My experiences date back as early as middle school, when I was infatuated with a black classmate for three years.
I could love my skin and also love Britney Spears and country music.
Blackness isn’t homogeneous, but it took me a while to see that.
More important than his looks are his kind heart and gentle spirit.
I’ve gladly shared my version of black love with him.
I turned around and saw a handsome black man waiting patiently, with a cart full of groceries and a warm smile that briefly invigorated my tired spirit after a long day of work.
He was wearing a professional outfit, leather dress shoes and a brown wool houndstooth coat with the collar popped.
I was criticized for my preppy wardrobe and my music tastes, and on more than one occasion I was accused of wanting to be white.
As time passed, I realized that being black didn’t mean I had to look or act a certain way.
White guys will never love you like black guys, they would say.
I resented those comments, believing that my love should not be bound to the colour of my skin or anyone else’s.
Black guys have more easily understood my gripes about my hair or institutional injustice.