Please refresh the page and retry. S he was a divorced white woman in her mid 40s with two young children. She saw me not as a personality, but as a pastime, an object, and did not see her actions as racially insulting in the slightest. She admitted she had not read the text accompanying my profile pictures.
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First, some history: When I was a child, watching my pops get ready to go out was something to behold. He would spend hours preparing his mask every morning for whatever crowd, person or community he faced. Even years later, my pops still took longer to get ready than my mother and sister combined, delicately taking a black Sharpie to any stray grays that might pop up in his goatee. My pops would explain that as a young man in the Dominican Republic, you had to work so hard perfecting yourself, preparing your mask, so that when a young European or American woman came through, she might choose you, as he would put it, might take you home with her, like that was your only way out. Later he made his way to New York City, where he met my mother, who is Colombian. Selected by whom became and remains my dilemma. I talked around it, mumbling about how I was trying to figure out who I was or whatever. There was nothing wrong with her at all. It just kind of happened. Over the years I have dated brown women and black women, but mostly white women.
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All Rights Reserved. Powered by WordPress. Young couple talk with female friend on vacation. Photo by Young couple talk with female friend on vacation. Recently I was listening to my boyfriend and his friends discuss the reasons why some of them prefer White women over Black women. Many of their reasons were purely based on superficial factors, which bothered me. It is one thing to date someone because you like them as a person and could care less about their skin color which is perfectly fine.
The committing of a hidden life event to the written word. I used to wonder if my reluctance was driven by shame, or simply my incredulity at what took place all those years ago. Now, I think that it is those things mostly, but also a hell of a lot more. Over the last few years, particularly in the recent crosswinds of our racial and cultural political climate, this life event bubbled to the surface of my memory, never quite boiling over. I almost never mention it to women. A few decades ago, when I was just becoming a published author, I was discussing projects with various companies. In one, I dealt with a white male creative, and, when he left, I was assigned to someone else, a white woman. I was overjoyed to be taken seriously at last, a bit starry-eyed from the blitz of media and publishing parties, both of which I was unused to. My new contact, charming and jovial, was full of great ideas and encouragement.