Is race specific love keeping some of us from finding true love?

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor

I had to ask my mom where the concept of “Black love” came from. From what she could recall, “Black love” was born around the same time as “Black power”. At the time, significant power was in place to keep the Black community disenfranchised and so the idea was to unify in order to overcome oppression and gain basic human rights. Although times have changed, “Black love” still seems to be like a hot pair of shoes on a Neiman Marcus sale rack and I wondered if it’s still as imperative as it once was.

On several occasions, I've had friends pass up what looked like good love in hopes of finding “Black love.” For them Michelle and Barack Obama's relationship is a beacon of light that they spend their days tanning under. Some friends have been waiting years to meet the right one and have teased me for going out on dates with guys who weren’t Black. Although I haven’t met the right one yet, I’ve opened my mind and heart to the possibility of love and as a result have tasted food I probably never would have tried, traveled to places I might have never known, and learned things about cultures outside of my own making me even more of an Urban Chameleon. Meanwhile, those same friends seem to be missing out on life waiting for Obama’s twin brother to show up. It’s bad enough that most of us as young girls are disillusioned by the idea of Prince Charming sweeping us off our feet only to grow up to arguments over money, sex, and a bunch of other stuff that wasn’t a part of the fantasy. If the best Prince Charming real life can deliver us shows up...should we send him or her away just because they’re not of a certain race?

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My First White Wedding

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor

A few weeks ago I attended a wedding upstate New York. Now when I hear, “wedding,” I naturally begin to think about what special outfit I’m going to wear for this special occasion. Going through my closet, I identify my Diane Von Furstenberg dress as the joint to hit ‘em wit. It’s a beautiful long, silk, mint color number. And with my gold heals… WHAT WHAT! Watch out now!

When my date and I arrive at the location, after the 3½ hour drive from the city, I was floored to learn that the wedding was taking place on a Farm. A Farm! Who gets married on a Farm?! Certainly not Caribbean people. Even if I end up marrying a white farmer – the idea of me telling my Haitian mom that the ceremony will be taking place next to animals – let’s just say that it would not be going down. You know what she would say? All my life I have worked so hard for people not to look at us like animals and you want to go and have your holy matrimony next to some? Is a cow going to give you away too?

Regardless of how I was feeling about the location, I was dealing with the physical challenge of my Loubiton heels sinking into the grass as I tried to mingle. My date, who was decked out in his Burberry tux, was damn near carrying me, Diane, and Loubi to prevent us from being covered in manure, which was everywhere.

Of course, we were the only Black folks at the wedding and the only people that were dressed up. Don’t you know that there were some guests wearing sundresses and flip-flops! Who does that?! Certainly not Caribbean people. We dress UP and come with it like’s it’s the Oscars. Besides, are we not celebrating what’s supposed to be a once in a lifetime affair?

I think what catches many Caribbean people off guard, is that we are bred in a culture that has made us feel inferior to white people as if they all come from castles with golden fountains. Therefore, when the time comes to be in their presence, for what we think is a celebratory event, we are dressing up to say we belong in this castle too. The irony of this is when this irony is flipped on you; for this Farm was no castle.

My date and I tried to let loose, which meant taking two vodka tonics to the head before getting out on the dance floor. Despite the location, they still played Michael Jackson. Can’t have a wedding with out MJ. We started gettin’ down. Next thing you know, a group of older white folks, who were definitely alive during Jim Crow, began to watch us dance as if we were entertaining them. Why did we suddenly begin to feel like we were the Minstrels at the show?

What made matters worse, is when the mother of the bride came over to admire my dress. I was surprised she could still see it, as most of it was balled up in my hands to keep from touching the grass. After she told me how beautiful I looked, she then asked if I had any friends for her single son who apparently likes the darker kind. WHAT?! Who actually says that? Was this woman really referring to Black people like the meat selection on a buffet table- light or dark meat? I was done. I grabbed my date, wished the wedding couple well and we were out.

After the wedding, my girlfriend and I traded stories about our white wedding experiences. She told me how a couple of weeks ago, during a bachelorette party she attended, the bride’s cousin brought black and brown penis cookies for the party-gals to munch on. The cousin was so delighted to find this bakery website, Mandingo, that specializes in ethnic dicks. My girlfriend said she thought to herself, now wait a minute, the bride is marrying a white man why couldn’t there be a white dick included in the selection? The cousin went on to explain to the bachelorette party, who were all white with the exception of my girlfriend, that a Mandingo is apparently a very large Black man’s penis. What she failed to mention is that it’s also a derogatory term! My girlfriend said she could either:

A) Slap this woman upside her head B) Excuse herself from the party or C) Tell me about the story so I could write about it here.

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Are Black Women Too Lazy to Find True Love?

By today's Urban Chameleon contributor Sibil

The question could be asked of women from all races but I’ve chosen to specifically focus on a group that continues to be questioned about their potential to find true love: Black women.

The other day I caught the CNN interview with Helene Andrews, the author of Bitch is the New Black, discussing being young, Black, successful and single. I thought to myself: Oh lawd, they done brought our issues into the lime light. But then again I always complain about major media not covering the spectrum of our issues so I checked myself for complaining out of habit and tuned into the program.

