Tell my parents im dating black girl
But while most of my friends were telling me that my hair reminded them of Janet Jackson’s in , the guy I’d been seeing was bemused when he saw me in person with my waist-length new do. “I didn’t know your hair was…so long.” Let the record show that this dude is incredibly intelligent, but it was clear that black hair confused the hell out of him. I would never have to explain to a black dude that I was clearly wearing braided hair extensions! Here are 10 things you’ll only understand if you’re a black girl dating a white dude. You have to teach them everything about black hair. That moment when you stop being reluctant to talk about race issues because, get real, you’re not dating an ignorant jerk. Between water refills and a shared plate of quesadillas, we realized we had nothing in common. “Ge Ge, when I came home with an Italian girl my parents hated it, “ my dad said, stretching out the syllables of the word hate. Grandmom and Grandpop didn’t want him to date me,” my mom confirmed, nodding. My dad has been going home with the same Italian girl for 30 years.His little comment—a quick remark he stuck in during a goodbye—was his way of telling me that when it comes to dating, it’s worth it to break your parents’ rules. You’re a little self-conscious about wrapping your hair at night in front of them for the first time but pfft, they better get used to it. Coming to terms with the fact that there are some things about being black that they will just never get, no matter how empathetic they are. We danced a few more songs and spent the rest of the night flirting. He goes by the American version because he thinks it’s easier for new people to pronounce. Our night ended at a diner with mirrored walls and bright lights. Silence filled our picture-perfect, antique-inspired living room. I started my postgraduate life much like my undergrad one — as a single woman with no dating prospects. I called my mom to tell her I had forgotten a few of my belongings at home. I broke the news that my new romantic prospect was Republication, knowing that wouldn’t sit right with my blue-collar Democrat family. She offered to deliver the last of my stuff the following day. I kissed my parents on their cheeks, saying goodbye.He was born in Mali, Africa and grew up in Paris, France. Under them I could see the muscular definition in Qinisela’s arms and better inspect his sexy skin that was the color of my parent’s fears. My mom threw her hands up in a bewildered, flabbergasted fashion. I said that if my boyfriend had been white, I wouldn’t have needed to tell her. As they left, my dad put his light, fair-skinned arm around my mom’s deep olive-toned shoulder.
It was time for my inner-city girl, wannabe journalist self to roam free. When she asked where he grew up, I said France, quickly choosing to edit out the part about Africa. I told her my relationship with Quinn was off and on. He graduated and found a sought-after desk job crunching numbers and salivating over spreadsheets.
Laughing and getting down to pulsating beats paired with silly rap lyrics, it wasn’t long before I felt a body behind mine. The only thing white about the man who was “getting low” behind me was his enormous smile revealing his larger-than-life teeth. One afternoon, my mom asked if I ever heard from Quinn. I answered by standing up straighter, feeling the bones in my spine harden.
He extended a hand and introduced himself as Quinn. Quinn wore cowboy boots, dressy slacks that were too big for him and a fitted T-shirt with ugly swirl designs on it. The next day, he took me on my first grown-up date. The desire to please my parents suddenly became secondary to my desire to tell the truth. “Quinn is black.” The jaw of my strong-willed, outspoken Italian mother dropped. After a few months I moved out of my parents’ house and into a row home in South Philly to begin my journalism career. She roared with laughter, thanking me for being upfront. As I dangled the keys of my new house in my hands, I explained that I didn’t really click with the guy.
After my fair share of empty make-out sessions on the weekends, I started fully embracing singlehood without much concern over finding a boyfriend. He cooked African cuisine and introduced me to plantains for dessert. Throughout my relationship with Qinisela, I lied by omission (the worst kind of lying, in my opinion) every time his name came up in conversation with my parents. I was running my student magazine, planning photo shoots and designing advertisements.
One summer night after my junior year, my girlfriends and I went to a bar known for its outdoor deck and dance scene. College ended and I was back home with my parents in-between four years of make-believe independence and a lifetime of uncertainty.