During a bathroom break or a trip to the bar, I’ll check my phone, and almost always there is a news alert telling me Donald Trump is attempting to curtail, or has just succeeded in curtailing, the rights of marginalized people in America.
It’s an odd thing to then go back to my date and continue the performance of “getting to know you.” I fantasize about walking up to him and saying, “Gotta go!
What I’m craving right now from a partner — more than feeling beautiful, more than anything — is a “black nod” version of a relationship.
I know a man isn’t going to get me through the Trump era.
In those moments, I’ve wished to be sitting in front of someone who could relate.
Despite knowing I can feel intimacy with white guys, right now what divides us feels like a chasm.
Later, I tried to convey how hurt I was that he didn’t say anything, but he didn’t seem to understand how bewildered I was.
There are, in my relationships with white men, so many moments like that.
” before heading for the door, but instead, I sit down, and continue talking about which dystopian novel best describes our current predicament, or whatever.
Even if I did want to talk about how I feel, I’m not sure I’d be able to articulate it, especially to someone with such a different frame of reference from my own.
The store had some, but none that matched my skin tone. Once, in my late 20s, my boyfriend and I were stopped by police, and I quickly became frantic about the weed in the car.
He put his hand on my knee and reminded me that I was safe with him. Racism isn’t something white people to face every day.
The other day, I was on the subway platform playing my usual game, and I caught the eye of a black guy.