Although it was an obvious plug for us to purchase Helene’s book (and why shouldn’t we) I was intrigued by this 29yr old author’s rant about life and love and what made the interview even more interesting was her mother, who was also on the show, talked about being a lesbian. Talk about some topics of discussion you don’t hear about every day through a major news source. I started thinking more about why there continues to be so much focus on Black women’s capability to find love.

At the Harvard Black Alumni BBQ in prospect park a couple of weeks ago, I got into a discussion with a group of Black women about not being able to find “a good Black man.” One woman noticed the ring on my finger and asked if I was married to which I replied, “Yes for 5 years but we’ve know each other for 11years, we met in college.”

Everyone’s interest was peaked and wanted to know how I had “locked him down.” I told them that it was actually his idea. We had gone away on a trip one New Years and when talking about our resolutions for the up coming year he said that he wanted to get married. I was cool either way, I had grown up with two parents who never traditionally tied the knot so I naturally inherited the philosophy that if he liked it, he didn’t necessarily need to put a ring on it. But later that year he sho ‘nough proposed.

The women all ooh’d and ahh’d and then one asked if he had a clone or at least a brother she could be introduced to. Another one stated that they just don’t make men like that any more, as if I had taken the last prize out of the cereal box. Hold up I had to tell them, this 11yr relationship hasn’t just been a walk in the park ladies. This is not Morris Chestnut rolling up in a chariot with a bouquet of red roses. This 11yr relationship consisted of 5 break ups in our first year, moving across the country to be together, several door slams, silent treatments, girlfriend therapy, two reads of the book Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus sent by my mother for relationship counseling, and to this day STILL having to work on communication. Not to mention when I first met my husband he thought fine dining met going to Red Lobster or as he calls it Red Lizzy’s. Now, I have to manage how many times my husband tries to order Osso Buco per month to keep from putting us into debt.

My husband once said to me that women have to change men. Look at what Victoria Beckham did for David. That man is now an international sex symbol as a result of his wife’s make over. I can’t even front I’ve been guilty of dissin’ a guy for wearing Karl Kani or something not from this time period. Maybe Mr. right is dressed all wrong, but so many women would never know. One of the women said she felt me but what if after putting in all that work the man still doesn’t commit. Then some other woman gets to enjoy the fruits of her labor? Now in all fairness I met my husband before things like marriage and biological clocks ticking was ever a thought. After mulling that question over, I answered: Yeah, but what if another woman put in that same work for you?

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Best Friend’s Past Could Be Your Future

by Aireka Muse

Your girlfriends ex boyfriend, is he fair game?

Regardless of the horrible statistics about black women and dating, when it comes to finding a partner, there are just not enough of us educated, professional black people to go around. As a black female, I try not to focus on the numbers and stay positive and open. As we saw with Helena Andrews, being black, bitchy, and bitter, gets you nowhere. With all the hype about online dating, I still believe in finding love the old traditional way, meeting someone randomly, and feeling that spark. Therefore, I was more than pleased to hear that recent study found there is a 70% chance of finding your life partner through social circles.

As James Fowler, PhD states in his book; Connected, The Surprising Power of Our Social Networks and How They Shape Our Lives, if you have 20 friends and they each have 20 friends, one of those people are likely to be your future spouse. The obvious logical reasoning behind this is that we tend to hang around like-minded people. College educated folks, hang with college educated folks. Artists tend to have artist friends. In each little female clique, most friends talk the same, often dress the same, and carry the same morals. Similar people coming in different packages. If this is the case, then I am led to a more controversial question, if we are more likely to find our potential life partners within our social circles, are we limiting our dating potential by calling ex lover’s off limits?

Now hear me out first before you get upset. I am not at all suggesting that your best friend’s boyfriend that she dated for 10 years or your boy’s girl that left him at the alter is fair game. I am suggesting, maybe that guy that you went out with a couple times, but just didn’t have that connection with, could possibly be a better match for your best friend. Or your girl’s two-year relationship that “just didn’t work out” could possibly be a perfect match for you.

Regardless of the “black female dilemma” I’ve heard black men suggest finding Mrs. Right can be hard too. The Champ at www.verysmartbrothas.com mentions “the process of finding an available, attractive, and compatible mate can be just as baffling, confusing, frustrating, disheartening, and even occasionally depressing”. Finding compatibility is different from a numbers game. Numbers give you more chances but it also gives you more opportunities to get it wrong. Why not search where you know you are most likely going to find what you are looking for? If you are a size 20, you by pass Forever 21 and go straight to Lane Bryant. If you love sneakers, the last place you need to shop is Charles David.

I’ve played the same “what if” scenario with my girlfriends and I always get the same response. What if you were happily married, and one of your friends became acquainted with an ex. Would you give your blessing? “Hell no”, “No way”, “ Seriously?” are the various replies that I always get. We see our past loves as possessions, something sacred to us and only us, even if we have successfully moved on. But I have always had a different perspective on this. If I tried, and it didn’t work out, more power to you girlfriend! Who am I to stop possible love? Especially when I have been there and done that and know that is definitely not for me.

