Well not really married…who can afford to lose free health insurance and food stamps by getting married? Committed to, living with, what have you.
Although I have been open to dating all races, for years I lowkey thought I’d end up with a black woman. But when I found myself falling hard for a kind, smart soft white butch. She gets my jokes, she puts up with my faults, and she pays most of my bills. (Nothing + nothing equals nothing, ok?)
I tried to tell myself she’s not “white-white.” her Guayanese co-worker calls her “one of those hood-ass white girls.” She was one of the only white girls in her school growing up, her 20+ year best friend and her ex and her son are all black. But her outlook…it’s still very white.
The first worrying moment was fairly soon after we moved in together: we were trying to choose a movie, and for whatever reason I was feeling the black cinema offerings (out of the admittedly crappy selection on Netflix). She confronted me afterwards, referring especially to a movie I lingered over about drug dealers in the Hood.
“I’m white. I don’t relate to the hood” She told me angrily. “It’s not my experience!”
I was flabbergasted. First of all–she basically did grow up in the hood, if not the drug dealing part. (Although her sister sure is an addict) And second of all–it’s the point of a movie to bring you into things outside of your experience. I’ve never been to South Africa, but I was able to enjoy White Wedding I’ve also never been to space, or the distant past, but I was able to get into Star Wars.
Then recently she asked “who’s Floetry”
Followed a few days later: “Who’s Nina Simone?”
“Do you even hang out with older black people?” I asked.
Her: “No why would I?”
Me: (why wouldn’t you?) “Let me learn you something!”
So I made her watch What Happened Miss Simone
Ok, so our shared black media experience starts when we fell in love with Hip Hop in ’92. I could get used to that.
But then I made the mistake of talking to her about Sandra Bland.
Now, it took me a day or two to even click on a link to find out what happened to Sandra Bland. She was just so beautiful, I couldn’t bear to think of her life ending pointlessly in a Texas Jail cell. When I look at her I see someone I would have wanted as a friend. I see my aunt. I see my cousins. I see a vibrant intelligent soul. I see one more victim of the horrible scourge of white supremacy that gives police near impunity to kill black people and get away with it.
I was so depressed after reading the details of her arrest and death that I could barely get out of bed. Barely made it to physical therapy.
Despite my melatonin deficiency, this video sums up how the news and my Facebook/twitter feeds have had me feeling lately.
So I made the mistake of talking to my Boo about Sandra Bland. She agreed that Sandra’s death was wrong and the fault of the cops. But apparently HER facebook feed was full of different stories from mine. HER feed promised “incontrovertible” “video evidence” that Sandra took her own life.
I still haven’t read one article that backs this claim, but the most striking thing from our conversation was this: she’s not angry. She doesn’t feel the deep, abiding anger in her bones. Just this overwhelming violent angry rage and sorrow as black person after black person gets modern-day lynched for the most imaginary of offense.
When I asked: “What if this was your son?” She asked:”Why did you have to take it there?”
Because she doesn’t look at Sandra, Treyvon, Tamir, and see her son. Even though the cops sure as hell will one day. She sees all these incidents as wrong, but ultimately as single incidents.
She sees these incidents as a white person, a white woman.
I married a white woman.