Life and Religion
|He’s not that into black women|
|Kiss & Tell Love Life in the QC|
|Published Thursday, October 4, 2012 8:58 am|
I’m meeting one of my girlfriends after work at a northside sports bar we frequent for wings and happy hour. She’s running late, so I have a seat at the bar and order a drink.
|Michaela L. Duckett|
When the bartender asks if I’d like to cash out or start a tab, the guy seated next to me offers to add my drink to his tab. Then out of nowhere, the guy next to him – a black guy with a cowboy hat that appears to be in his mid-30s – starts going on a rampage.
He’s mumbling something about “that’s the problem with light skin chicks” like me. He says we are stuck up and think we are God’s gift to the world. Then he looks at me and says, “I bet you get guys buying you drinks all the time. You probably expect that, huh? I bet I’d never buy you a drink!”
I bet I’d never want him to. Some would likely be offended by his crude commentary, but I am amused. Besides, I’m much too wise to be offended by the foolish words of a fool. And this guy is obviously a fool. He doesn’t even know me. I don’t recall ever meeting him in my life.
His friend, the guy to my left, is visibly embarrassed. He apologizes for his friend and introduces himself. His name is Jeff. His nutty friend goes by the name “Sly.” How fitting, I think to myself. Jeff explains to me that Sly has a serious problem with black women.
Sly chimes in. “Black women are embarrassing,” he says.
I ask, “Well what about your mother?”
He says she’s from a different era, when black women were raised with class. Side eye.
“But the black women of today, they don’t act right,” he continues. “They don’t know how to treat their men. They don’t cook. They keep a messy house. They are fat and just don’t take care of themselves and work out the way white women do. They’re too afraid they are going to mess up their weaves.”
I laugh. He continues, not appearing to care if anyone is listening or not.
“I think black women are all gold diggers,” he says. “They just want to sit on their big butts and collect welfare checks and get knocked up by some ball player and cash in on the child support so they can buy more weave and Baby Phat.”
Pause. This Negro just said “Baby Phat.” That alone makes me question what time period he’s in and where he’s meeting these so-called stuck-up, broke down black women? Who’s wearing Baby Phat?
As he continues to rant, my friend Veronica walks in. I chuckle, knowing Sly is going to get a kick out of her. She’s the opposite of everything he just said. She’s well-paid, works out seven days a week and doesn’t wear weaves. Her hair is natural and today it’s picked out in one of the biggest Afros I’ve seen in a long time.
“Oh, so I guess you want somebody to buy you a drink too?” he says to Veronica.
“Excuse me,” she fires back. “Who are you and why are you talking to me?”
He starts mumbling something about how nice it would be if a woman offered to buy a man a drink sometimes.
“If you learned to treat a lady with some respect, maybe somebody would buy you a drink,” Veronica says. “Besides, a man sitting at the bar asking a lady to buy him a drink is un-gentleman like. Do you have any home training?”
“How could he?” I ask. “He was raised by a black woman.”
I fill Veronica in on Sly’s antics and rampage against black women.
Sly rolls his eyes and gets up from his seat. Again, Jeff apologizes. Again, I tell him no worries. Besides, it makes great fodder for my column.
The guy on the right of Veronica has been listening and decides to join in the conversation. He explains that for most his life, he too refused to date black women.
“It started when I was young,” he says. “I was the darkest-skinned person in my family. Kids would call me tar baby and pick on me because I was dark.”
I find it odd because the brother is only a slight shade darker than a brown paper bag. However, the childhood taunts were enough to give him a complex about his skin color. He says he worried about dating and ultimately marrying a black woman because he didn’t want to have “dark babies” that would endure the same torment he did as a child.
“All through high school and college, I only dated white and Asian women,” he says. “I never had a black girlfriend until I was grown. I had just moved to Charlotte and started a new job. I went to a networking event and met this sister who I just could not get out of my mind.
“When I saw her the first time, I couldn’t get the nerve up to speak to her. I was too afraid of being rejected. Then the next week, I saw her again. I went up to her and introduced myself, and we’ve been together ever since. We just got married last month.”
He pulls out his phone and shows us a picture of the two of them on their wedding day. His wife is absolutely gorgeous and chocolate.
I get up and excuse myself to the bathroom. On the way back I pass Sly, and this fool makes a pass at me.
“You are not like other black women,” he says with a slur. “I can tell you are different. Maybe you can give me your number, and I can call you sometime.”
Tough luck. I’m convinced he is drunk, has split personalities, bi-polar disorder and at least five other scientifically classified personality disorders. Then he moves in like he’s going to try and kiss me. Ewww. I get the heck out of Dodge.
I make my way back to the bar where Veronica is still chatting with the recently married guy. She asks me to watch her drink and excuses herself to the bathroom. When she comes back, the first thing out of her mouth is that Sly tried to come on to her by the bathroom!
We finish up our wings and close out our tabs. As we are walking outside to our cars, we pass Sly, who appears too inebriated to drive.
“Do you have a ride?” Veronica asks.
“Yeah,” he replies. “My girl is coming to pick me up.”
His girl pulls up driving a rusty ‘93 Honda Accord with a missing bumper and a headlight hanging on with duct tape. All the bashing he was doing about black women being broke and out of shape, I expected him to be dating a woman with the body of a Victoria Secret Angel. Instead, this chick is about 5-foot-2 and weights at least 220 pounds.
I look at Veronica and we bust out laughing.
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