Black Girls Who Like White Guys

Black Girls Who Like White Guys

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I’m a 27-year-old Black woman and I have never been in a relationship, or even dated, a man who is the same race as I am.
Most people are surprised, and when you think about it, it sounds kind of strange to not want to be with someone who possesses the same cultural values as yourself, but it hasn’t been on purpose.
Growing up in a predominantly white area, my options were limited. As I was navigating my teens, love was shoved down my throat on TV; I watched my friends pair off at house parties, and I started to become even more aware of the need to find my perfect match.
I carefully curated him in my mind. He was tall, authoritative, kind, and loving, but I never thought about what colour he would be. I suppose it didn’t matter to me, as long as he existed.
Aged 16, I entered my first interracial relationship. The topic of race never came up. When you’re a shallow teenager, the conversation rarely stretches past your favourite contestant on Big Brother – or perhaps he saved those conversations for his ‘main’ girlfriend. I was number two, possibly even three, but definitely a secret.
It became glaringly obvious that there might be a reason he had the picture-perfect blonde girl on the outside, and me tucked away behind the scenes.
I know now that if someone loves you they are proud of you, and I deserve to be loved loudly. But I went into my 20s without many Black friends and more interracial relationships followed.
I watched a few of my white friends date Black men. Others shuddered at the thought of it, insisting their parents would ‘kill them’ if they brought someone of another race home – despite the fact I had been in their homes several times.
I often wondered if that was what my boyfriend’s parents thought when they saw me too but batted the thought away.
With each relationship, I accepted the fetishisation of the curly-haired, mixed-race babies I could provide. One boyfriend’s mother squealed with excitement upon meeting me and said I would give her adorable ‘caramel’ grandchildren.
I didn’t mention the denial of white privilege during a very heated debate about the treatment of Meghan Markle or call out jokes about offensive racial stereotypes. I remember brushing off an ex’s dad when he was surprised that I didn’t ‘look or sound like Kim Fox from EastEnders’.
It wasn’t because I was OK with any of it – I remember feeling grossed out by it all. But I didn’t want to be seen as angry or confrontational so I tried to let it go and put it down to a few isolated incidents and ignorance.
I thought that’s how relationships were, because who doesn’t tease their other half about something , even if it does make you feel deflated?
It’s easy to call someone out on Twitter for their questionable behaviour, but when it’s someone you love, kicking up a fuss could end the relationship, it doesn’t always feel worth it.
In a way, just being with someone was more important to me than challenging the microaggressions.
Often race never got discussed at all. Paul* would actively go out of his way to avoid it, or anything that pointed at us being different. Asking him to describe the Black person nearby would bring him out in a cold sweat, tripping over his words to find every other word but ‘Black’.
At the time, I took it as a compliment, thinking it must mean that he didn’t see colour. Surely something like race wouldn’t matter when you’re truly in love? To be honest, it’s not something that I had thought about that deeply.
But then George Floyd and Breonna Taylor’s tragic deaths, and the Black Lives Matter protests that followed, put the spotlight on racial issues worldwide – and I couldn’t help but reflect on my dating life, too.
The race discourse is currently more open now than it’s ever been in my lifetime. On social media and beyond, conversations about colonialism, institutional racism and the systemic barriers that keep Black people one step behind have become our new normal.
It’s taken me back to all the racist incidents I have experienced, even in my relationships. Frankly, it’s been traumatic.
And it’s not just me; it seems like white people are examining themselves like never before.
Reddit co-founder Alexis Ohanian – married to tennis legend Serena Williams and the father of a Black daughter – stepped down from the company’s board of directors and asked to be replaced by a Black candidate.
Meanwhile, rapper Eve and Strictly star Oti Mabuse admitted to having ‘difficult’ conversations with their white partners.
These admissions sparked an online debate about the discussions you should have if you’re in an interracial relationship, which I joined with enthusiasm. But had I even practiced what I preached?
Seeing Black people protest just to have equality, and to not die at the hands of the police, triggered something inside of me. If I was in love with someone, someone I thought I knew inside and out, why couldn’t I speak up about racism?
Whether it was comments they had made or the topic as a whole, I could never bring myself to broach it out of fear of causing unnecessary friction.
So here I am, a Black woman that has only dated white men. I have been guilty of letting things slide for the sake of ignorant bliss but racism will not just vanish by ignoring it, or being silent, because that can be seen as complicity. Acceptance, even.
I believed that being in an interracial relationship was no different to being with someone of the same race. Like any other couple, you go on dates, meet each other’s friends and family and argue about what box set to watch.
But what I thought was a shared experience is simply a delusion. Even if you and your partner grew up in the same town, on the same street, being a different race comes with a completely different set of challenges and experiences.
