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Sisters, do you hate yourselves?

*Sisters, you carry a disease that antibiotics can’t treat—self-hatred.

It’s rooted deep in your bones, beneath the soft tissue of your brain, within the depths of your soul. It festers inside all of you, feeding hungrily on your confidence and self-worth, laying waste to your pride and sense of purpose. Like a never-ending siege, it follows you, clings to your side, resides in your thoughts and terrorizes your emotions.

You arise unhappy, lay to sleep depressed and teary-eyed; you walk the streets feeling abandoned by good fortune, by love.

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It’s destroying you—hatred. Poor children, the mirror is your enemy; your reflection—a reminder of past scars and present wounds, dreams lost and nightmares found. The world around you seems vast—too big actually; it’s overwhelming, discouraging and lonely.

Because you’re plagued with deep-rooted insecurity, the love of a black man isn’t good enough. Nope, you’re into white guys. Just to have one, you’ll lower your standards, dignity and underwear. Now that you’ve switched teams, your fiercest competition in romance isn’t other sisters. Instead, you eyeball white women from a distance, studying their mannerisms and dialect, taking notes on the enemy. Part of you despises them—the blond, blue-eyed type; the pretty princesses in all the magazines.

Yet, secretly, you wish for European features—a slender nose, quaff, flowing hair, narrow hips, fair, balmy skin, paper thin lips—the whole nine yards. These girls—the Barbie Doll population—occupy the pedestal you crave, represent the standard you’ll never reach, and they marry in far greater numbers than any other female demographic in the country (yours particularly).

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White is better—that’s the conclusion you’ve drawn, so you strive for their approval, acceptance, and attention. Fragility characterizes your inner being, making you weak, vulnerable, naïve, stupid and manipulable.

Hey black girl, do you know where you’re going, where you’re really going?

If I had to guess, it’s right into his arms—the master manipulator, and you, his most loyal puppet, are a pawn in his scheme for continued world dominance (either that or booty call). Slowly, insidiously, it’s happening—the extermination of your identity has begun.

White-loving Sisters, this is your dairy:

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Sisters, you’re the white man’s pawn.

(I’m your thoughts)

“To hell with brothers. Im’a find me a Brad Pitt type with some money who will treat me like a Nubian queen. You know what they say: White men got all the equipment and twice the cash”

Brad Pitt, really? Negro, please. Quit dreaming. But I’ll humor you.

(Hypothetical situation)

There he is—Achilles, sitting, prowling at the bar, surveying all the women in the room. His eyes scan the crowd, but—uh oh, wait a minute, he never looks your way. Drat! The token black girl loses again (it’s as if you’re not even there).

Sound familiar?

It’s not that you’re invisible. He sees the desperation in your eyes (turncoat); but it doesn’t make a difference. Simply put, he’s not attracted to you. And why should he be? You’re a coon; the gum stuck beneath his Crocs; a picanniny with a jones for white meat (in his mind). The most you’ll ever get is a weekend, maybe two, perhaps some jewelry. Even if he decides to up the ante by calling you his lady or “putting a ring on it”—when the ceremony’s over, yo’ black ass will still be a Negro in America (nappy hair and all). You can marry a Kennedy and that won’t change.

In reality, sisters, if you’re trolling for white a guy, chances are most of you will never be more than his pawn. To their kind, you’re a vessel—just another item on their “to do” list. They think you’re cute in a “roots kinda way.” For kicks, one of em’ may give you a spot on his roster. Even then, he’ll never dream of replacing his star player (corn-fed Becky).

Through social media, indoctrination and subliminal messaging, he’s conditioned you to hate black men with unbridled passion. He’s also got you thinking that white people are God’s gift to cosmos. With glee, you shower white men with praise and adoration. But in the same breath, you condemn black men—choosing to highlight our weaknesses as opposed to our strengths (Uncle Tom floozies). In film, television, and literature, black women (ahem, Shonda Rhimes) intentionally portray black men as inferior to white men, perpetuating a viscous cycle of racial inequity. For several generations, these vehicles of influence have played a critical role in shaping (and reshaping) American consciousness of the black race, particularly its males.

Over the course of the last decade, the film industry has produced numerous paragons of white supremacy over black men. In many cases, these examples include romantic encounters between African American women and their white saviors.

(Popular actress who fit this category: Sanaa Lathan, Zoe Saldana, Halle Berry, etc.)

On the flip side, it’s highly irregular in scripted fiction to discover black men paired emotionally with white women (social taboo prevents this).

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Sisters, you’re the white man’s puppet.

Sisters, creating a fantasy world of interracial-love-hyperbole will not exterminate more than 300 years of socialization and ethnocentrism in America. Social biases connect the dots of an extensive history of racism and prejudice in this country. Granted, these practices are learned and thereby reversible. However, they are often passed down from one generation to the next (and exacerbated by various cultural and social influences). Therefore, it’s outlandish to suggest that white men—the originators of American slavery—would ever equate black women with their own kind.

Sisters, level with me, what really intrigues you about white men? Are you in search of financial security, prestige, power—status maybe? Perhaps you want (in my ghetto voice) some pretty bi-racial babies. Or, possibly, you desire a man who won’t cheat—because white guys never step out their wives (everybody knows that). (Yes, that was sarcasm)

Sisters, keep it 100. Do you really think “swirling” will solve your relationship woes? (Don’t bother answering, the question’s rhetorical).

Chasing Charlie will keep you in second place, never equal—that’s reality (the media has soiled your image beyond the point of recovery). To the white masses, you’re cartoon characters, sass-mouthed buffoons—crude, grotesque, loud, irreverent, angry and obnoxious; that’s your description in the eyes of the American public; that’s why they fight against your participation in motion pictures and Broadway plays; that’s why they follow you in department stores; that’s why they’ll only let a handful of you near political office.

The powers that be in Hollywood (Jewish elites) confine you to reality shows because portraying strength in black women doesn’t translate into enough dollars and cents. As a result, everyday viewers have grown accustomed to heavy doses of the “angry black woman” a hyper-sexualized, neck-jerking female Negro show-puppet specifically chosen to perpetuate various stereotypes and stigmas. That’s you!

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Sisters, you’re just another pair of panties to the white man

In fashion magazines, the pages feature a preponderance of white faces, peppered with exceptionally dark ones—a contrast that’s deliberate in meaning and oblivious to untrained eyes. Casual readers—including white and black men—absorb these images and internalize them, resulting in the conditioning of their psyche. In this context, the dichotomy between light and dark represents good and evil, beauty and lesser-beauty, first place and runner up. Adding insult to injury, dark-skinned print-models often appear foreign-born and physically awkward (the modeling industry calls this look “exotic”).

In spite of it all, you want his love anyway—right, sisters? It’s a mind-blowing phenomenon: you actually believe that a white man’s touch is the cure for self-hate.

Ironically, your inner-loathing dates back to the beginning of slavery. White slave owners raped and bestialized African women, crippling their spirits and self-esteem. This psychological affliction has endured the test of time, carrying over to the modern era. In other words, he’s the reason why yo’ ass is crazy.

So run. Flee. Hop, skip, jump—fly in your “saviors” direction. You will never gain love for yourself through someone else.

He can’t save you.

Based in Southern California, EURweb editorial associate 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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