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Smart black women have come to grips with reality.
An elementary understanding of the law of supply and demand tells you there simply aren’t enough black men for every woman, good or bad. And, the handful of “good” brothers don’t exclusively date black. Despite the number of us clinging to this one-sided fight for black love, others see the light and have started dating white…red, brown, yellow, etc. Tired of watching their girlfriends blindly walk past Banker Bob (yes, middle class white men are the segment of their population marrying black women) to compete with countless other educated, attractive women for the attention of some haughty, Audi A5-driving, Howard-bred corporate law attorney who only likes light-skinned girls, rain-beau daters are spreading the word.
The focus merely appears to be placed on white men for two reasons: It’s most taboo and white men and black women statistically date outside of their races least. So, it stands out when they date out—especially each other. Of course a history of slavery, rape and abuse are reasons for a subconscious sour taste but, in 2011, the landscape is much different. Much like black men looked past the lynching, disfigurement and deaths of young boys like Emmett Till for flirting with white women, many black women have found the capacity to look beyond past (and some present) ignorance. There is nothing taboo about dating anyone of any race. All that matters is that he is a man of strong character who you can see yourself boning.
For black men who want to have their cake and eat it too, this form of shared enlightenment translates as obsession when it’s really quite the opposite considering an overwhelming majority of black women prefer black men. Equal-opportunity dating means women are no longer reliant on the affection of a relatively small pool of men and, with increased options, higher standards are easier to maintain.
In no way are black women the slightest bit obsessed with white men. Some are just focused on enjoying the goodness that can be found in all races.
LaShaun Williams is a lifestyle and relationship columnist, blogger and social critic. Her work has been featured on popular urban sites, such as The Grio and AOL Black Voices. She has made appearances on the Tom Joyner Morning Show and Santita Jackson Show. Williams is also the voice behind Politically Unapologetic , a blog where she unabashedly discusses culture, life and love. Follow @itsmelashaun on Twitter, Tumblr or Facebook .
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This video from All Def Digital performs one of those uncomfortable “social experiments” that is best rehashed on an Internet-wide basis after the fact. The premise is simple. Black girls and white guys make out, both on a virginal basis. That is, none of the parties involved have ever crossed racial lines in their previous experimentation. This could have been a super messy affair, but most of the mess involved only reflected some spit-based differential coming from the dudes, who are far too effusive.
To begin, neither side felt too hot about the prospective experiment. One of the dudes said, “I feel like they don’t feel the same way.” Whereas one of the ladies surmised, “It’s like kissing a wall.” Ouch on both ends. One guy didn’t help matters by exclaiming, “I’m coocoo for Cocoa Puffs!” Seriously, after saying something like that, this dude should have never gotten any lip at all, but he did. Hoooo boy, did he ever.
After all was said and done, this screenshot happened. Happy times!
This woman admitted she enjoyed her experience, but she expected worse. After hearing this declaration, the dude felt like crap. Look at his face.
Not incidentally, here’s the companion video called “White Girls Kiss Black Boys For The First Time.” This one is more successful in terms of satisfied expectations, but the dudes in the first video fought an uphill battle.
Here’s the truth: Race is still a thing.
I was talking to my friend, Kim, as we sipped cocktails at a bar in Hollywood. She followed my gaze. “The … bald … white guy?” she asked, her face scrunched up in disbelief. I nodded. She raised an eyebrow and slurped on her vodka cranberry.
Some background might be helpful here. I’m black and my friend Kim is white, as was the guy in question. He also shaved his head and, apparently, that threw my friend for a loop. I knew why.
Since I’d known her I’d mostly dated black guys. The real estate agent I’d met at the LACMA summer jazz series. The actor who’d given me his head shot as soon as he learned I was a TV writer. The musician who serenaded me at the Dresden between Marty and Elayne’s sets. All black. And the one or two white guys in the mix had hair.
Two weeks later, I climbed in the passenger seat of the bald white guy’s truck when he picked me up from my apartment in Miracle Mile. Hmm … he drove a pickup truck. And I knew from talking to him on the phone that he was from the South.
I smiled as he told me he’d made a reservation at Ammo. So far, so good. I liked that place. As we drove along, I surreptitiously glanced at him — he was wearing a nice suit, having come straight from his office to get me.
He had mentioned he was a lawyer, so I’d already mentally checked the box for gainfully employed. But something else was on my mind.
Here’s the truth: Race is still a thing.
No matter how advanced a society we think we are, the idea that we’re post-racial is laughable. Over the years working in numerous writers rooms as the only black writer, I’d become a pro at deciphering comments white guys made:
Interracial relationships aren’t a big deal nowadays.
Translation: I’d never do it but I think Halle Berry’s pretty.
I have a lot of friends in interracial relationships.
Translation: Some of my friends date Asian women.
Translation: My kid listens to hip-hop.
This guy was from Georgia. “The heart of Klan activity,” one of my friends felt compelled to tell me. To be fair, I’m from the South. Raised in Florida, I know about chewing tobacco, gator farms, 2 Live Crew, y’all, and the Confederate flag. For that reason, I started getting nervous about this guy.
What if I were part of some Dixieland fantasy of his? After we were seated I asked him how many black girls he’d dated. “Why?” he asked. “Because maybe black girls are your thing,” I said. “I don’t want to be part of your chocolate fantasy.”
“Uh … I just think you’re hot,” he said.
We continued dating, and soon we were exclusive. This didn’t come without challenges.
Whenever we went somewhere with a lot of black people in attendance, I got the side eye from some of them. I understood. My dating outside the race was seen as a betrayal. Their thought bubble hovered, clear as day: “After everything they’ve done to us, you’re going to date one of them?”
And some days, it was tough because I felt guilty for not completing the picture of the strong black couple. Another time, my boyfriend got a call from his ex-girlfriend. “I heard you’re dating a black girl.” Yep. Word had spread through the Caucasian grapevine.
I was working on a sitcom at the time. When I told the writers on the show I was dating a white guy from the South who drove a pickup truck, I could tell they were skeptical.
The kicker was when we went to the wedding of one of his friends in Cape Girardeau, Mo. I’m not exaggerating when I say white people stared at us as we walked down the street.
The more serious the relationship got, the more I started thinking about kids.
If we had them, they would be “multiethnic” or “biracial” or “mixed heritage.” All terms that annoyed me. But I was getting ahead of myself, right? Was I in this or not? Was I ready to be committed to a guy whose family owned shotguns and went to the Waffle House?
My parents were both college professors. His parents hadn’t gone to college. My parents were Baha’is who didn’t celebrate Christmas. His dad played Santa Claus in various malls below the Mason-Dixon line during the yuletide season. My boyfriend listened to emo rock, for God’s sake!
I loved that he shared a house off Sunset with a gay, Pakistani performance artist. I loved that he’d had the same Rottweiler for a pet since high school. I loved that he was a plaintiff’s attorney, helping clients who’d been discriminated against in the workplace.
I didn’t love his pickup truck — it was cramped and always had dog hair on the seat.
Fourteen years and two kids later, race is still a thing, in a growing list of things, that defines us.
Maisha Closson is a TV writer living in Los Angeles. She’s on Instagram as @ maisha_closson
L.A. Affairs chronicles the current dating scene in and around Los Angeles. If you have comments or a true story to tell, email us at LAAffairs@latimes.com .
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