My best friend and I sat in the library, giggling.
Why? We had just noticed my white, blond friend had a white Mac, and I, a black girl, had a black Mac, and it was the funniest thing in the world. Apparently no one else noticed, but we were convinced everyone was snickering at us.
We have spent our whole lives together. We even believed for a while we were the same race, and possibly related. The problems started when we realized we weren’t, and the world was not ready for a color-blind love like ours. Our jokes raised hatred from both sides.
Interracial relationships have ruined my life.
First, they caused a minor identity crisis within myself.
My life began with an interracial relationship. My stern Barbadian father somehow duped my beautiful and kind Puerto Rican mother into marrying him, and the confusion began. They moved to a mostly white suburb and did not allow me to speak slang or watch BET.
Not only do I confuse my English and Spanish all the time, I look just like my Puerto Rican mother but I’m so dark no one believes me, and I am often mistaken for a Dominican refugee.
Second, they have made me politically incorrect.
When my best friend and I play “Never Have I Ever,” she says, “Never have I ever been black.”
I, of course, say, “Never have I ever been white.” Then we drink entirely too much to celebrate how ridiculous we are.
Once, we played with a diverse group, and when she did her typical “Never have I ever been black” no one laughed. Everyone stared at us in horror as we downed our beers to wash out the awkwardness.
My friend and I love making racially awkward jokes. I call her my white b—-, she introduces me as her black friend. I make fun of her “Mississippi booty,” as one man said, that attracts hoards of black men, while she mocks the skinny white boys that tend to be my downfall.
We are convinced the NAACP and the KKK are out to get us, and in general, people of all races are afraid of us.
Last, they have destroyed my dating life. Not only am I constantly mocked for the series of white boys on my arm, everyone feels the need to comment on it.
I remember when in high school, I was the new kid, and everyone wanted to know who I had a crush on. I was in love with the high school quarterback, with hazel eyes and soft brown hair. Everyone else decided I liked Delrico, THE ONLY BLACK BOY IN THE GRADE.
The rumors that ensued upon my arrival convinced him that I was interested. I spent the rest of the year avoiding his affection. It also caused my high school love to believe that I did not like white boys, and we could never be together. (My “white b—-” dated him instead.)
In college, things only became worse. When I walk down the street, white boy in tow, the men lined up in front of UDF yell things like “Damn white boy, where you get a fine black girl like that?” and other uncomfortable things. My white boys also like to talk about it. Some of my favorite lines?
“I done dated a black girl once, it was real nice.”
“I think it’s weird that you’ve dated so many white guys, but you’re the only black girl I’ve been with.”
“I made out with a black girl once. It wasn’t what I thought it would be.”
Sorry?
Worse, my own family finds my predicament hilarious. Once at a sporting event, my mother asked me what piece of chicken I would like. I chose dark meat, telling my mother, “I don’t like white meat.”
My mother looked at me and shouted, “Oh yes you do!”
For the first time in my life, an entire stadium of people was laughing at me.
As time goes on, I have come to terms with the mix of people in my life. My inability to sense what is racially inappropriate has caused me a lot of trouble, but at the same time, I have so many more friends because I don’t really care about race. I have more fun, and I belong everywhere.
A couple weeks ago my best friend and I convinced an entire room of drunks we were related.
“Do you guys have the same dad?” one girl asked in confusion.
“Of course,” my best friend said. “We’re sisters.”
That’s true love.
Everdeen Mason can be reached at [email protected].