Recently, I went out on a date. The guy was nice, educated but just not for me. He felt the exact same way. When I came home, I called my good friend that I thought he would be perfect for and asked if I could hook her up. She was appalled and declined because I already went out with him. One hour at a café was all that I spent with this man. Could we possibly be holding up dating rules and regulations that could be blocking us from finding the perfect mate?

I bet if we all just took a second and thumbed through our mental rolodex we probably could find a past hook up or love that could be a really good match for a friend. Can we be mature enough to put our ego aside and hook up a friend? Think about it, it could most likely be a better situation then imagined. Have you ever been in an argument with a lover or wondered what he or she was thinking? Wouldn’t it be beneficial to turn to someone for advice who actually knew exactly with what you were dealing with?

As the old saying goes, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure”. It’s worked for eBay and Craig’s list, maybe it will work for our dating life. For the majority of us, love is literally just around the corner, we just have to be willing to receive it. Let’s not miss out.

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Jill Scott's 2 cents on Interracial Couples from Essence

There have been many different views shared on HOTUC about interracial dating, which underlines our mission to highlight the multifaceted perspectives of people of color.

see previous blog posts:

I knew She Was Dating A White Guy

My Least Favorite Myths About Interracial Dating

I Don't Care About White Love

In continuing to share perspectives on interracial dating we recently came across Jill Scott's commentary on Essence.com

You know the moment when you realize that fine, accomplished brother is with a White woman? Let's call it "the wince." Three-time Grammy Award-winning artist, writer, actress, philanthropist, mother and all-around Renaissance woman, Jill Scott gets to the root of our feelings on the matter in the April issue of ESSENCE...

My new friend is handsome, African-American, intelligent and seemingly wealthy. He is an athlete, loves his momma, and is happily married to a White woman. I admit when I saw his wedding ring, I privately hoped. But something in me just knew he didn't marry a sister. Although my guess hit the mark, when my friend told me his wife was indeed Caucasian, I felt my spirit...wince. I didn't immediately understand it. My face read happy for you. My body showed no reaction to my inner pinch, but the sting was there, quiet like a mosquito under a summer dress.

Was I jealous? Did the reality of his relationship somehow diminish his soul's credibility? The answer is not simple. One could easily dispel the wince as racist or separatist, but that's not how I was brought up. I was reared in a Jehovah's Witness household. I was taught that every man should be judged by his deeds and not his color, and I firmly stand where my grandmother left me. African people worldwide are known to be welcoming and open-minded. We share our culture sometimes to our own peril and most of us love the very notion of love. My position is that for women of color, this very common "wince" has solely to do with the African story in America.

When our people were enslaved, "Massa" placed his Caucasian woman on a pedestal. She was spoiled, revered and angelic, while the Black slave woman was overworked, beaten, raped and farmed out like cattle to be mated. She was nothing and neither was our Black man. As slavery died for the greater good of America, and the movement for equality sputtered to life, the White woman was on the cover of every American magazine. She was the dazzling jewel on every movie screen, the glory of every commercial and television show. She was unequivocally the standard of beauty for this country, firmly unattainable to anyone not of her race. We daughters of the dust were seen as ugly, nappy mammies, good for day work and unwanted children, while our men were thought to be thieving, sex-hungry animals with limited brain capacity.

We reflect on this awful past and recall that if a Black man even looked at a White woman, he would have been lynched, beaten, jailed or shot to death. In the midst of this, Black women and Black men struggled together, mourned together, starved together, braved the hoses and vicious police dogs and died untimely on southern back roads together. These harsh truths lead to what we really feel when we see a seemingly together brother with a Caucasian woman and their children. That feeling is betrayed. While we exert efforts to raise our sons and daughters to appreciate themselves and respect others, most of us end up doing this important work alone, with no fathers or like representatives, limited financial support (often court-enforced) and, on top of everything else, an empty bed. It's frustrating and it hurts!

Our minds do understand that people of all races find genuine love in many places. We dig that the world is full of amazing options. But underneath, there is a bite, no matter the ointment, that has yet to stop burning. Some may find these thoughts to be hurtful. That is not my intent. I'm just sayin'. /source from essence.com

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My Least Favorite Myths About Interracial Dating

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor

etc from Fierce and Nerdy

One of the reasons I’ve been avoiding talking about being in an interracial relationship is because to me it’s no big deal, which is maybe the most surprising thing about being in an interracial relationship. Though neither CH nor I are average, our courtship wasn’t outside of the ordinary.

We met at a bar, then talked for a few moments at few different events, he asked me on a date, we fell in love, I moved in with him, and then he asked me to marry him in the privacy of our home after about a year of dating. Millions of people throughout history and across the world have this exact same courtship story.

Only thing is I’m black and he’s white.

However, I’ve noticed that the media and many black bloggers who both support and don’t support interracial relationships want to give my relationship a script that it simply does not have, so I wanted to spend the first day or our series dispelling three of those myths.

