They say White men can’t jump. I say, “but they sure can fly.” Case 1: Henry Cavill. His super fine ass, with or without glasses, can put on a cape and rescue me any day of forever. I’ll be his chocolate Lois Lane if ever he looks my way. Case 2: Julian McMahon. I’m so charmed I would have no problem letting his devilish self drag me down to his level, ruler of hell, to have his evil baby and do his evil bidding whenever he would like. It’s true. White men have swag, too. So much so that if I need or should entertain White men to increase my chances of finding a mate, I’d be open to it. I’m not just saying that either. The only thing standing in the way of me and a sexy White man is this: “I love Black men!” And you guys already know that R-O is my main one.
Whether it’s smart or not, and along with a stubborn few of us, I’m in it with Black men until another dawn never comes. I will love them even if the divine darkness once again covers the deep. For better or for worse, I’m 98% positive that my commitment to Black men will endure. But I wasn’t always this desperately loyal to them. Way back when I was fresh in love and race had no association with it, I tasted the power of preference. The same power that fuels R-O’s choices for mates was mine in my tweens, and my first boyfriends were not little Black boys with chocolate skin and crunchy little fros that glistened with Afro Sheen.
My first “boyfriend,” Rico, was the heartthrob who lived a couple of houses down from me. Rico looked exactly like one of The Jets—the one in the front row on the “Crush On You” album cover. He had the same silky, black, curly hair and pretty-toast complexion. I was just ten or eleven when I met Rico, and he was two or three years older than me. I don’t want to say three for sure because it makes me sound fast. Because of that, I was not allowed to call him my boyfriend, but that did not stop my pounding heart whenever I saw him. He had a younger brother named Ramone with approval from our parents and the same jet-black curly hair and pretty-toast colored skin—just not the same effect on my senses.
Honestly, I didn’t consciously rate Rico as superior to R-O because he was light and had silky hair, and I also didn’t know if Rico was mixed, Black, Pacific Islander, or whatever. I didn’t understand that these things mattered. Because they didn’t. What mattered was the whirlwind rides around the neighborhood on the back of Rico’s red Honda Spree, holding him tightly, my beads clacking in the wind as he zoomed around the block. Afterwards, he’d send me home with a secret smile across my heart and, of course, butterflies in my tummy.
Maybe I wasn’t color-struck, but apparently I had a thing for DeBarge types. A few years after Rico, when I was allowed to have boyfriends, I went out with Ricardo. Ricardo was pure Puerto Rican, and I was fully aware of it. I didn’t care, still, but I understood that we were a different kind of couple and that some people believed we should be with our own kind. So it wasn’t exactly comfortable being in an interracial relationship, but that didn’t change or erase my affections for Ricardo, and he didn’t seem phased either. Our love lasted all the way “up until” he took me home to meet his family.
It was after Ricardo that I dated Casell, a Black boy with Ginuwine looks—“good” hair and that pretty-toast complexion that I went for—but Casell’s looks were topped off with glasses. Me likey a cute guy with glasses. Cassell was my first boyfriend that I invited to my house. Did I subconsciously decide it was okay because he was Black? I can’t be certain. Race wasn’t ever discussed in my childhood home. I may have heard the term “gray girl” thrown about on occasion, and I never saw Tisha with a White man, but I didn’t (and don’t) know her thoughts on the subject. Casell was Black, yes, but I dated him strictly because he was cute and not to the exclusion of other races. Registering race in the matter of love came later—after, it seems, I kissed my first and only White boy.
Bryan was his name, and what a handsome devil he was in an ethnic sort of way—a Jon B. or Justin Timberlake kind of way. He was like, you know, a soulful White boy. I liked his low fade and goatee and the booming system in his car. That was when it was really all about that bass. I remember how we girls used to hang out at the bus stop and grin at the boys driving by slowly, blasting bass from their woofers. Bryan was one of those White boys that preferred Black culture and J-BGs. He was no Tanner; from his clothes to his bass down to the way he spoke, he presented Black.
As far as boyfriends go, Bryan was perfect—attentive, kind, generous, and not a bad kisser. But you know, it was then, after our first and only kiss, that I decided I preferred Black men—not necessarily R-O (back then). But was my decision based on something more profound than the fact that my lips were fuller than his? And is that okay? Can I legitimately rule out all White boys and other races of men because of their inherently thin lips? Meaning inherent fuller lips is reason enough to decide, “I love Black men,” unconditionally, forever, and to the complete exclusion of men of other races?
Maybe it is okay. Maybe me and R-O are free to eliminate whole groups of women and men based on such frivolous reasons as genetically prominent thin lips and short hair rather than assessing our preferences at the individual level. Maybe I don’t need any reason to exclude all White boys or any others; I can have my collective preferences, as long as I am 100% willing to bet all of my eggs—which are few—on R-O coming around. Knowing the odds of him doing so are not in my favor and that I am forfeiting any other opportunities or chances of finding love with that decision. And I just so happen to be okay with that—but not because all White boys have thin lips. I would never rule out all White boys for any such frivolous reason. In fact, for Julian McMahon and Henry Cavill I’d be willing to kiss their thin lips if only I weren’t in love with Black men and if only I didn’t have 13 profound reasons to rule them out.
