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It put me in a box, limiting me in ways I didn’t realize until recently.The more attention I received from black men, the less white men wanted to talk to me, as if I had been eternally branded as a traitor.
When my relationship eventually ended, the phrase “once you go black, you never go back” rang in my ears.To them, Black men were filthy and diseased, which could only mean one thing: I was too.As my luck with white men plummeted, I was inevitably pushed further towards black guys.While some people smiled at us as we held hands in D. or walked side by side around the Inner Harbor, others just stared with disapproving eyes.The thing is, people were tolerant, but they were not always accepting.This was the place I was born and raised; where nobody had to whisper the “n word” or hesitate to stick some feathers in their hair and paint their skin red as a sign of school spirit.
Growing up in New Hampshire didn’t prevent me from making friends or dating guys who weren’t white.
They seemed to be intimidated by my dozens of Facebook pictures with darker men, causing them to run before they even got to know me.
“They’re riddled with sexually transmitted diseases” one ignorant guy messaged me on Tinder after seeing a single picture of me with black guys on my profile.
” I became known as that girl who was only interested in dark men and suddenly, the body that took me years to become comfortable with became one I was questioning again.
“You have no a**, Erica” one guy commented at one of these parties as LL Cool J’s “Big Ole Butt” blasted through speakers, while another told me he was willing to deal with my lack of a chest because I had “an a** like a dancer.” Many of the songs on the radio by black artists seemed to put emphasis on parts of the body that I was lacking.
How many times had I said “Mom, I met this guy, he’s white”?