White Men Like Me Because I’m African, “Not Black”
That pisses me off.
The club was loud. Way too loud to focus on anything but us gyrating on the dance floor. That was a good thing, but what he said next was not so good.
He was a horrible dancer but I didn’t mind. As long as he wasn’t humping my feet with his, which has happened many times before, we could hang.
I made us look good.
I overcompensated for his lack of rhythm and I could feel his excitement behind me. I also saw the glances from Black men on the dance floor and off — searching for reasons why…
Whatever. Isn’t it obvious? He’s quite fetching.
I don’t know if he’s a good fuck yet but based on my experience, white men who suck at break dancing usually give me reasons to sweat in bed.
So, I wasn’t embarrassed or concerned.
We made our way back to the bar. He ordered our drinks while I went to the bathroom to freshen up my face and take off my bra. It was annoying me. Plus, I was sweaty.
When I returned I was happy to see my gin and tonic waiting for me. He immediately drew me to him as I took a sip. The bartender, who was Black, watched us. God! Are we really that captivating? Once he released me, he took a sip of his drink and asked me where I was from. I knew this was coming. I said I was American.
He said, “Yeah, but where are you really from?”
I always get this from White guys. They see me, size me up, and the twinkle in their eyes expands when I tell them my name.
Holy shit! She’s Black, but she’s not Black.
She comes from another country. She doesn’t possess any of the symptoms of The Angry Black Woman, and her annunciation suggests that she was brought up in a proper household.
With a name like mine, you have no choice but to give in. I can’t very well claim that I’m from South Carolina. So I give him the mental orgasm he’s been pining for.
“I was born here, but I’m originally from Nigeria.”
Fireworks! The white of his eyes display a Technicolor appearance as he internalizes my truth while motioning that he suspected as much.
“I knew it.”
He knew it?! Again, this is familiar. They always congratulate themselves for instinctively picking out the special Black girls from the ones who are homegrown.
I ask the question I’ve always asked when faced with this infuriating dialogue, “How did you know?”
He smiles. No, better yet, smirks.
“I don’t know — you just have an air about you, it sets you apart”.
Here we go.
He leans in. I can smell his vodka-infused breath.
“You know what I mean.”
“You come from another country.”
“It’s better than being Black-American.”
There you have it. Once again, I’m being touted for my exoticness.
Despite being born in the United States of America, my roots lie in the wilds of Africa and White guys are turned on by the realization that they are in the presence of a Black woman who wasn’t scarred by an actively racist system from conception.
She’s dark-skinned, well spoken, educated, slim in build, and doesn’t exhibit any of the stereotypes assigned to her more harried contemporaries. Needless to say, we didn’t end the night beneath his sheets or mine.
I was pretty much done after he took the time to explain why dating a Black American woman was riskier than dating a woman of color from Africa. I was even more repelled when he argued that he was an expert in this realm because he is a White man who exclusively dates Black women.
Geez. It’s all too much.
So White men, let me break it down for you. Black women are not to be diced, categorized or fucked with because we are all cut from the same cloth. Given the history of things, you don’t get to tell an African girl that she’s better than a Black-American girl and expect her to blush with glee. And hollering back with the “I only date Black girls” mandate is even more revolting. If White girls can attract with minimal dissection — then we expect the very same courtesy.
So don’t tell me you like me because I’m “not Black.” Tell me you like me because I’m dope. Because I am.