Love in Black and White: The Triumph of Love Over Prejudice and Taboo by Mark Mathabane, Gail Mathabane Page B
Authors: Mark Mathabane, Gail Mathabane
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French.”
I laughed and rolled my eyes. “You’ve got the hots for a black man?
Come on, Carol. You must be kidding.”
Carol had just broken up with the prototype allAmerican white male: an extremely handsome football player from Ohio with dark curly hair, a strong chin, and brown eyes capable of melting any woman’s heart. He had been the star running back for the Brown team, had been drafted by the New England Patriots, left football after a knee injury, and became a professional model for the Ford Agency in New York. He wrote long and heartfelt letters to Carol in Paris begging her to come back to Providence eariy My friend was beautiful, rich, and self-assured enough to have her pick of white men. Why in the world would she choose a black?
“He’s really beautiful,” Carol repeated, still gazing rapturously at the ceiling. “If you don’t believe me, stop by the studio and watch our dance rehearsal.”
Curiosity lured me to the dance studio. I walked through narrow streets in a section of Paris where stone buildings might have toppled over if they had not been so tightly wedged together, found the dance studio, and ascended a flight of dimly lit stairs. The smell of sweat and the rhythmic thudding of feet guided me to Carol’s class. I watched her bend, stretch, and leap with dozens of other dancers in time to piano music as the teacher shouted directions in French.
I spotted the black dancer. He was indeed a perfect example of physical fitness and moved with remarkable grace, but I still did not understand how Carol could find him sexually attractive. The energy he exuded and his dark skin made him seem alien, intimidating, and untouchable. I could not imagine kissing those big African lips or touching that wiry hair. As Carol and I walked toward the Metro, I teased her mercilessly for having a crush on a black man.
A short discussion I had once had with my father had deepened my aversion to black-white mixed couples and made me think Carol’s attraction to the dancer was perverse. One day in Minneapolis I asked my father about the mixed couples gathered at one end of Lake Calhoun.
The black men were thin, wore flashy clothes, and drove large cars like Cadillacs and Lincoln Continentals, while the women were usually large peroxide blonds with big hips and double chins. My father told me the women were most likely prostitutes and the men were probably pimps or drug dealers.
This made me hope that Carol would forget her strange crush and return to “normal” once we got back to Providence. But upon her return to Brown, Carol became completely infatuated with a tall and muscular biracial student named Paul.
“Why do you find black men so attractive?” I asked.
“Because I admire blacks,” Carol replied. “They have to struggle a lot harder than whites. They have more strength of character. They weren’t fed from silver spoons all their lives like so many students here. But don’t get me wrong-I don’t feel sorry for them. A lot of whites go out with black people because they pity them and want to fix their lives for them. It puts the white partner in a position of superiority. It’s racist. That’s not what my relationship with Paul is about.
I feel I can relate to him because we both live in two different worlds.
He’s both black and white. I’m both American and Lebanese. I feel closer to people who have multicultural backgrounds. We share a bicultural experience, which is both a strength and a struggle.”
I scrutinized Carol from a distance. In a matter of months her boyfriend, roommate, and friends were all black or biracial. She often loaned her Toyota to her friends, and since I was accustomed to waving whenever I saw her car approach, I found myself greeting a car filled with blacks I did not know. I wondered why she let people take advantage of her and her possessions. Carol and I had been very close our first three years at Brown, but her attraction to blacks drove a wedge
I laughed and rolled my eyes. “You’ve got the hots for a black man?
Come on, Carol. You must be kidding.”
Carol had just broken up with the prototype allAmerican white male: an extremely handsome football player from Ohio with dark curly hair, a strong chin, and brown eyes capable of melting any woman’s heart. He had been the star running back for the Brown team, had been drafted by the New England Patriots, left football after a knee injury, and became a professional model for the Ford Agency in New York. He wrote long and heartfelt letters to Carol in Paris begging her to come back to Providence eariy My friend was beautiful, rich, and self-assured enough to have her pick of white men. Why in the world would she choose a black?
“He’s really beautiful,” Carol repeated, still gazing rapturously at the ceiling. “If you don’t believe me, stop by the studio and watch our dance rehearsal.”
Curiosity lured me to the dance studio. I walked through narrow streets in a section of Paris where stone buildings might have toppled over if they had not been so tightly wedged together, found the dance studio, and ascended a flight of dimly lit stairs. The smell of sweat and the rhythmic thudding of feet guided me to Carol’s class. I watched her bend, stretch, and leap with dozens of other dancers in time to piano music as the teacher shouted directions in French.
I spotted the black dancer. He was indeed a perfect example of physical fitness and moved with remarkable grace, but I still did not understand how Carol could find him sexually attractive. The energy he exuded and his dark skin made him seem alien, intimidating, and untouchable. I could not imagine kissing those big African lips or touching that wiry hair. As Carol and I walked toward the Metro, I teased her mercilessly for having a crush on a black man.
A short discussion I had once had with my father had deepened my aversion to black-white mixed couples and made me think Carol’s attraction to the dancer was perverse. One day in Minneapolis I asked my father about the mixed couples gathered at one end of Lake Calhoun.
The black men were thin, wore flashy clothes, and drove large cars like Cadillacs and Lincoln Continentals, while the women were usually large peroxide blonds with big hips and double chins. My father told me the women were most likely prostitutes and the men were probably pimps or drug dealers.
This made me hope that Carol would forget her strange crush and return to “normal” once we got back to Providence. But upon her return to Brown, Carol became completely infatuated with a tall and muscular biracial student named Paul.
“Why do you find black men so attractive?” I asked.
“Because I admire blacks,” Carol replied. “They have to struggle a lot harder than whites. They have more strength of character. They weren’t fed from silver spoons all their lives like so many students here. But don’t get me wrong-I don’t feel sorry for them. A lot of whites go out with black people because they pity them and want to fix their lives for them. It puts the white partner in a position of superiority. It’s racist. That’s not what my relationship with Paul is about.
I feel I can relate to him because we both live in two different worlds.
He’s both black and white. I’m both American and Lebanese. I feel closer to people who have multicultural backgrounds. We share a bicultural experience, which is both a strength and a struggle.”
I scrutinized Carol from a distance. In a matter of months her boyfriend, roommate, and friends were all black or biracial. She often loaned her Toyota to her friends, and since I was accustomed to waving whenever I saw her car approach, I found myself greeting a car filled with blacks I did not know. I wondered why she let people take advantage of her and her possessions. Carol and I had been very close our first three years at Brown, but her attraction to blacks drove a wedge
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