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I was criticized for my preppy wardrobe and my music tastes, and on more than one occasion I was accused of wanting to be white.As time passed, I realized that being black didn’t mean I had to look or act a certain way.I was 19 the first time a man of colour actually expressed halfhearted interest in me; he was a biracial friend who repeatedly asked me out and then repeatedly forced me to pay for these dates.Meanwhile, throughout high school and college, the few black men I knew found my blackness as subpar to theirs.My experiences date back as early as middle school, when I was infatuated with a black classmate for three years.That all came to a screeching halt when he, fully aware of my crush on him, teased me in front of my friends at my 13th birthday party.I walked down the cereal aisle in the grocery store, determined to finish my shopping list.As I skimmed my eyes across the rows of boxes, I landed on what I was looking for: a jumbo box of Rice Krispies.“Good choice,” a deep, bellowing voice confirmed.
But I’ve long known that there is no such thing as a perfect partner. Along the way, I’ve dated white guys who wanted to learn about blackness; white guys who pretended my blackness didn’t exist; a Jewish guy who was well-meaning but politically infuriating; and a Honduran man who promptly ditched me for my best friend.
For us, that means learning about each other’s cultures.