You may find this hard to believe but I’m black. I’m really black. I’m so black when Barack Obama was elected into office, I cried like a little boy who got the black slapped off his face for playin’ with his momma’s lipstick. I mean, how many kids did you know growing up in middle school with the nickname Malcolm, as in
X? I had the X hat and matching t-shirt, read his autobiography as a freshman in high school and love watching Whoopi Goldberg in
The Color Purple—I still recite her lines from the movie. I wanted to name my first son Malcolm Xavier and even in college I pledged Kappa Alpha Psi Fraternity Inc., a 99 year old organization founded by 12 prestigious black men.
Now, I’ve dated various ethnicities and certainly variations of Caucasians: from the Jon B. type, the type so white he felt queasy watching me eat a drumstick of fried chicken; to my current partner who is a confident Aussie who loves learning how to cut my happy to be nappy hair. What they all have in common, mind you, is that they never dropped their jaws in surprise when I told them I hate watermelon, and they never tried pinching my cheeks to see if the black would actually come off. In other words, they never showed characteristics of a person who listened intently to black stereotypes. However, I had been told by one ex-boyfriend that he fantasized about getting married on a plantation. I laughed hysterically until he told me he was serious, then I was like, “Hell to the naw!”
So when it comes to my love life, why am I sharing a bed with a white man? Why is it that my long-ish term relationships have been with white guys? I’m not at the point in my education in Psychology 101 to know some profound answer, but I think I know a couple of reasons.
One reason I find myself drawn to white men is security. You can think of it as a paycheck. I need for him to hook up my credit score so I can have a house and credit cards.
Gotcha!!!
That is the most ridiculous thing to come out of someone’s mouth. Yet, it’s no surprise to hear what the
cautious white American will say about dating black men. One must be precautious when using the word cautious, because in the context which I’m intending to use it, the word can also be replaced with racist--to be blunt. Believe me dear cautious one, your mucky mouth is going to come to light someday. Meanwhile, your tweaky twinky boyfriend is stealing your pills and cash on his way out to the next circuit party with his friend with benefits. People don't say these things not for fear of being politically correct—nobody cares anymore about that—but it’s simply laziness.
So, one of the real reasons I’ve been the lone cocopuff in the sea of milk is my own sensibility. My sense of humor and my proper talk have sometimes made me feel a bit different from other blacks. I was a kid with a very diverse circle of friends, and my interests were equally vast. But, I don’t think a large percentage of the population have the luxury of growing up with so many different types of people. I took my shoes off in my Korean friend’s house, pulled up my saggy jeans so I didn’t offend anyone, and spoke very clearly to his mother to avoid any confusion. I lived in a Puerto Rican home my senior year and loved going to a luau every now and then.
At 20 years old, I came out of the closet, dropped an Orange Smurf pill and peeled my shirt off at my first rave. In Seattle and Vancouver, B.C., there weren’t many blacks going to raves and if I met one, chances were, he was like me—searching for their individual right to be different. To compound things, I couldn’t share that I was going to raves with my black friends with whom, just 2 years prior, I was writing pathetic rap lyrics. I certainly couldn’t explain my straight perm hair that was gelled to my forehead in a swoosh motion and flipped up in the back like Condoleeza Rice.
Remember, I was searching back then. I didn’t realize how utterly senseless I looked until my plantation fascination boyfriend kindly said, “You should really go natural.”
The other reason I date white guys is that—I confess—I used to find it a bit rebellious. When I was a teenager, I told my Aunt that I was dating a white girl. She made me walk in front of her so she could make fun of me with her friend literally behind my back. I didn’t particularly care for her at this point in life, but I had mentally lumped my father’s family in one group—too black. I had never seen my father date outside of his race nor anyone in his family. Who wants that restriction—to feel like they need date within their race? Besides, all of them were miserable in their relationships if they had one. I refused to follow in their path.
My mother dated a white guy once. My sister and I loved him. Although that was my first up close encounter with interracial dating, my mother’s family was no stranger to it. They took pride in their mixed babies saying stuff like, “She’s so cute! She looks Filipino!”
You know what I mean. They loved that “good hair” and ambiguous ethnic features.
These days, I don’t look for the strange looks or listen to the snarky remarks about me and who I date anymore. They are there. Don’t get me wrong. I’d rather not spend any energy on the occasional ill-bred inbred.
I’d rather spend that energy on loving my crocodile wrestling, blow dryin’, kick-boxing kangaroo. He loves me not because of my mocha skin, but for who I am. That’s the real reason to be stay with your partner. It doesn’t matter if you eat burritos, watermelon, fried chicken or kimchi.
It might matter more if you can cook some of these dishes!
