When I choose to date a black man, I inevitably send a message to society about who I am and what I represent.
When I choose to date a black man, I choose to be ignored at bars, barred from clubs, humiliated by groups of drunken white men, or passed over by taxis.
But, choosing to date black men when somewhat more privileged unions are possible is, for me, the unequivocally more perfect union, and regardless of how “taxing” carrying the burden of dating black men can be, I wholeheartedly accept it.
I am just now completing editing on my latest book about human nature.
One night, a date and I decided to hit a local New Jersey bar.
As we approached the secured entrance, a white couple was also entering, walking only steps behind us. Ds, the white security guard informed us that we could not enter, as my date was violating the dress code; mere seconds later the white couple reached the door and was promptly let in – with the guy outfitted in the same ensemble.
The feelings I experienced that fateful night at the bar, and admittedly many times thereafter, now evoke the wise words of Malcolm X: “If you're not careful, the newspapers will have you hating the people who are being oppressed, and loving the people who are doing the oppressing.” Unpacking privilege and sorting through the complexities of racial and sexual politics as a bi-racial woman in white America can be a high task.
Accepting that my seemingly personal decisions regarding who will occupy my company or my body, is a high task.