*Tisk, tisk tisk. Sisters, poking a lion isn’t the wisest move to make, but you persist. Why? Loosen your extensions and think for a moment: What good could possibly come from aggravating a full-grown beast equipped with gnashing teeth and a killer bite? But again, you persist.
Indeed, you’ve pushed me entirely too far; my patience for your Kentucky-fried ignorance has officially worn crackhead thin. Now, it’s time for all you witches to pay the piper. Apparently, the lot of you aren’t pleased with my piece on interracial dating, “Hey Sisters, Are White Women Stealing From Your Playbook?”
Let me, first, address the scathing, “ratchet” comments many of you thought tasteful to leave. (Ahem) “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but white men will never, ever, have you.” Asians wont either, nor will Hispanics, Native Americans, Middle-Easterners, or any self-respecting adult male who comes to know you. That’s right sisters, aside from cultural restraint, your rancid demeanor is critical in why they’ll never bring you home to mama or acquaint you with close friends and co-workers; and don’t even dream about walking down the aisle. That crusty, dusty, rusty little finger of yours aint worth it (to them).
In a perfect world, you would be worth marrying; the kind of woman who, despite race, is worthy of a pedal-stool right next to, or even higher than, Amber’s and Jessica’s. But to the men you seek, you’re nothing more than a social experiment, a walk on the wild side, a phat ass, full-lips and a willing mouth, a way to piss off mommy and daddy back home in Iowa. Being with you “sets them apart” from the other trailer-trash “rednecks” who feed into stereotypes drummed up by the media. European men who date sisters think themselves sophisticated, progressive, inclusive, color-blind, free-loving. But don’t be fooled by that jazz, it’s a mirage. Commitment-material, in their eyes, you aren’t. Hell, my co-worker, a white male, seemingly moral, once told me that black women, and “their dark spots,” look dirty. He obviously doesn’t speak for all non-black men. But in 2013, these remarks raise questions.
“I’ll definitely sleep with one [a black woman],” he continued, uncaring that such talk could spark a riot. “I don’t mind getting behind a nice piece of ass, but I would probably think twice before bringing her home. That’s still not cool where I’m from.”
In fact, sisters, it appears that many of you aren’t reaching the alter at all (color of the groom notwithstanding). According to recent marriage statistics, more than 70 percent of African American women are unmarried (meaning either having never been married, divorced, separated or widowed), compared to 45 percent of unmarried white women.
Only about 9 percent of black women are married to men of a different race — compare that to 41 percent of Hispanic women, 48 percent of Asian women and 58 percent of Native American women in the United States. However, only 8 percent of white women marry outside their race.
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Perhaps you should ask yourselves why the numbers so heavily favor non-black women (and please refrain from blaming ineligible black men; that’s a tired notion. Pre civil-rights, black families kept above water even with their Patriarchs handed peanuts for a living. Sure, black men today aren’t cracking the Forbes list, many of us aren’t working at all, and fidelity is certainly not our greatest strength. However, positive change is achieved through positive reinforcement, not abandonment. That goes for all black singles.)
In essence, sisters, your “white knight” (you know, the blue-eyed landscaper who swept Sanaa Lathan off her feet in “Something New”), doesn’t exist; finding him is simply a figment of your silly imagination. He’ll never marry you, he wants her, the white girl you dream of being (in psychology, they call that self-hate). Conversely, as there are always exceptions to the rule, if he marries you, considers proposing, or even asks you on a date, it’s by default, because he has to prove to himself that he isn’t “like the others.”
Instead of Sanaa Lathaan (aforementioned), many of you white-bread loving sisters are more like “Scandal’s” Olivia Pope, a quiet kept secret, the “other” woman; a stain on his neatly pressed dockers, which he only unzips for you when the wife/girlfriend’s away. And if he impregnates you, it’s his features he hopes will manifest on your newborn (aside from color, white folk love them some brown nigga babies).
Sisters, do many of you not realize that your darkened skin, tightly-wound hair, childbearing hips, and “urban” mannerisms make you curious to non-black men and not attractive? You all are the aliens on display; the dinosaur bones at the museum; the mice they trap and examine in the laboratory. They playfully analyze your “kind”; they watch television, observe the ignorance you display, internalize and feed on it, prompting action. Next, they seek you out, covertly dissect you, get your nose and legs open, assimilate you with their culture, and finally, when you’re trained, they flaunt you–a puppet–in public for others to see, and mimic. Until this process is complete, there’s nothing special they see in you.
Finally, silly rabbits, if you hadn’t noticed, the-powers that be in Hollywood, since the beginning of black inclusion in cinema, have exploited, objectified, degraded, and befouled you sexually. You have always been his puppet, his own little slice of taboo, and he portrays it on film by painting you into the background, keeping you in his pocket, while ol’ blondie graces the screen. Frankly, sisters, you’re second place finishers. That’s who you are to him; all you’ll ever be. So flee, cling to your white savior, give yourself over. It doesn’t matter, because when he’s finished, it’s to us, black men, you’ll come running. How do you like them apples?
Based in Southern California, Cory A. Haywood is also a certified personal fitness trainer. Contact him via: [email protected] and/or visit his websites: www.coryhaywood.webs.com and corythewriter.blogspot.com
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