Not only was my upbringing littered with a constant reminder of our deeply convoluted roots (see: any Spike Lee Joint), but I also matriculated through predominantly white primary schools, survived “Southern Rites”-like neighborhoods (in both Georgia and Maryland) and bumped rap music in my CD player obsessively.It made the thought of being black and dating someone not black intriguing, but extremely painful to digest.My cousins dabbled in interracial dating enough that I was certain my mother wouldn't (completely) spiral into a Fred Sanford episode.
I'm the borderline neurotic girl whose mental list of dating deal-breakers is longer than a Yeezus rant.
But dating a guy of a different race isn’t included.
(Although a dude’s improper chewing habits warrants romantic execution.) Like a Ramen seasoning pack, a man bred in a rich culture, unlike mine, adds an interesting flavor to coupling — and it’s something I learned when I dated my first non-black bae.
My initial hesitance to dating outside my race was birthed from both experience and ignorance.
But I took a bite and quickly learned interracial dating involved the same basic ingredients as any other relationship: a new learning curve, some compromise and, well, understanding of differences.
The only consequences surfaced with my lack of emotional responsibility and naïveté about the whole ordeal.
At the time of my first interracial date, I attended a historically black college, so naturally I felt like I was in the middle of some “Breaking Bad” social experiment.
I fetishized the experience instead of connecting with the core of the person.
Interestingly, people scrutinized me as much as they did him.
I was naive in thinking I was exempt, but we were picked on for our relationship.
I packed up all the stereotypes I had about white men — love for bland, mayo-heavy meals, excessive use of the word “bro” and a tiny penis — for this fantastic voyage into unknown dating territory, and I ended up with yolk on my face after realizing none of what I thought was true.