Undefeatable
New member
In every relationship I have with a white man, there comes a moment when they come to understand a simple fact of my life: that racism is an intimate part of my daily existence. Sometimes, they’re enraged — like the time when I called my last boyfriend after I left American Apparel in search of nipple covers for a white bodysuit. The store had some, but none that matched my skin tone. “Are they fucking serious?” he said in disbelief. And then there are the quieter times, the ones that weigh more heavily, that bring us closer together. Once, in my late 20s, my boyfriend and I were stopped by police, and I quickly became frantic about the weed in the car. He put his hand on my knee and reminded me that I was safe with him.
But, of course, for them it’s just tourism. Racism isn’t something white people need to face every day. And too many times, those same white boyfriends decided to sit out being my partner. I lost count of the times my boyfriend in my late 20s would tell me to “just leave” parties or social events when I complained of being the only person of color in his all-white friend group. Even more hurtful was the night he and I were standing outside a bar in Bushwick and someone we both knew started making racist comments. While I tried to explain to this man why what he was saying was offensive, my boyfriend stood there in silence. Later, I tried to convey how hurt I was that he didn’t say anything, but he didn’t seem to understand how bewildered I was. There are, in my relationships with white men, so many moments like that. No matter how close I held the mirror up to their faces, sometimes their good and liberal wells of understanding and compassion were simply inaccessible.
On election night, I thought about all those moments, and I felt overwhelmed at the possibility of taking that on over the next four years. Since Trump was elected, I’ve felt paradoxically alienated by white people finding or doubling down on their commitment to change. Somehow their politicization has begun to seem cartoonish, filled with performance and self-congratulation. It’s not something I understand or feel a part of.
But it wasn’t only on election night that translating experience felt so fraught. Communication is necessary for any healthy relationship, and in an interracial relationship it’s paramount. Every white man I’ve dated has, sometimes consciously and sometimes not, asked me to explain to them some aspect of blackness. “Can I say the N-word if I’m singing along to a song?” “How do I be a better gentrifier?” (I don’t know dude, I ask myself the same question every goddamn day.) I know that I shouldn’t feel compelled to always speak for my race, but I can’t expect a white boyfriend to stop asking some of those questions if we’re to come to a mutual understanding. Lately, though, I just don’t feel like answering them.
The other day, I was on the subway platform playing my usual game, and I caught the eye of a black guy. It felt different this time, like the flirtatious version of the “black nod” at work — an acknowledgement between two black employees who might not even know one another, but who have a shared experience. What I’m craving right now from a partner — more than feeling beautiful, more than anything — is a “black nod” version of a relationship. I know a man isn’t going to get me through the Trump era. But the less work I have to do to make him understand how I feel, the better chance I have of getting through the next four years with my head still on.
http://nymag.com/thecut/2017/03/no-more-dating-white-men.html
But, of course, for them it’s just tourism. Racism isn’t something white people need to face every day. And too many times, those same white boyfriends decided to sit out being my partner. I lost count of the times my boyfriend in my late 20s would tell me to “just leave” parties or social events when I complained of being the only person of color in his all-white friend group. Even more hurtful was the night he and I were standing outside a bar in Bushwick and someone we both knew started making racist comments. While I tried to explain to this man why what he was saying was offensive, my boyfriend stood there in silence. Later, I tried to convey how hurt I was that he didn’t say anything, but he didn’t seem to understand how bewildered I was. There are, in my relationships with white men, so many moments like that. No matter how close I held the mirror up to their faces, sometimes their good and liberal wells of understanding and compassion were simply inaccessible.
On election night, I thought about all those moments, and I felt overwhelmed at the possibility of taking that on over the next four years. Since Trump was elected, I’ve felt paradoxically alienated by white people finding or doubling down on their commitment to change. Somehow their politicization has begun to seem cartoonish, filled with performance and self-congratulation. It’s not something I understand or feel a part of.
But it wasn’t only on election night that translating experience felt so fraught. Communication is necessary for any healthy relationship, and in an interracial relationship it’s paramount. Every white man I’ve dated has, sometimes consciously and sometimes not, asked me to explain to them some aspect of blackness. “Can I say the N-word if I’m singing along to a song?” “How do I be a better gentrifier?” (I don’t know dude, I ask myself the same question every goddamn day.) I know that I shouldn’t feel compelled to always speak for my race, but I can’t expect a white boyfriend to stop asking some of those questions if we’re to come to a mutual understanding. Lately, though, I just don’t feel like answering them.
The other day, I was on the subway platform playing my usual game, and I caught the eye of a black guy. It felt different this time, like the flirtatious version of the “black nod” at work — an acknowledgement between two black employees who might not even know one another, but who have a shared experience. What I’m craving right now from a partner — more than feeling beautiful, more than anything — is a “black nod” version of a relationship. I know a man isn’t going to get me through the Trump era. But the less work I have to do to make him understand how I feel, the better chance I have of getting through the next four years with my head still on.
http://nymag.com/thecut/2017/03/no-more-dating-white-men.html