Being unaware of race in the matter of love, my first inklings of it made me feel like the beautiful prism of colors inside a soapy bubble, floating higher and higher in the sunshine until it was so far out of reach that no one or nothing could poke it. Those were magical days. It was fun to love without limits, restrictions, guilt, and fear of what was not familiar. But even so, love grounded in shared roots—shared history, emotional familiarity, even shared aesthetics—has a stronger pull. I feel like all of my past loves were Black. Sure, Bryan was cute and sweet to me. But it was as if I had no memory of him. We had no spiritual history. Yes, I’m attracted to White men, but I don’t feel the soul down deep like I do with Black men. The soul ties just aren’t there. I’m not saying there will never be a White boy who reaches me on that level. I am saying probably not in this lifetime. But who knows? I might be Becky in my next one.
And so the question becomes this:
If race matters in love, why might some J-BGs, particularly J-BGs rule out White men altogether?
13 Reasons Some J-BGs Rule Out White Men
- Loyalty to Black Men: Ride-or-die love for Black men even when it seems like they’ve moved on to Becky, making this the least legitimate reason.
- Revocation of One’s Beloved Black Card: It’s not necessarily, always, and at all times true, but you believe you will be branded by the entire community with the big “S” for sellout—slash—you feel fearful of losing the right to say out loud, “I’m Black and I’m proud.”
- Little to No Exposure to White Men: Growing up or living in Black communities that have not been gentrified. This also translates as: all you’ve known is Black, and still you’ve never had reason to imagine jumping the tracks—which is not the same as “Once you go Black, you never…”
- Passion: Maybe you’ve dated outside of your race, but for you there is no comparison to our Black kings, brothers, and fathers.
- The Dehumanizing Alienation of J-BGs’s Hair: Being subject to curiosity that makes you feel like a science experiment. Or worse—hearing two White boys behind you in the crosswalk discussing your crown as something nasty and animalistic. Meanwhile, Black men know what we got, what our hair is not, and most would never hit us that low below the belt. Because society has made us sensitive about our shit.
- Fetishization: The fear of entertaining White boys who secretly, crudely, and crassly think of J-BGs as nothing more than what they may call jungle booty—wild and for their sport. Rather than chasing those Black men who genuinely appreciate the beauty of healthy Black bodies. Ain’t nobody got time to play jungle booty.
- Cultural Incompatibility: Having to be the teacher in the relationship versus being with a partner who inherently understands your existence—from all your trials right down to your essence that is sweeter than the sweetest blackberry.
- Preservation of the Black Family: Being utterly unwilling to denounce or destroy your Black family “on the basis of” your partner’s race, especially since the majority of Black men, who are just as good as any other, still love and cherish J-BGs.
- The Real Black Cinderella Story: Understanding that marrying Meghan Markle is not the same as making a princess or duchess out of Erika Alexander, Keisha Knight Pulliam, or Angela Bassett. Technically: proximity to whiteness is rewarded differently than just-Black beauty—okay, Black excellence.
- Historical Memory: The unresolved tension that can arise from intimacy with a man whose forefathers and ancestors raped and violated J-BGs—wives, daughters, and mothers—unpunished and at will.
- Divine Unity: You spiritually believe in communing with a Black man—a man whose soul was tied to yours in the beginning and who will not survive his destiny without a Black woman.
- Pro-Black Positioning: Living a life that centers Black love, Black community and Black family, Black enterprise, Black empowerment, Black advancement, and Black humanity.
- Trauma: Being the victim of drive-by racial slurs from a bed of wall-to-wall White boys in what looked like the largest red Ford F-150 ever made.
And those are my reasons.
R-O’s reasons are another story entirely.
21 Reasons R-O Rules Out Dark-Skinned or All J-BGs
1. Dark-Skinned J-BGs are Ugly
2. J-BGs Have Fake Hair, Nappy Hair, and/or Short Hair
3. J-BGs are Ordinary and Average
4. White Women Can Have Big Butts and Thick Lips Too
5. J-BGs are Overweight
6. J-BGs are Angry
7. J-BGs Have Bad Attitudes
8. J-BGs are Masculine and Aggressive
9. J-BGs are Unapproachable
10. J-BGs are Hypersexual
11. J-BGs are Not Sexually Adventurous
12. J-BGs Have Daddy Issues
13. J-BGs are Too Independent
14. J-BGs’ Standards are Too High
15. J-BGs are Not Submissive
16. J-BGs Have Too Much Baggage Slash Too Many Kids
17. J-BGs are Gold Diggers
18. Women of Other Races are More Fun
19. White Girls are More Available
20. J-BGs are Not Supportive
21. J-BGs Have Too Much Trauma
Prologue – Falling for the Same Guy Again and Again: Who Is R-O?
Prologue – What’s a J-BG Anyway? Slash That. Who Is a J-BG? The Bylaws of the Unseen
Prologue – 13 Legitimate Reasons to Date Black Only—If Race Matters
Introduction
Part 1 Interlude
Part 2 Interlude
Part 3 Interlude
Part 4 Interlude
Part 5 Interlude
Part 6 Interlude
Why Don't You See Me? 