Perhaps what shocks – no wait, scratch that out…nothing really truly shocks me anymore.
What disillusions me the most these days is how the face of racism continues to find new masks to hide behind. Peoples secret and deepest beliefs somehow always reveals itself in what they call jokes, comedy and even looks.
I have always been very fond and amorous of African-Canadian/American men. I make no qualms about it. I love a fine black men. I find many of them to be especially beautiful. What they have within them, the fuel that burns the fire within their soul – I haven’t yet found in any other race of men. At least not to the degree that I find in the black men I’ve encountered. And what makes my juices flow even more so is a black man with that flame burning brightly + an amazing heart. Oh dear lord just take me now!!
I can’t explain it. It is an energy they possess. It is a passion that lies within that I can only describe as fighter and survivor. It is pride and heated passion. It is bordering on anger and violence but softened with a history. It is misunderstood and emulated by so many. And it is seen in their eyes, the windows to the soul.
I see it. I love it. I yearn for it. I ache for it.
Granted – it doesn’t lie in all black men. Just like I am not attracted to every black man that crosses my path, nor are they to me. But each and every one has my attention, even if for a brief moment… the rest is just chemistry. I don’t discriminate – I have lust and loved other races of men… but simply not the same way I do for the kind of man that gets my soul to burn brightly. Not to say that one day it couldn’t happen… but it hasn’t yet… So why deny myself?
This goes back to even before I knew what erotic desires felt like – before what could even understand what it was that I felt between my legs. My very first ‘crush’ was a black boy from Trinidad in grade 4 & 5 named Guy. He had a soft smile, beautiful full lips, fire within his belly but a gentleness that made me stop in my tracks. His eyes danced like flames and smiled at me. We spent a lot of time together talking about our lives as only two kids could… something no other boy ever did before. And when he held my hand… my body felt on fire, burning brightly. It is a feeling I will NEVER forget. And he was my first kiss… just thinking about it makes the room spin even today.
And yes, I have been with other men … actually only ever loved one white man. I have dated and lusted after many other men in the past… but never did they make my soul burn brightly from the inside out. The honest truth is – the only men that ever made me yearn for more, ache for more, crave his fire, make me weak in the knees but felt so strong and courageous … have been African-Canadian/American men. That is my truth. And that makes some uncomfortable.
But loving a black man comes at a price. Especially for me as a white woman. For I get it from both sides. The snide comments, the racist remarks disguised as jokes.
“You only love him because he’s hung like a horse! He’s a beast in bed – that’s why you like him!”
“Well, no wonder you like black men! Black men like bigger girls.”
“He’s too dark for me. He’s as dark as mud… he’s not dark enough…”
“You only like him because he can dance and play basketball…”
I have heard every stereotypical comment, the above are the ones I hear on a regular basis. I have had every comment directed at me to discredit him and my affections. Berating me and discrediting not only him, stating the extremely superficial (and often unsubstantiated claims) as being the only reason he could possibly be loveable – but also berating me and my emotions.
I get it a lot actually. I get it from mostly white men… and a few women. Exes become so insecure with the fact that I have dated and have had sex with black men. As though I am now defiled and vilified, unworthy because ‘he is a beast in bed… or hung like a horse…” Ugh. Even if any of those claims were remotely true… making such insecure remarks kills whatever flame you had going within me.
I also have been attacked in ladies washrooms in the States while on a date with a black man. By black women. What I hear so often…
“Why do you have to steal our men away? Stick to your own kind!”
“It’s bad enough whites took us away from our homes but now you have to take our men as well??? Greedy bitches…” (I actually hear this more than any other)
“We have so few good black men left. Can’t you just stick to your own kind and leave our black men for the black women?”
“You know the only reason why black men like white women is because they don’t talk back and they just let them get away with anything.”
The thing is, add in hormones, frustration and anger – facing a strong, passionate, powerful and fiery black woman is far more intimidating than facing a white man with his ignorance and stupidity. She is a formidable foe when cornered.
It takes loads of compassion to date a black man – not because of who he is but because of others. In fact, I completely understand that both sides are speaking from fear. Anger. Frustration. And it doesn’t matter if you live in the US or in Canada… these sentiments are shared by many on both sides of the colour palate.
Having recently been brave enough to re-enter the dating world, I am faced with yet again racism at it’s finest… all disguised as jokes and humour. It is still so prevalent. And it just so happens to be that I am dating yet another amazingly wonderful black man. Educated, compassionate, beautiful and strong – he has parts of my being burning brightly and others aching for him. But I am faced with adversity on both sides… and so is he. The pressures to ‘stick to your own kind’ eventually crack even the thickest of skins.
I can’t help who I love. Actually, yes I can. I simply choose to stop denying what I crave for. And I still love the fine black men who have walked in my life, showing me beauty and leaving a colourful imprint like no other man ever has. I don’t know for certain how long this amazing man will continue to walk with me… but with each racist glare, with racist each comment, with each verbal and not so verbal lashing I receive for loving a man who’s colour is far darker than my own… Makes me a better woman. And I love stronger each time because they show me how to do just that.
Racism is not dead. It’s not gone. It’ll never ever be gone. We might not be slave owners – but we are slaves of racist beliefs. Shackled to idiotic stereotypes, berating a man/woman for the colour of his/her skin as unworthy of anything other than superficial love. Such comments makes us slaves of fear – keeping one well hidden behind invisible white hooded garments. I might not be able to see it outwardly… but inwardly – it is definitely visible. We are not moving forward.
But I will continue to love and be loved… only the heavens above knows… I am still learning.
Man is not created equally… but love gives every man an equal chance at life. It’s what you choose to do with it… that determines your own worth. No one ever gets to determine that for you… no matter who you are or how you love… I choose to no longer deny myself, in spite of others and the lack of colour on my skin.