1. I don’t hate black men. I think a lot of people assume that if a black woman marries a white man that she must have been terribly hurt by a black man. For the record all of the black men I have dated have been lovely. A couple of them have also been on the marriage track. But none of them have been CH. I like CH better than any man of any color that I have ever dated. Period.

2. I didn’t settle because I was desperate for a husband. Now this is the myth that irritates me the most. Black men aren’t considered desperate for marriage when they marry white women. Asian women aren’t considered desperate for marriage when they marry white men. But somehow the media spins this story that black women who want to get married settle for white men because they can’t find a black man. Please don’t get it twisted; CH is awesome, and I am deeply in love with him. If you ask me who the best man I have ever known is, I will answer, CH. Without blinking. I have a lot in common, we have similar goals, and he is completely supportive of me. My friends have straight-up told me that I’ve become a better and 10x happier woman since meeting CH, and I am so excited to spend the rest of my life with him, it’s scary. I think this myth is insulting to both black women and white men, who if the media and certain bloggers are to be believed, can’t simply fall in love for the usual romantic reasons.

3. I’m not less black because I’m in an IR relationship. I wish people would retire this notion all together. If you really think of black people in terms of “acting black” or “acting white,” then you probably haven’t met very many black people throughout the diaspora. Get a passport, hit a few countries, then come back and tell me I “act white.” Otherwise, I’m not even engaging in conversation with people who insist on thinking that if you marry outside your race, speak English as taught in school, and have white friends, then you “want to be white.” That’s just a frustrating and ignorant viewpoint.

Having spoken on those myths, I am aware that there are two big elephants in the room that I haven’t tackled: We’ll get into “Black Love” on Wednesday. And though I’ve spoken here about how straight forward being in an IR is, I’m not going to lie, it is different from same-race relationships in a lot of ways — we’ll get into that on Thursday.

Until then, please weigh in on these myths that I’ve listed above and feel free to add some of your own if you’re also in an IR.

Best!

etc

visit Fierce and Nerdy

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I Knew She Was Dating a White Guy

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor

Today at work where I was producing a show I had a voice over artist come in to record a couple of scripts. I've worked with her before. Super sweet. Friendly. Down to earth. And a sister. I knew from a previous session that she was getting married this past weekend, so when I saw her today I congratulated her with a hug and the instinctual "do you have pictures?".

Thinking back to when she initially told me about her nuptial plans, I recall the question in my head, wondering if her then fiance was white. Not to intentionally be so presumptuous, but there does seem to be a crop of sisters who don't surprise me when I discover through their facebook photos that they're dating or married to a white dude. Shoot, my sister is married to a white dude. And, as you may have guessed, the lovely voice over artist is, in fact, now married to a white dude as well - as proven by the photo of the two of them kissing on their wedding day that she promptly presented me with on her cell phone. Her mom sent her that photo. Still waiting on the pocket size professional shots, I assume. I digress...

My point is, I've begun to identify a pattern of brown skin sisters marrying or shacking up with the whitest dudes in town. And it kind of bothers me...kind of... that I'm so very proud that I am a sista who dates the brothas, a conscious choice to continue to evolve Black love. Why was that so important? Because Black love (for me) was to be protected. It had survived slavery, separation, lost, blood, secrecy, identity crisis and complication and a whole host of other sh*t too deep for words so therefore its evolution was sacred to me. I can't deny that there is this inner dialog that goes something like this:

Me: Ohmigod girl you got marriage?! Do you have pictures just so I can confirm he's white?
Other sister: yeah, look! It was such a perfect day.
Me: mmm hmm. A white boy. I knew it. - oh, is that my MAN coming to surprise me at work? (Enter fine and kind chocolate brotha) yeah. He holds me down.
(grin)

I guess I just feel like a white man couldn't ever fully understand me. Don't get it twisted, I've dated the other white meat. Aaaand it just wasn't a good fit for me. An unfilled hole or another way to put it - too many damn issues. I know its hard for Black women to find good Black men. The odds are definitely not in our favor especially when there's the Black men that just date white women. Did you see, even Xzibit is dating a white chic?! Yeah. X to tha Z. I definitely do not knock love when it's real. When it's healthy and strong. Love, afterall, is what binds us. It's the reason we're here and the reason we get out of bed in the morning. I just have my preference of what I will get out or better yet stay in bed for. And a gal's gotta have an inner dialog that makes her giggle.

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I Don’t Care About White Love…Should I? Part III

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor Regine Hunter

You may have read about an incident that I had a few months ago with a white girl whose boyfriend lives downstairs in my building (click here for: Part I) (click here for: Part II). This was the last time I “Oprah Winfreyed” a white girl and I didn’t think much else of it, but apparently my powers have disturbingly lasting effects whose application could liberate black women all over this country.