I wouldn’t say no to entering an interracial relationship again – but there will be some rules.
Race will have to be discussed at the very start. Would a man be prepared, for instance, to raise a Black child who will come with a set of problems they’ve never had to face? What steps will they take to be proactively be anti-racist?
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I will not accept someone who refuses to acknowledge their privilege, thinks racist jokes are just ‘banter’ and who doesn’t read up on systemic racism. I won’t give them a copy of Why I’m No Longer Talking To White People About Race and hope for the best.
True love isn’t colour blind, in fact, it’s the opposite. True love is about the ability to be open and honest with someone without fear of repercussions.
True love is being vocal and making sure your voice is heard. True love is recognising your differences, not ignoring them.
Last week in Love, Or Something Like It: My ex is my best friend
Love, Or Something Like It is a regular series for Metro.co.uk, covering everything from mating and dating to lust and loss, to find out what love is and how to find it in the present day. If you have a love story to share, email rosy.edwards@metro.co.uk
Visit Metro's Rush Hour Crush online every weekday at 4:30pm.
Tell us about your Rush Hour Crush by submitting them here , and you could see your message published on the site.

Part of HuffPost Black Voices. ©2022 BuzzFeed, Inc. All rights reserved.
A love like this is unadulterated -- and not subject to the angers and judgments and fears and ignorance of people nor nations. Because, in case you haven't heard, #LoveWins.
Ama is the creative force behind the memoir blog YouAreTheTruth.com, telling all of her business on sex, spirituality, and transformation.
Apr 18, 2016, 11:39 AM EDT | Updated Dec 6, 2017
This post was published on the now-closed HuffPost Contributor platform. Contributors control their own work and posted freely to our site. If you need to flag this entry as abusive, send us an email.
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Ama is the creative force behind the memoir blog YouAreTheTruth.com, telling all of her business on sex, spirituality, and transformation.
We met on a January night, when I was out with girlfriends visiting from other cities. Twerking and drinking took its toll and led to empty stomachs, so at 3 a.m. we called ourselves an Uber . The driver was kind and the ride over was so pleasant that we asked him to dine with us. We'd picked up a new friend! Epic nights always begin like this.
He sat next to me at the restaurant and eventually my friends huddled into their own conversation, leaving him and me to fend for ourselves. Good and easy conversation kept us afloat freely, with stories of passport stamps to philosophies. He dropped us off at our hotel, and smoothly asked for my number.
The girls giggled. I blushed... and obliged.
The texting... the calls... the crush began. And then, our first date. What started off as brunch, where we both confessed our intentional avoidance of commitment, turned into 10 hours of non-stop fun, intriguing conversation, and the occasional 3rd chakra palpitating gaze. The date ended with an impressive kiss (we made out). I welcomed his tenacity.
Because after leaving a "good" job, moving to a new state and leaving behind people who love me, switching my spacious waterfront apartment for my aunt's back bedroom/office, and getting a part-time holiday job at Nordstrom just to keep gas in my Honda, I'd 'bout maximized my fears and delighted in an opportunity for some revelry.
"My roommates ... were shocked in the morning to learn that my company was White. But they weren't just shocked. They were livid, disgusted even."
February came, as did the yearning. I moved into a beautiful and spacious loft with a couple I'd met some weeks before. Drew was there on moving day, lugging the heaviest furniture as family looked on. He stayed over a few nights later, and at a point late in the evening he confessed that he loved me.
A record screeched and stopped in my head.
What in the hell?! You don't even know me. You can't love me.
I don't have to know you to feel you.
The morning after, I had an early meeting at work and left him to sleep until I returned. He looked so good, asleep in my bed. The morning was cold and bright; the sun was on his cheek. And I watched him lie there, breathing. I smiled to myself, thinking that life was finally turning around -- back in my own place again, with a new handsome gentleman -- and headed off to what could be a new career. I wrote him a poem to read when he woke up, then left.
By my return two hours later, all hell had broken loose.
My roommates, who knew I'd had company that night, were shocked in the morning to learn that my company was White. But they weren't just shocked. They were livid, disgusted even.
We don't want to share a bathroom with White people.
We don't want to be under the same roof with White people.
And, we're shocked that you would be with someone who's White, because... you're conscious.
Conscious. That bastardized word, often representing spiritual awareness, somehow has become synonymous in a sub-culture of the Black community with natural hair and extended conversations about the pineal gland. And exclusion. It was my fault, I suppose... I did wear a shaved head, and do use an Akan name. And the beads... the beads throw everybody off, right?
Thus, while I was indeed really Black, I still wasn't quite Black enough.
