So I was asked again, tonight:
“Why do you like black girls?”
And I really didn’t have an answer.
“I just like them.” Was the best answer I could come up with. I tried being with white girls, and with white men…but something was always, I don’t know, missing. After my son’s father I never dated another white man. After my daughter’s father, (he was half black-half Irish) I didn’t date anyone for three years, I was that damaged. But when I did, they were black or latin.
Actually I did date a white woman in there, briefly. She was the first woman in years to kiss me without a boyfriend fidgeting nervously in the background.
But it wasn’t until I met Jen that I was like…really? I can pull a sista? If I knew that earlier….
Maybe it’s because of how I was raised, the times I spent from a young age as the only white girl in a black neighborhood or camp? Why does anyone like anything? All I know is what I’m attracted to, who I’m attracted to. I can’t help it. For a long time I had no self esteem that any beautiful sista or brotha would want me when they could have one of their own, but once I realized some did…WOW!
I don’t know if it’s related, but as I was lying in bed, trying to remember the first girl I was attracted to…but for each one I picked out as the first there was always someone I liked when I was younger. I never had a lot of friends in school, but when I did have a friend, she was just like a girlfriend. She was my everything. The only one I wanted to be with, and when it didn’t work out, when we broke up, it broke my young little heart.
So I’m going back in my head, and I started remembering when we were learning history in school: learning all about how the white people came to this land and annihilated its red-gold skinned people, kidnapped black people from Africa and made them slaves. I think it’s around then that I started to hate the color of my skin. I remember staring at my arms and wishing they would turn brown. What color was I anyway? There’s not even a proper name for the peachy-pinkish color of my skin. White? What am I? A wall? A piece of paper? Blank?
Even though my people (the Jews and, I was later to learn, the Irish) have our own stories of oppression, it wasn’t the same. I wanted no part of those hateful people who could do such horrid things…and besides brown skin was so much more beautiful. It didn’t have to be too dark–not that I had anything against dark–just a stretch for me….maybe a golden brown with just a hint of red…to go with the red hair I fantasized about…