Brown Skin Lady: Where We’re Going & Where We’ve Been
I was born on a cold May morning in a hospital building that is no longer in use.
The medical staff placed me in the waiting arms of a woman who was two-months shy of legal drinking age. She eventually took me home. She breastfed me. Cared for me. Nourished me. Gave me some one-of-a-kind name I still have yet to stumble across when new people introduce themselves.
When I think about it, the very first person who showed me genuine love was a young black woman, a person to whom I owe a great deal to−a fixture I affectionately call Ma.
The first female I liked was a snaggletooth black girl who had slick edges along her forehead and smelled of pink baby lotion.
My first older woman crush happened to occur when I was 7 or 8. The beauty, an outgoing high school senior who lived across the street, had smooth caramel skin the shade of a Sugar Daddy sucker. I can still feel the currents of devastation rushing through my chest the moment she got into her boyfriend’s royal blue Monte Carlo on the way to their prom that one spring evening. I’ll perhaps never forget her matching blue dress or me following that roaring car all the way down the street with my disappointed eyes.
In 8th grade, I looked at someone and truly contemplated the idea of forever. She was a black girl who wore glasses, and whenever she came walking up to the school entrance, life seemed promising. Bonafide and CrazySexyCool were our albums. And even though I came with both a clean rap sheet and academic honors, her dad’s protective glares were invasive lasers ready to sear any boy for his slightest misstep.
Though awkward, and still somewhat unsorted through, my first sexual experiences involved black females.
Early on, there were two no nonsense black female teachers, still green in their educational careers, who saw my potential and cautioned against my tendency to be the class clown too occupied with socializing and boyish banter.
I made my first batch of warm chocolate chip cookies with the helping hands of a black woman who just so happened to be my aunt.
And most recently I attended a predominantly white Baptist congregation for well over a decade, yet many years ago, it was a black figurehead, my granny, who initially ushered me into a church as the call and response oratory bounced from stained glass window to window.
Then something happened along the way−a trend I didn’t purposely put my signature to.
For just about all my adult life the vast majority of my romantic relationships have involved white women.
How come? It’s a weighted question, and I suspect my answers can never satisfy those directly opposed to a black man, an endangered figure in American society, routinely finding himself in the embraces of women who lack his amount of melanin.
I don’t like the glares I’ve gotten from black women who see me with a white woman when I’m out in public, but I understand the scrutiny and its origin. Ironically, there’s been quite a few cases when I may have approached similar women only to not be taken seriously by them. In other words, I couldn’t get the time of day with them, but fell under scrutiny the moment I went out with someone who liked me for me.
I’m more than familiar with the complex systems enacted by various levels of government which continue to hamstring certain aspects of the black nuclear family, most notably the removal of fathers from the home. I know the echoes of slave mentality that still ring in many ears in addition to the psychology behind the “white woman being the highest prize” so therefore it is a black man’s ultimate achievement when acquiring one to parade and show off. It pains me to say this: We, at least in the Western Hemisphere, still evaluate “beauty” from blonde microscopes. I’m amazed that curves are now mainstream, particularly if a white woman has them. But…what if Serena Williams were white?
I can’t go a day without coming across a beautiful black woman in my travels−different hair textures and styles, skin tones, shapes and personalities. Like any other human, each of them are filled with dreams, struggles and strengths. For some reason, I try to make it a point to say hello and smile, sometimes it being nothing more than said gestures. Given our shared history, the overarching theme is to let her know she is recognized and commended even in passing.
If I love them so much why haven’t I married or brought children into the world with one?
In dissecting my own history with a fine scalpel, it’s simply been about my unique social circle and the intersection, or lack thereof, with these women. Frankly, I’ve dated the people who are into the things that make me tick. I’m a distance runner. I talk for hours about vintage t-shirts. I go to bookstores with certain book editions on my agenda. I’m the man at craft stores who can’t decide what card stock to buy. By no means am I saying black women who fall into these unique categories are mythical. Of course, they exist. I just have yet to meet one with staying power, and when I have, other contributing factors played a role. She was taken or not that into me. She lived in another state, or unable to heal from something much bigger than what I brought to her crowded table. Maybe she saw me as the brother−a goofy, health conscious ally and nothing more. In other cases, perhaps she and I weren’t courageous enough to disclose our mutual feelings, a real crush never unwrapped and entertained beyond playful thought.
It’s unfair to tell anyone’s story without them writing the first sentence. In the past, I may have been guilty of buying into lazy stereotypes, and that is largely due my own ignorance and negligence. If I may speak candidly, women of color, specifically black females are often viewed as aggressive, intimidating and eruptive on the surface levels. Given the right circumstances, anybody will fit these descriptions! Moreover, I know what it’s like to be a minority in this land, but I don’t know what is to be both minority and female. I’ve made a point to isolate each heart and see how its beat and rhythm came to make its present-day music.
For the record, I adore women from everywhere, and never wanted to put restrictions on how love can flex its muscles, but can a black man be pro-black (pro-black ≠ anti-white etc.) and yet find himself lying next to a woman who doesn’t look like him? I guess it all depends on what the woman next to him represents. Is she a trophy, a prize? A token borne out of a misguided campaign? Beware of those who live in worlds where there are only ultimatums, not to mention he or she who deals in exclusivity. For example, if a white woman says she only dates black men, my urge is to smile and get to the nearest exit. Forgive me, but when I hear that I immediately cringe because in that woman’s mind, the lover she often seeks has more to do with a warped assessment, which leads to a prevailing and often times negative generalization. In my case, generalizations I’ve fought very hard to defy and combat against. Sure, a person has his or her attractions, and fair enough. People like what they like. A bolt loosens up when the right wrench fits snugly around it. The most enduring wrinkle in human connection is its unpredictability; it can come when someone least expects it from an unforeseen source and lasts until its appointed season.
If four “perfect” women stood before me, and by perfect I mean ideally compatible with me− one being Black, one Caucasian, one Latina and the other Asian, I can’t say who I’d necessarily choose at first sight. Do I owe it to the one who is my “kind?” Would I lean towards who has come to make up the majority of my most serious long-term relationships? I guess I’m of the mindset that there are cultures within cultures which undoubtedly cross and transcend superficial ones. For example, there are black skateboarder chicks who love chemistry and dabble in indie filmmaking on the side. However, without ever opening our mouths, we’d recognize the first detail that joins us: our blackness. The easiest common denominator is race, a social construct so ingrained in all of us.
I always chuckle when a well-meaning person says they don’t see color. Of course they do! It’s a natural evaluation; we are visual beings. A child doesn’t pick a purple crayon and neglect its color. When I see an impaired person at the market, I can clearly see the handicap. However, I do myself and the other person a disservice if and when I just stop there.
I admire little women. Plus-size women. Those with long hair. The women who cut it all off or never grew much. Single moms. Divorcee. The nurse. Lawyer. Cashier. Paralegal. CrossFitter. Teacher. Book nerd. Hip-hop junkie. Tattoo artist. Hiker. Lady selling dinners to raise money for a cause. Bilingual grad student. Real-estate agent. Female with a past. And certainly a future…
Only a man who never had a home forgets where he came from. I can’t neglect or minimize the significance of home. Home is where I was first loved. It’s where the black woman said hello to me, kindly and sincerely. And so I smile whenever our paths cross on crowded roads.