It was almost 2:00 in the morning on a Thursday. I’ve noticed that on Thursday nights Mike or Mark or whoever (honestly I refuse to commit his name to memory) has little parties. I mean he’s down there blasting all types of Daughtry and Black Eyed Peas and shit, probably drinking and definitely running his fat mouth. I don’t know what goes on in his life and I don’t want to know, I just lock my door and move through the hallway as quickly as possible on my way in and out. On that particular night I’d met up with friends and came home to find Mark’s girlfriend sitting in the stairwell in her pajamas.

“Hi Regine,” she said flatly, staring me dead in my face with her crossed-ass eyes. Is this bitch on drugs? Why does she remember my name and why is she speaking to me like we’re friends?

“Are you ok?” I was pretty much shimmying past her up the stairwell already but I figured I’d ask. Anything could be happening – maybe she was locked out. Or what if there was a fire? Hell, she might need a tampon – it’s the least I could do after getting a groove on with her man.

“No, not really,” she said with a huff. This is when I realized that her not-okayness was just some corny girlfriend shit. – anyone with a real problem tells you right away instead of getting all Judy Blume about it. I took a second to examine the scene: this chick didn’t have any shoes on and was clutching her cell phone at her side, apparently having asked whoever was on the phone, probably her BFF, to hold on for a minute while she said hello to the Negro Temptress upstairs neighbor. Still, my pesky do-gooder reflexes continued to do their thing.

“Do you need anything?” I asked. Why do I always have to dig the hole deeper and deeper just to make myself feel like a good person? Frankly, if I could work through that tendency in therapy all of the drinking, random sex, and cussing people out probably would never come about in the first place and I’d be considered cured. In reality, I was hoping she needed a glass of water, a call to 911, or $2.00 to catch a bus home. But get what she says:

“Um…no, not right now, I’ll knock on your door a little later.”

What, heifer? It’s 1:45 AM, ain’t no later. Even if there were, this is not a bed and breakfast or some type of open therapy workshop where you can come in here, lay your head on my brown bosom, and talk abut all of the problems you’re having with your blatantly wackass boyfriend. For what? So that I can reveal that I hooked up with him? Or so that he can come knocking on my door looking for you? Why must I be involved and how does any of this benefit me? It was a weird mix between entitled and just retarded. This is where Oprah Winfreying a bitch goes too far – I meant to pacify her not hypnotize her.

“Please don’t.” And that’s all I said as I opened my door and put on an old episode of Living Single to calm my nerves.

I was awake for about an hour after that and could hear her barefoot ass in the hallway on the phone. Just before I fell asleep I heard a door open and close, most likely homegirl giving up and going inside, realizing that her man knows damn well she’s not going anywhere barefoot so he doesn’t have to come chasing after her. I’m sure he’d already fallen asleep with his hand in his pants á la Al Bundy and she came in and hopped into bed with a sourpuss face. Young chick rookie stuff on her part.

But back to me and us sisters. Is a young, white, (possibly chemically imbalanced and cross-eyed) female the most easily-manipulated being on Earth? If so, how can we use that to our advantage? Could the key to black female liberation be found in the process of “Oprah Winfreying” these hoes? It’s certainly worth investigating.

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Tryouts for My Negro League: A Little More than Botanical Brunch

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor

As part of my ongoing effort to date Black men in spite of my endless queue of fair-skinned suitors, last week I attended an all-Black black tie event. It seemed like the perfect investment of time and money for a busy Wall Street banker, sistah girl like myself: an evening of dinner and dancing with a self-selected group of young urban professionals all in an effort to raise money for the kids. I was game. And wouldn’t you know it yall, I meant a really chill brother in the process. He was funny as hell, entrepreneurial but not pompous and didn't look at his Blackberry every 2min … I was pleasantly surprised. So, long story short, we exchange digits and met up last Saturday. The problem is that you can't always tell what kind of brotha you're really getting when he's in a uniform suit. Regardless, we still made plans to hang out. The goal was to do something other than the typical dinner and/or drinks so we decided to check out Brooklyn Botanical Gardens and grab a late Brunch. Little did I know just how “out of the ordinary” our rendezvous would be.

And so there I was patiently waiting for him amid a sea of hydrangeas, when the following pink object moved into my line of sight:

“Oh lord.” I thought. “You have got to be kidding me.” But it was no joke yall! My ass had trekked it all the way to Brooklyn (I live in Manhattan … no, not Harlem, just Manhattan … don’t judge), and here I was about to spend the day with the damn Easter Bunny? Lord-a-mercy. Now it's not like I was expecting the brotha to show up in black tie but this is not what I call casual Saturday attire.

Yall shouda seen the looks on the faces of the kids! They weren't sure if he was pimped out Easter Bunny or a Power Ranger pimp … maybe a Tell-a-Tubby pimp? It was Hilarious! I mean, talk about putting a sista out there yall. Suffice it to say, we were NOT incognito at the Botanical Gardens among the swarm of Park Slope children, strollers, nannies and biscotti's.

But, the eccentric fashion sense aside, TJ was actually fun! There was not a dull moment. He's good people and a breath of fresh air from the stuffy wall street types. Plus, he's a consummate hustler. If any of yall are looking for a flatscreen TV, this homeboy "has" some phenomenal ones that he's selling at half the price. So just holla black.

