In Defense of the Black Man

I LOVE Black Men.

This afternoon, I went to the spa to have my nails done. I have a regular manicurist and usually there is someone booked after me. Today was no exception. The client after me was an 81-year-old woman named Lillian. While my nails were drying, she and I started talking (if you're reading this you probably know I talk to everybody...lol). She was funny and spry--not how I would imagine a woman in her early 80s.

The converstaion soon turned to my dating life. I mentioned that I was looking for a nice man....blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda. Nothing new. After talking for a few minutes, she told me that I was a very pretty girl. I said thank you.

We talked about my job. I told her about my students and why I enjoy teaching.

The converstaion took a lull. Then, out of nowhere, she says," You know, you really are a beautiful girl. You're much to pretty and intelligent to date a Black man. You need a nice middle-aged white man."

That was followed up by, "I don't mean to offend you, I like Black men. But, you don't need one."

Floored, I was at a loss for words.

Lillian is Black.

What are you thinking now, dear reader? Is she in a position to make that horrible comment because she is an elderly Black woman and she believes she knows what kind of a terrible life I will lead if I *gasp* end up with a Black man? Can she assert that I need a white man after looking at the breakdown of the Black family and the continued negative press that surrounds black men? Can she assume that because there are more Black men in prison than in college, that an educated Black woman need not bother herself with these men? If she is Black can she stand firm on that comment?

Pause.

I lied. Lillian is White. Truthfully. White as the driven snow white. Now, I pose the same questions:

What are you thinking now, dear reader? Is she in a position to make that horrible comment she believes she knows what kind of a terrible life I will lead if I *gasp* end up with a Black man? Can she assert that I need a white man after looking at the breakdown of the Black family and the continued negative press that surrounds black men? Can she assume that because there are more Black men in prison than in college, that an educated Black woman need not bother herself with these men? As an elderly white woman should she be able to stand firm on that comment?

Well, here is where I stand:

I LOVE Black men. I find Black men to be the epitome of strength. I love the Black man's swagger, I love the varieties of his cocoa-colored skin and varying textures of hair. I love his locks; I love his waves: I love his fades; I love his braids. I love his protective nature. I love his smoothness. I love his hustle-when-I-need-to mentality. I want a Black man. I want a Black man and little brown-skinned girls with puff balls for hair and swinging hips like their mamma. I want a Black man who I understand and who understands me. I love Black men so much, that recently (since I moved to the West Coast), I have found my feeling truly hurt when I see Black men with non-Black women: I am perplexed, confused and often frustrated. I want you, but somehow you've given up on me.

Now, today, I have a woman trying to get me to give up on you as well.

But I won't.

The Caveman

About three weeks ago I went to a Tapas Restaurant that was hosting an upwardly mobile African-American event. Needing some upwardly mobile African-Americans in my life, I took the extra step in crafting my evening's outfit: In short, I looked incredibly fantastic. All-in-all, it was a great evening for me. My $5 magic came back. Suitors were lined up. My SPANX didn't bulge.

Around midnight, as I was basking in the glory of the evening, the biggest man I have ever seen in my entire life started walking toward me. He was massing: Think Mack truck on steroids. The original Man. Meat-eating, homosapien, I-look-like-I-snort-gunfire huge. Dee-Bo on steroids. Fred Flintstonesque. And, he wasn't obese. This Brock Lesner like man had a large amount of muscle mass.

When he got to me, he stopped, backed up and sat down. 6 inches from my face. He sat there in silence. Complete, utter, total silence.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Do you have any idea how uncomfortable it is to have someone invade your face space and then proceed to stare--silently--for upwards of 90 seconds? It's not pleasant. It's the stuff CNN stories are made of. Everytime I moved, he moved. Everytime I breathed, he breathed. Not usually at a loss for words, I was genuniely perplexed. Not only was this caveman huge, he was also seriously in my personal space. My girlfriends weren't sure to laugh or call for help.

So, I said "Hello."

With a mouth full of rocks, he responded. "GrrrRggg...." Imagine Cookie Monster taking ass-shots of Gym Candy.

After realizing I was being growled (no, literally, growled) at, I responded with, "Excuse me?"

He spoke again, but not in a language I am familiar with. This was some primative, prehistoric form of grunting mixed with frustration. "Grrr!Rgggrgh!"

I cocked an eyebrow. Tarzan then grabbed a handful of my hair, which was big and blown out, and began to stroke it. And by stroke, I mean pull at hard enough to make my neck move. Not wanting to anger the minotaur, I moved back, putting my head out of his reach.

After a few minutes of grunting-Portugese-Spanish-English, I was able to get the following: Me from San Paulo, Brazil, Me speak no English. Me want a brontosaurus burger.

He then asked me to dance. Except he asked me to dance by grabbing my wrist and pulling my arm. Did I mention that this man was ginormous? I politely shook my head no, explaining that I was tired. He then groaned, threw two massive arms in the air in disgust, and ambled off.

Dating is so much fun.

*M*