The Interracial Dating Blog

Today’s Blog Addresses The Negativity I Receive For Dating Outside of My Race.

Happy Tuesday, readers!  It is a fine Tuesday because that means it’s blog time from me!  I wanted to talk about interracial relationships for this entry.  As you may or may not have guessed:  I’m a Black woman.  I also date outside of my race fairly consistently.  My current significant other is a white man.  He is an excellent partner, even when he gets on my nerves.  Is there a reason for me dating outside of my race?  Not a single one.

I look at dating the same way I look at food.  If I exclusively dated Black guys, that means I’m just eating chicken for the rest of my life.  I could live quite well because I love chicken, and it’s highly versatile.  Still, there’s nothing wrong with wanting a steak or a pork chop either.  They all provide sustenance and give different flavor profiles.  Juxtaposing those food facts to men, different races give different experiences, good and bad.  There’s no reason to limit myself to just one color of man, not for me anyway.

I know plenty of men and women who will only date inside of their race, which is completely fine with me.  After all, a person is attracted to what they are attracted to.  If you find those qualities within your own race and see no reason to venture out, cool.  I wish you nothing but absolute happiness in everything that you do.  What I take issue with is looking down at me or my S/O because we love each other.

At this point, I need to say that love knows no color.  I like who I like, and I love who I love.  The color of their skin has absolutely no impact on that.  In fact, what I look for in a partner often has nothing to do with race.  (I’m wildly attracted to gorgeous eyes, which can be on anybody.)  It disturbs me greatly when I hear comments that what I’m doing is wrong or that I should just be with my own kind.

What brought this up is that the S/O and I were having a discussion, and he mentioned that he’s getting a little flack from being with me.  I immediately went into protect mode and asked who it was.  (I’m a Taurus, you see, so an attack on someone I love is an attack on me.)  He told me, and it was someone I literally had said two sentences to and was nothing but polite to when I met them.  I wasn’t shocked or surprised when I heard.  I was disappointed and a little upset about it.  Upon seeing me become visibly miffed, the S/O attempted to diffuse the situation by saying it’s not my fault, the person is old, so on and so forth.  I still couldn’t get it out of my head for the rest of the night.  Are we that loathsome to look at when we’re together?

I know that the problem doesn’t lie with me and my S/O, but it makes me wonder how bold someone can be to say “I don’t like who you’re with because they don’t look like you.”  Think about the ridiculousness of this for just one second.  You don’t know me from a can of paint, you’ve never actually had a conversation with me, but you’ve decided that I’m no good for someone just because of pigment?  Are you so wrapped up in yourself that you cannot bear the sight of two people who love each other that you need to voice the opinion that no one asked for or cared about to them?

Now, I don’t want to give off the wrong impression here, readers.  These comments don’t just come from white folks.  They come from Black folks too.  I’d love to say that it’s from the older generation, but it’s not.  I really want people to follow what I’m sure every momma has said to their child.  “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”

Who I choose to invite into my life is exactly that:  my choice.  I don’t even consider skin color when choosing a partner.  I don’t need your reminders or input.  I’m not broken, and I don’t need fixing.  I know he’s white.  Instead of worrying about what’s going on in my happy household, maybe you should have some introspection about your own life.  If you have something to say about my relationship solely based on skin color, it’s obvious that you aren’t happy with your own relationship.  You should unpack those emotions and deal with them, instead of trying to pass your pain onto us.

Readers, I’m going to end this entry right here because this topic is amazingly complex with a lot of different factors feeding into the root cause of the hatred of interracial dating.  I won’t leave you hanging!  On Thursday, we’re going to continue the conversation by talking about the root cause, and I promise that it will be well worth your time.  I am curious, readers, have you ever dated interracially before?  Did you have the same experiences that I had?  I’d love to know!  If you have, and you want to talk about it, leave me a comment, send me an email, do that social stuff to get in touch.  I’ll see you on Thursday.

The Writing Blog

In Day Four of my Seven Day Blogging Blitz, I talk about the very reason I made this blog: my passion for writing.

Today, I write.  I write for me and no one else.  I write because this is the only thing that I know how to do well, really well.  I write because I love the language.  I love the feel of a pen wedged in between my fingers.  I love the gliding of my palm against a stark white piece of paper as the words flow from me.  I love writing in cursive, even though my handwriting is atrocious.  I love the feel of my fingertips pushing against the keys on my keyboard and the slight resistance the keys give back to me.  I love to write.

I love creating.  I love expressing myself through words.   I love turning the incomplete thoughts in my brain into sentences.  I love when words come to life on a page.  I love it when everything comes together, each word working as a cohesive unit to share what was in my head.  I love it when someone else understands.

I love telling stories.  I love interesting worlds and compelling characters.  I love their interactions, their dialogue.  I love monologues, soliloquies, and asides.  I love a character’s growth as the story billows on.  I love how a story progresses, and I love the way the characters handle it.  I love conclusions.  I love the satisfaction of an ending, and I love the anticipation of a continuation.

But, I hate.  I hate the thoughts that won’t come out.  I hate that they are there, sitting in my head, wanting, begging to be released but finding none to come.  I hate the words that are forced, unappealing drivel.  I hate staring at a blank screen for hours.  I hate the crumbled up pieces of paper that fill my tiny, office trash can.  I hate being blocked.

I hate how others make it look so easy.  I hate reading words and free flowing ideas that contain a mastery of this language that make me think of my own inadequacies.  I hate being inferior.

I hate their success.  I hate how they are celebrated for their words, their substandard work that I know I could produce with both of my eyes closed.  I hate how their work is touted as being the very pinnacle of this profession.  I hate their simplicity.  I hate that their simplicity is loved.

I hate this world, in how it treats what I hold dear.  I hate that my love for the written word is a dying art.  I hate that as we are propelled further and further into the digital age, words become less important.  I hate that we now express ourselves through emojis.  I hate that it doesn’t feel like it will stop.

Despite all the hills and valleys, this perverse need to create is still within me.  No matter how long I abstain from it or how far I fall into the rabbit hole, the fire in my soul will never be quenched.  Life can hurl every obstacle and kill every muse, but I will continue with my noble cause.  I will love, hate, and feel every other intricate emotion in between them.  I will create world upon world, as many characters as the stars and enough stories to populate them all.  I will.  I will write.