However, after learning he was fifteen years older than me with six children (not to mention that suit) sadly he has not qualified for the starting line up of the Negro League. I can't be having this brotha laughing my ass into popping out a another baby for him. But what's a sistah to do the dating pool is ROUGH out there. Maybe I'll just guarantee him a secure seat on the BENCH. I mean it's not every day you walk around Grand Army Plaza with a modern-day urban pimp from the Bronx with a great sense of humor!

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I Don’t Care About White Love…Should I? : Part II

by today' Urban Chameleon contributor

Regine Hunter

Editors Note: In Part I I’d just heard a knock on my door. Now what?

I figured it was some Jehovah’s Witness and ignored it, but the noise woke me up enough that I figured I might as well get out of bed and start my morning. It just so happened that on that particular day my gay best friend AND a platonic male friend were sleeping over (yes men on all sides and still no booty for me - I said dry as the Sahara.), so while I was standing around waiting to get into the bathroom I hear a timid, yet strident, knock on the door.

A shaken, limp-haired white girl with tears streaming from her crossed-eyes was standing there and asked if she could talk to me for a minute. Now, everyone knows I’m kind of a bitch and once again I DO NOT care about white love, but when people start crying and shit I just feel badly. Not only that, I knew who she was and I knew I was damn guilty.

“So um…I know you were hanging out with Mike a while ago (YES! That’s it! Mike) and I found your shirt, and he says nothing happened, but I really need to hear it from you…”

See, this is that decision moment. Its kind of like in The Grinch Who Stole Christmas when Cindy Loo Who asks the Grinch why he’s taking all of the presents and the Christmas tree up the chimney, and he’s forced to lie to the big-eyed little cherub and say he’s fixing a broken light on one side. ‘Cept this broad was no cherub, just a pitiful white girl with a shitty boyfriend who got busted cheating and his dumb ass inexplicably gave me license to do his dirty work. I could either watch her heart break in front of me or get to lyin’. Guess which one I did?

Just like the Grinch, I thought up a lie, and I thought it up quick.

“Oh no honey, please don’t cry, nothing happened at all. I had on a tank top underneath and forgot all about that shirt.”

Knowing exactly what she wanted to hear, which is all she came to my door for anyway, I had no choice but to lie, especially since she could turn into the psycho white lady from a Lifetime special at any moment. This interaction required some sophisticated performance art and my motivation was a quartet of falsehoods about the black woman’s experience that will pretty much get you through this type of situation every time.

a) I have concern for white love. I am not Jennifer Hudson in the Sex and The City movie, OK? The white race and white love will somehow persevere without my help,

b)I have concern for the feelings of little white girls. The news media may go crazy when little white girls go missing or fall down wells but I do not,

c) I would never hook up with anyone’s man. This chick imagines me going to ‘da club’ and maybe smoking weed, not getting wasted and hooking up just like a white girl would do, and

d) your white boyfriend would never hook up with my overweight, dark, nappy-headed ass. This is the falsehood that seals the deal, because no little white girl who thinks she’s fat and depends on Pantene Full & Thick Shampoo to keep her head from looking like a cue ball considers what I’ve got going on remotely attractive, and therefore neither should her man. White girls if you’re reading this, watch your back – its very possible (in fact probable) that your man is intrigued by what I’ve got going on just by virtue of him being a man and I being a woman.

To top it all off I used a deep, soothing voice and rubbed her hand as I delivered my bundle of lies. I maintained eye contact and threw in a colloquialism here and there, just to add to the imaginary divide between my wise, all-knowing blackness and her lost, inauthentic whiteness. In sum, I Oprah Winfried this bitch. And she ate it right up. I was so pleased with myself until I realized, hold up - whatever happened to my shirt?

“Oh,” she sniffed. “Me and Mike had an argument and I threw it out.”

What!? No this bitch didn’t! Still the guilty party, I told her it was fine, suggested she pull herself together, and closed my door. Inside my gay best friend had already heard every detail thanks to the classic “listening through a glass to the door, “ move and Mr. Platonic was just getting up with a “wha- happened” look on his face.

After a few hours of reflection and chats with my boys I got pissed! How dare that chick have the gall to knock on my door first thing in the morning lookin’ for answers like a KGB agent? What on God’s green Earth possessed me to hook up with someone who lives in my building anyway? And more than anything else, how dare that fool-ass dude pass the buck and even put my name in it, so I can do his job for him when it comes to preserving his wack little relationship? Oh HELL no. I was kind of wishing I’d told the truth instead, but now what?

The first solution was no more red wine for me, and second was to take pity for the girlfriend – she’s obviously got low self-esteem, a boyfriend who cheats on her, and - I wasn’t just being mean earlier – significantly crossed eyes. Naturally, the final flourish was petty spiteful revenge against the man. The next time I saw mail for Mike or Mark or whatever generic shit his name is, it happened to be from the state probation board. O RLY? I opened it and it turned out to be a letter requesting his attendance at a probation hearing. Words like “mandatory,” “legal action,” and “correctional facility,” popped up as I scanned the letter, and I hoped that this would be the hearing that got his ass off of probation that he’d never even know about. The day that could change his life for the better and undo whatever jam he’d gotten himself into previously. This is why mail tampering is illegal - what a crucial document.

