I May Never Date Another White Man

Code-switching is exhausting

I’ve dated my share of boys and men of different races, but never with intention until now. There was never any real reason to delve into anything more serious than whether we could stand to be around each other for more than half an hour.

Things changed, however. I found myself looking for safety and security in my circle. I began to long for a sense of belonging and a desire to be my authentic self in relationships.

Being a Black woman raised by an entirely white family made that challenging.

As a teenager, I lived in a small, mostly white town, went to a predominantly white high school, and lived in an all-white trailer park. So, yeah, I dated a lot of white guys.

And I had a lot of anxiety but not much self-esteem.

I also listened to a good deal of Motley Crue and Bon Jovi. I wore less jewelry, straightened my hair, and spoke more “white.”

I didn’t have much choice, with white being the color of the water in the dating pool and all, and those boys couldn’t wait to act out what they didn’t even recognize as a racial fetish. I didn’t lack for interest.

I was a novelty. And it didn’t change as I got older. The opposite sex has fetishized me more times than I can count.

Once I had my license, my best friends and I would travel the 15 minutes it took to get to the closest bigger town where we hung out with mostly Black friends who smoked and drank and were generally cooler than anyone else we knew. Especially the white boys we’d grown tired of.

The white boys were naive and considerate, and the Black boys were worldly and cocky. The latter set of qualities probably began the cycle of boys and, eventually, men, who treated me like shit while I chose them over the former repeatedly.

“Find a man who loves you more than you love him.” ~Every Mother

Yeah, well, it’s been my experience that this phenomenon occurs most often with white men. And it’s a good feeling; I can’t lie. Nothing sinister about it at all. It’s just security. You feel like you have some control over how this relationship will progress. And some of us need that more than others.

When a man loves you more than you love him, you know this probably won’t end until you say so.

Black men have handed me my heart on a platter more times than I ever imagined myself tolerating and done so in the most damaging ways. That’s not to say that there haven’t been white men who’ve done the same thing, but there’s a difference that’s difficult to quantify. A white man breaking my heart felt inevitable but having my heart broken by a Black man left me on solid ground.

There is a familiarity as comfortable as your oldest, most worn sweater in the inherent shared human experience between two people. I find myself at a point in my life when that worn sweater is the first thing I reach for in the closet when I’m cold, lonely, and misunderstood. It makes me feel warm and cocooned.

There’s much to be said for shared energy.

It’s not having to make my case. It’s agreeing that, of course, all lives matter, but all lives haven’t always mattered.

It’s the difference between having to explain and being understood.

It’s the automatic knowledge of why I sleep with a silk pillowcase.

It’s the shared look of disgust as we travel behind a truck sporting a confederate flag.

It’s a surreptitious shared look when we overhear a white woman asking to see the manager whether she’s justified or not.

Since “Karen” became universal for that white woman, I’ve felt more comfortable and safe with “Jamal.”

When white people get comfortable with you or their other Black friends, they start to think that specific phrases or words are okay to use because they’re pre-vindicated by the love they have for that Black friend or significant other. Somehow they’re shielded from scrutiny by their Black friendships or even where they’ve grown up.

It’s the “Some of my best friends are Black” defense. Proximity to Blackness doesn’t immunize you from having racist thoughts or doing racist things.

In other words, do not let your friendships with Black people lull you into this mythical familiarity that you think allows for line crossing. And please don’t let this false presumption lead you to adopt African American Vernacular English. Ever.

-I grew up in the projects; I’m down with the brothers. [insert eye roll]

-I forgot my wallet at home, but that’s okay — I’m white, if I’m pulled over what’s going to happen? This was proudly stated by a recent white ex-boyfriend and borne out to be true. More than once.

-Word. This one really irritates me because myself, my daughter, and members of the Black side of my family use this word for emphasis in conversations, especially if you grew up in the 80's.

Imagine the above going on in your relationship. Aren’t relationships hard enough without constantly having to police the other person? I’m not doing it anymore.

Last Christmas my sister and I were followed around a store I was shopping in, preparing to spend money in, and were blatantly followed from aisle to aisle by a white salesperson. It prompted a conversation with the manager and resulted in frustrated tears as we got back to our car, lamenting that this shit still happens. Read below for the whole story.

I texted my white boyfriend to tell him “you’ll never believe what the fuck just happened to us in so-and-so store. We were followed and I can barely speak I’m so upset.”

“That’s too bad that happened.”

Not the shared energy I was looking for, and this incident was the beginning of the end.

Code-switching is exhausting. It’s a never-ending job interview — even when you’re not consciously aware it’s happening. It’s trying to be more standard or mainstream so that others aren’t uncomfortable.

I have to work at making white people feel more comfortable in my presence. Please read that 68 more times.

I have dressed, spoken, ordered food, listened to music, and admired others differently to assimilate to white culture.

When I can share intimate moments with someone I care about and be my true authentic self simultaneously, I consider that a dating win. Why wouldn’t I want to date someone who feels at ease in my presence and vice versa? Especially now, during one of the worst periods of American divisiveness in my lifetime.

And listen, I know I’m making some pretty broad assumptions, and I can’t speak for every white person’s actions and expectations, and I’m not trying to. But I’ve experienced it enough to expect it more often than not.

So I don’t know if I’ll date another white man, at least intentionally. I rather like feeling comfortable in my skin around others.

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