George. When Barrett was in the Ranger battalion, his apartment was furnished with only a bed, a box as a nightstand, and a nine-millimeter pistol. He once dragged a manhole cover home with him after a night of drinking. Perhaps the favorite family story involves Barrett yelling at a superior officer at Walter Reed when
George was in the hospital there with a brain tumor. As a plebe at
West Point, George had headaches and dizzy spells for weeks, but none of the authorities took it seriously. Instead they accused him of trying to weasel out of boxing. An inebriated Barrett expressed the whole family’s frustration, yelling at a superior officer: “That’s
my buddy in there! The one with the brain tumor! Don’t tell me
I can’t see him! You all who thought he was faking, why should I
listen to you? You all didn’t even believe he was sick!”
I hear George saying I should just give Barrett a call. Really.
Not for a date or anything, just for fun. But I know that’s just subterfuge.
I know my cousin is doing a mental calculation of my age and wondering what’s wrong with Sopapilla, as he affectionately calls me. Where’s the boyfriend? Where’s the husband-to-be? My stomach muscles catch as George pulls a pen out of his shirt pocket and grabs a notepad from Molly’s bookshelf.
George and I spent a lot of time together about ten years ago when he was assigned to Fort Ord as a first lieutenant. On the weekends,
George and another lieutenant would meet me and my best friend Missey in Tahoe. We’d ski together during the day and argue politics late into the evening. George and Jake were soldiers; Missey and I were peace activists; Reagan was president. We argued about the arms race and the U.S. opposition to the Sandinistas in Nicaragua and revolutionary groups in El Salvador. But somehow we always seemed to end up at Vietnam. I think the maddest George ever got at me was when I bemoaned the loss of our soldiers there.
“We sent those kids over there to die, and for what? What do we say to those mothers and wives and children? Sorry, we thought this was a domino but it wasn’t? Oops?”
That was the first time George jabbed his finger menacingly at me, his words flying out accompanied by small units of spit. “Don’t you ever ( jab) ever (spit) say that a soldier’s death is a waste (jab,
jab). No soldier’s (spit) service is ever ( jab) wasted ( jab, spit).”
Our most recent major argument, a few years ago now, involved the Gulf War. I had posted a handmade “No Blood for Oil” sign on my car. At a dinner with George and my mom, I tried to voice my objections to our invasion of Kuwait, my belief that we should have tried economic sanctions first. A cigarette bouncing dangerously from two accusatory fingers, George hissed at me, “George
Bush drew a line in the sand, you hear me? He drew a line in the sand and backed it up! Now that’s leadership! That’s what this nation needs!”
Taking my hand off the wall, I push it out palm forward toward
George in a gentle protest, in the universal sign for “Back off, I can handle this.” Has he forgotten who I am? What does he think—that
I’m going to discuss Gandhi’s experiments with truth with his guntoting
Republican friend?
I may no longer get arrested at the Nevada Test Site or at divestment protests. And it’s been years since I scaled Moffett Field’s barbed-wire fence with a friend to spray-paint “Work for Peace”
across the “Be all you can be” recruitment billboard. But that doesn’t mean I have given up on social justice. Okay, I’m not married.
But that doesn’t mean I’ll date just anybody. It doesn’t mean
I’ve suddenly given up all my core beliefs!
Besides, I am still hoping that Nathan—the guy I’ve been seeing up till recently—will come around. Nathan is the kind of guy
I can picture myself marrying: men’s group attending, Robert Bly reading, naked in the woods drumming. Nathan and I look so good on paper. We like the outdoors, traveling, reading. We are both seekers, do a lot of yoga, read about Tibetan Buddhism. We should
work. So why don’t we?
Just before our recent disastrous trip to Nepal, Nathan invited me to go see Thich Nhat Hanh at the Berkeley Community Theatre.
We were both enchanted by the Vietnamese monk’s soft-spoken simple admonitions to find peace within and let it radiate out. Present moment, wonderful moment. When you are mindful, you see into the true nature of things, how a flower comes from soil, from decay. This is the sort of spirituality I expect to share with a partner.
Maybe our getting back together will be the flower that blossoms from the garbage of our recent journey together.
Keenly aware of approaching family members, I whisper to
George that I appreciate the thought. Any normal person would get that subtle signal that I am not interested. Look, I appreciate the
thought. But not George.
“Tell you what,” he bellows, “here’s his number. I’ll tell him to call you, too.” Brandishing the slip of paper.
It’s time to change the subject. Pronto. I cast about desperately,
finally hearing myself say, “Hey, what do you think of the Dayton
George says, “C’mon, it’s not a date. I just want you two to meet, that’s all.”
Maybe if I just take the damn paper, George will stop broadcasting to the whole party that Sophia can’t find a man.
“Barrett? Are you talking about Barrett? He’s cute!” Molly’s daughter Mallory exclaims.
“I always liked the B-man too. He’s definitely got a special something,” Cousin Matthew adds.
Despite my embarrassment, I realize this is an odd triangulation.
Thirteen-year-old Mallory thinks Barrett’s cute and my thirty-oneyear-
old gay cousin thinks he has je ne sais quoi. Hmm.

Meet the Author

Sophia Raday lives in Berkeley, California, with her soldier/police officer husband, their two children, a bipartisan dog, and assorted firearms. A founding editor of Literary Mama, Raday has published work in antholo­gies and the New York Times.

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Love in Condition Yellow 5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 1 reviews.
Cathy59CM More than 1 year ago
This book is a true page turner! Love weaves an unlikely path in this beautifully written story. A truly honest exposure of the heart and a naked view of the complexity of marriage and relationships. It made me look at my own weaknesses and preconceived ideals and see a tapestry that I was not expecting. I could not put this book down and am anxiously waiting for another book by Raday. Bravo.