I promptly tore the letter into a million pieces and put it in a dumpster down the street. I certainly don’t care about keeping white men out of jail. Months have passed and I still haven’t seen the dude around, and I hope I never do.

Oh the hell well. Shoulda given me back my shirt.

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I Don’t Care About White Love…Should I? : Part I

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor

Regine Hunter

Editor’s Note: This story appears in two parts because there’s simply no way to shorten it. You’ll thank me later for including every detail.

Let me get one thing out of the way: I drink, and sometimes heavily. I’m 100% sure that had I not been five glasses of red wine into my evening by the time I ran into my downstairs neighbor at two in the morning, none of this would have happened. But I was wasted, and by the looks of his zigzag gait up the street so was Mike (or is it Mark?).

There are only four apartments in my building and this typical Guido type of dude lives directly downstairs. If I leave my window open I sometimes hear his big mouth running or notice his freshly delivered men’s muscle magazines sitting in the building’s communal mail pile. Other than that we’ve had almost no interaction, which we both seemed cool with until liquid courage took over.

“Hey! Why don’t I ever see you in the building?” he asked as he opened our shared front door for me.

“I dunno,” I slurred, knowing full well that I don’t really see anyone in the building except for my overly friendly gay next-door neighbor who has a cavalcade of black dudes in and out of his apartment day and night. But that’s a whole ‘nother story. I even considered filling the empty silence with stories about Harvey the Homo and his suitors when the Guido spoke again.

“Wanna come to my place for a drink?” Oh that’s a great idea, I thought. I’ve always wanted to be asked in for a ‘nightcap.’ It’s so 1974, so “Three’s Company.” A quick drink sounded like a real gas. Plus, I’m still in my own building, what’s the worst that can happen?

The next few hours flew by, and I have red wine to thank for that, as well. Of course Mark (or is it Mike?) did what a lot of white men do when they can’t come up with a single inch of common ground: talk about race. He started going on about how the word “Guido” is as harmful to him as the n-word, how if he were black he’d be OK with the stereotype that black people are better athletes, and a bunch of other misguided bullshit that I’m sure he’d been waiting to bounce off of a black person since the 2008 election. I just told him he was wrong on all counts, and that he should shut up and pour me another glass of wine. Now, instead of our smart mouths sparking off the Race Wars, it created serious sexual tension. Maybe it was some weird “I’ll show you!” type of thing, but with all of his Napolean-esque, willfully ignorant but brolic hubris, the guy’s spunky attitude reminded me enough of that barnyard chicken hawk from Looney Tunes to turn me on.

Yeah, that thing.

So we hooked up a bit. No big deal, mostly safe for work. But part of the way through I remembered running into some chicklet who introduced herself as his girlfriend one morning on my way to work. We chatted for half a block down the street before I bid her stringy-haired ass adieu, doubting our paths would ever cross again. Now I’m up here in a drunken tryst with her man. That’s a violation of “sisterhood,” somehow, right?

“Wait, don’t you have a girlfriend?” I had to ask, a glutton for punishment, am I.

“Yeah sort of but, you know, don’t worry about it.”

Don’t worry about it? Don’t worry about white love? Really? Well you know what buddy, I won’t. That shit is NOT endangered and when it comes down to it I don’t care about no white girl’s feelings. Yeah, I said it, and in the black vernacular, too. Hmph. Carrying on.

The hookup itself was as uneventful as it was low-risk, and the next thing I know I’m waking up with this doughy mufucka cuddled up on me like a stuffed animal. Nope, boo, bye. The thing was, I could not find my shirt, so I just threw on the rest of my clothes, zipped up my jacket, wrote a note with something like “Hey Mark, had fun, left something here though, when you find it please leave it upstairs by my door. Peace Out - Regine” and scurried upstairs to my own apartment. I fell asleep wondering whether I’d get my little Ross Dress For Less frock back soon, but otherwise without a care in the world.

As days, then weeks, then months passed, I started to really worry. Mark (who really STILL could be named Mike) hadn’t returned my shirt, and knowing that it must be mixed in with the rest of his random white boy clothes on the floor meant that his girlfriend could find it any minute – its easy to spot a hot pink and fuchsia tunic in the midst of khakis, camouflage print shorts, and Hollister tees. She’d see that its not hers, smell my perfume on it, and get all tough white girl with me on some Shannon Doherty shit and come a’ cuttin’. I even ran into them in the hallway once while I was with a gentleman caller of my own (don’t get the wrong impression, friends - my love life is actually as dry as the Sahara) but we both played all innocent. I certainly couldn’t ask for my shirt in front of her, now could I? As much as cute party shirts in a size 2X aren’t easy to come by, it only cost $12 so I chalked it up to the cost of drunkenness and let the whole incident go. In fact, aside from hoping I didn’t run into this dude ever again, I forgot all about it.

