Vanilla Is The New Black
(or Le Boom)

This is not the, “Why I Have Jungle Fever” remix or “I Hate Brothers” kick a lot of sisters ride every so often. This right here is, my true shit. Henceforth and forevermore, I am dating white men exclusively. Not my first choice by any stretch of the imagination—for real, but white men want me. And they have told me so repeatedly.

Not an easy decision and I’ve been on the fence about this for over a year now. Since early 2010, there’ve been articles in the Wall Street Journal, blogs, etc., advising black women to, “give it up, turn it loose” and start looking to white men because black men ain’t got what it takes and it appears they never will.

Shit, even one of my sheroes, actress Regina King declared recently that black women need to expand and diversify our choices in men. Damn. Now, I took grand offense at Regina’s statements because, well, she got a man. A brother: Malcolm Jamal Warner—you know, Theodore Aloysius Huxtable. So, she advises other sisters to date white men while she has one of the finest brothers on the planet? Um, ‘cuse me, while I remove my earrings because Ms. Thang just slapped me in the face. Feels like she is saying, “I got a good brother and you’ll never have what I have, so, you need to look elsewhere…” But what it boils down to, is she is probably tired of weak and lonely sisters gawking, hawking and stalking her man—all while disrespecting her. Plus, she might feel that while she is checking us lonely bitches, mine as well try to help us out. I can dig it.

Still, I was not convinced I should give up on Black men. For about 11 years now, I have been waiting for them to stop living with their mothers, get a car (any car), get & keep a damn drivers’ license, “get their paper right,” learn to trust me, stop using their kids as an excuse, quit being assholes or simply cease breaking my heart. I’m tired; completely worn the hell out. And as I catch my breath, I realize that in that time, I have had almost twice as many white men approach me as black men. Here of late, quite a few have made serious effort to get to know me and I have met those offers with straight up racism—why on earth would I want to date the descendent of the men who brutalized, raped, traumatized and oh, yes, enslaved my maternal ancestors? Besides, we all know when it comes to the bedroom white men have the minimal required equipment…

But wait, not having a man—black or white, that means I am dealing with no equipment at all… Hmmm…

Here is what I know: Black men struggle and are met with unfair challenges that no one on this planet could ever understand unless you walk a mile in their shoes. And that truly breaks my heart. But guess what? Black women fight the good fight, too. We are stereotyped as well, and in some instances even worse than our counterparts (white women or black men, depending on the situation). I will not wait for a black man to decide he is ready to deem me his queen, especially since most just don’t seem to give a shit right now about black women. For example, they continuously allow and produce videos that demean sisters (when’s the last time you saw a half-naked woman in an Eminem, Garth Brooks or Green Day video?).

My final decision on this was yesterday. For the fourth day in a row, I was approached by a white man—just general conversation, but it was the way he spoke to me; he was interested. It was at the gym and he made more than an effort to talk to me about, “nothing.” I had been at the gym for over an hour. I came in close contact with several black men. None of them said as much as boo. ‘Nuff said.

And just a public service announcement for potential vanilla beaus—don’t get it twisted. Black women are not going to alter the rules because we change the color of our dance partner. We are still going to be quite outspoken, looking for a little bling (I, myself, require one trinket a year), expect that a man does NOT live with his mother, grandmother, etc., require that you open doors & pull out chairs, ask that you pay for dinner at least 3 out of the 4 times we go out without commanding or petitioning for sex afterwards, insist that while you may not have a new car, it has to be clean inside & out, stipulate that if you have any children, you are a good father to them and demand that you do not, I repeat, do not talk shit about your children’s mother.

Black women are revising their players and the music, and choosing vanilla cones instead of chocolate, as it were, but the standards are still the same…

Currently Listening To: Le Boom Suite by Jill Scott