It's true that I grew up as a black girl child in the American South, and had defining experiences with racism. I've been called nigger, been a petting zoo, and been harassed by the police. In part, I went to an HBCU because many of my early experiences with White peoples wasn't so good.
And it's true that, as a dark-skinned girl in the American South, I was a victim of colorism in my own community because my dark was too dark. I was called many names, including Crunchy Black, and Miss Black-Ass America (after I started winning pageants). There were skin shade comparisons. People often volunteered their confusion with my attractiveness versus my skin tone -- they somehow didn't belong together. In part, I left The South because I felt very ostracized.
When I moved to Mozambique for the summer in 2008, my life flipped upside down. I returned from Africa a new person, and sampled Black Nationalism and Afrocentricity in an effort to extend the life I'd fallen for. But the ostracization of God's other children to account for centuries of racial injustice still didn't work for me.
The rumor stream began that I was dating a White man. Then the questions came. And so did my answers.
Q: Does he try to act Black? Does he wear gold chains?
Q: Oooo! He took you to dinner? I need to get me a White man!
A: Or perhaps just a good man will do. Because good men also like dinner.
Q: So, why are you with a White man? Are you upset with Black men?
A: Because he's good to me? And he has swag for days. Goodness is not binary, and Black men are still beautiful.
Q: Who is this n****, I mean, cracka on FB?! I see you in a picture with The Oppressor, so I'm curious.
Q: You that type of Black that White men like! They don't want 'em yellow... they want 'em DAAAARRRRKKKK!
A: Oh, really now? Thanks for the expertise.
Q: You see, when White men date Black women, they're feeding an animalistic nature inside of themselves. It's carnal.
A: Pull up, bruh. Pull up. Just, come back.
Q: If you 'gon date a White man, make sure he has a trust fund.
A: Wait, what? You date men in their 40s without checking accounts.
Q: My husband doesn't like seeing White men with Black women, although he dated an Asian woman for a few years. You two should come over!
A: Because we want to self-subject for experimentation?
Cultural and communal pressures guide standards for dating and mating, especially among American Black women. A 2015 report published by Brookings found that while American marriage rates are lower among black women compared to white women, black women are also the group that is least likely to "marry out" across race lines. Thus, an American Black woman who balks this trend and mates outside of her race will likely be subject to ridicule.
I was struggling with opinions, which I now know to be cultural ignorance disguised as truth, bolstered by popularity. Remember when the Earth was flat?
As I detailed this new struggle with my Love, he offered this: "If loving you gives other people the opportunity to grow, then I welcome it. And I'm excited."
2015 was a violent year in America. My Facebook feed was inundated with daily injustice, and I honestly tried to log off. But then, there was a shooting in a Black church in South Carolina. And my president sang "Amazing Grace." My feed was in a frenzy. One friend posted that she would never again sit with her back to a White man.
"This racial separation is what the enemy wants," I thought to myself. "Why else would the media keep this rolling 24/7?"
That week, Drew and I went to a Braves game, and had to walk through "the hood" at night to get back to my home. I was frightened and my senses were heightened, because I was a woman, who didn't look like the locals, walking through the hood near midnight with my full purse slung across my shoulder. And I was walking with a White man during one of the most racially tense weeks of the year. I felt like a mark.
"He held my hand to secure us, and I let his go to do the same. It broke his heart."
Drew held my hand as we walked through the neighborhood, and he told stories to try and distract me from my panic. He confessed that he was not afraid -- be it his spiritual resolve or because he never had to learn the same fears as me growing up. I took off my precious gold ring and put it in my cheek. Fifty feet from home, we approached a group of locals under a streetlight and my fears got the best of me.
Because what if the sight of us together incited something that we couldn't be saved from? I felt like Mildred Loving. He held my hand to secure us, and I let his go to do the same. It broke his heart.
This seems to be a central lesson in our relationship -- how to love in hard places and to not let go when a good love is threatened by fear and anger (real or imagined) from the outside. To overcome the threat as one. And how could I not, when he loves me so damn... professionally?
I have been mis-loved and mistreated in expert quantity. The parting gifts that I earned from mastering "Good-Dick-and-Good-Convo-But-Conditional-Commitment 5201" are outgrown, weathered, and trashed.
I have finally fallen in love (or risen) with a good man, because the support I imagined found me without my asking. Because a love like this is unadulterated -- and not subject to the angers and judgments and fears and ignorance of people nor nations. Because, in case you haven't heard, #LoveWins .
A version of this post originally appeared on You Are The Truth . Follow Ama McKinley on Instagram and Facebook .
Ama is the creative force behind the memoir blog YouAreTheTruth.com , telling all of her business on sex, spirituality, and transformation.

Nicole Cardos | April 17, 2019 4:57 pm
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