Washington - I'm a black woman. Two of my best friends are white men. One is named after Nathan Bedford Forrest, a lieutenant general in the Confederate Army. The other is a Southie from Boston.
Both are men I would trust to raise and protect my son should the need arise. Men who have protected and supported me through some of the darkest days of my life. Men of character, wit and charisma, alongside whom I have spent some of the best times of my life. Yet, until, recently, I did not consider white men as romantic prospects.
Black men, without question. Latin men, for sure. East and South Asians, Persians, Arabs, Native Americans, Polynesians – all options as far as I was concerned. But a white guy? Just not my thing. I might watch Matthew McConaughey and swoon over his roguish grin and molasses drawl. Or wonder whether Justin Timberlake's prowess on the dance floor translated into, well, other areas. I might even spend an evening charming some former frat bros at the bar for my personal amusement. That is it, though.
Fleeting interest and attention at best. It was not a hard-and-fast rule, as in: I don't date white guys. It was just there in the back of my mind: I can hang out, work with, live next to and even call white men friends, but I don't date them.
Then came the night my girlfriend jokingly called me a racist after I rejected a list of possible options, including her brilliant and cute brother, because they just were "not my type," my longtime code for "melanin-deficient." We laughed about it. No offense was taken on either side.
The exchange stuck with me, though. Made me feel a bit hypocritical and narrow-minded, two states I actively work to avoid. I pride myself on being open and accepting people at face value, yet, consciously or not, I was writing off millions of single and potentially interesting American men simply because they were white. Meanwhile, my social circle is full of black women married to or dating white men. All seem no more or less happy than other couples I know. I had no good reason why white guys were off my romantic radar.
So I decided to explore why I could love white men like family but not envision them as potential partners. The answer is rooted in love and fear. Love for men who move through the world in ways that remind me of my father. Fear of being ostracized by those very same men or fetishized by their white counterparts.
The love part is a beautiful thing. I grew up surrounded by handsome black men who were strong-minded, hard-working, upwardly mobile and worldly. They were the heroes of our community. At a home, it was understood that if Billy Dee Williams – not Paul Newman, not Richard Gere – should ever knock on our door, my mother was leaving with him. Black men were the standard. I carry that with me today. A black man comfortable in his skin and walking in his purpose remains the ideal.
But love for black men is just part of it. There is also the fact that I was raised a good Southern black woman, albeit one freer than most. Still, as a rule, good Southern black women do not dishonor their communities or betray their history by willingly sleeping with white men. Not without judgment.
The same grace that is extended to black men who date white women is not as easily extended to black women who do the same. And, then there are the unspoken questions once inherent in any semi-intimate interaction with a white guy: Do you want to date me as a way to stick it to grandma? Will my "The Only Donald We Acknowledge is Glover" T-shirt make you uncomfortable? Will I have to spend my days explaining my culture and saving you from family reunion faux pas?
Richard Tanne's film Southside With You tells the story of Barack and Michelle Obama's first date. In it, there is an imagined scene where Michelle asks why Barack ended things with his college girlfriend, who was white. His response is something along the lines of: I didn't want to spend my life as an other within her world. I get that. I lived that feeling as the token black girl in my West Texas hometown's elite circles. The fear of feeling that way within a relationship also blinded me to possibility.
It is those latter reasons, the ones based on fear vs. love, that I had to let go. When I look at my dating choices in context, my exclusive focus on men of color seems limiting and provisional, and more important, at odds with my truth vs. the truth and expectations of others. It seems silly. Almost embarrassingly so. I am a woman who grew up with a "Love is Colorblind" figurine in her room, for goodness sake!
When it comes to life experiences and interests, I likely have more in common with white men than black. I learned to two-step at a bonfire at someone's deer lease back in Texas. The Dead's "Shakedown Street" is one of my favorite songs.
Black men are my preference, followed closely by other people of the sun. But if I meet a white man who reminds me of my father, who genuinely believes Black Lives Matter, too – and knows the words to "Shakedown Street" – I'm open. As long as he is, I am.