That is, until 9:30 on a Saturday morning a good three months later, when I heard a buzz at my door.

click here for Part II


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A Jewish Girl Grows in Brooklyn

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor

There is another side to the plight of the Urban Chameleon if anyone was wondering. Every story is not necessarily from the Black world to the White world. Like my world for example: The white, Jewish world. I am not white enough to be white and not Black enough to be Black. I exist in both, but don’t belong to either. In truth both are worlds I slip in and out of. But even my Jewish world isn’t all my own. See, in the world of a New York Jewess there are micro-worlds, smaller sections in the big beautiful scheme of Jewish culture.

There are the Black Hats that walk around fully covered, not showing an inkling of alabaster skin, devout. There are the hippie Jews who go to the love-ins and speak about the light of Hashem (Jewish word for G-d) etc. Then there are the Jews who don’t want to be Jews and lie to their Wall Street friends, throwing that Menorah in the sink and resurrecting a tree just so they can drink the proverbial eggnog in December. Then there’s me and my type of Jews, we love Judaism, we love food, we are outspoken, passionate, and aggressive. It’s funny because even when you feel like you should belong to a group you don’t.

I grew up in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood in Queens, and we were the outcasts of the neighborhood. We weren’t Jewish enough. We were reformed and everyone else was conservative. This was a big deal, because we were the only family eating bacon double cheeseburgers, and driving on Saturdays if you get my meaning. It never really bothered me so much until one day I was playing with my only friend in the neighborhood across the street. They were shunned as well, from the rest of the neighbors in my neighborhood: they were Cuban. I loved them and me and the youngest daughter in the family were best playmates. One hot summer day I was playing and had to go to the bathroom, but my Mom wasn’t home and neither was the girl’s family. So, I figured I would hold it till either my family or hers arrived home. But after a while, I couldn’t.

So, I proceeded to knock on every door on my block to see if I could use their bathroom. I mean they knew who I was after all, what was the harm? Picture it: a cute, short freckled face, curled haired little girl with her legs crossed standing at your door, asking to use the bathroom. I figured it would be no problem.

But not one person would let me use their toilet, not one single person.

I guess, I wasn’t Jewish enough for them, not Jewish enough to use their toilet.

When my Mom arrived home, she found me with wet shorts sitting on our doorstep. She marched down the block and knocked on each door and gave them something to think on, my Mom was good at that. And even though I hoped if it happened again I would have been able to rely on my own people to help me, my Mom made me carry a set of keys on me from that day forward…

There are always going to be people who think you aren’t enough- enough. That’s why we exist in multiple worlds at the same time. It gets lonely when you can’t feel welcomed by your people, sometimes finding a sister in another world fills you with a sense of belonging you never had, and that’s a good thing.

When I arrived at college I sort of accidentally landed upon a group of young Black women, all of whom echoed similar attributes to myself having a multifaceted way of looking at the world. I felt immediately drawn in and welcomed. They had me at “hello.” When I was with them I was free to be me in many ways: unencumbered by the confines of what it means to be white or what it meant to be Jewish.

Through out our friendship that still exist today having first attended a predominantly white University I witnessed how they existed in contradicting worlds. It was in those first few years that I discovered the chameleon code and realized who I was was just fine.

So you see it doesn't matter where you come from, there are Urban Chameleons of multiple shades and backgrounds creeping in the shadows and dancing in the bright light of the world, and if you look closely you can spot us because we have a knowing glimmer in our eye.

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The Sexually Respectable Black Girl World

by today’s Urban Chameleon contributor

Every Black girl needs a white girlfriend. This past Saturday my three Black girlfriends and my white girlfriend had dinner. We’ve all known each other since college and make it a monthly routine to take a break from our crazy hectic lives and check in with each other. After a couple of drinks our white girlfriend demanded to know why none of us had rsvp’d to her passion party. My loud Black girlfriend asked, “What the hell is a passion party?” And the rest of us waited for her to answer curious to know as well. Our white girlfriend seemed floored that none of seemed to know and explained that it’s a party that she will be hosting where a sex specialist comes in to show us an array of sex toys to purchase. She went down the list of objects she had recently added to her repertoire to sensationalize her nipples and clitoris including remote control underwear (which I took a personal interest in) and some edible goodies that weren’t just underwear to name a few. She finished off by saying,

“You Black girls really need to bring your vagina’s up to date. Do I have to teach you everything?”

I kinda felt like she did. For whatever reason I’ve always noticed that Black girls seem to sexually blossom much later than white girls. I can remember being a teenager in high school and beginning to mess around with boys but always having it in the back of my head… that I don’t give head. It was like an unspoken moral code amongst the respectable Black girl alliance. We all use to sit around and talk about how gross it was. Meanwhile, white girls considered this to be first base.

The latter part of high school I became steady with this guy and finally decided to commit to my first experience after months of hesitation. I remember not telling my best friend at the time for damn near a year horrified that she would think of me as a ho! Turns out she was keeping the same secret from me! So then why the level of deepness around the topic?

Even today, I find it interesting that across the board white girls get away with being more sexually free and promiscuous than Black girls without being divided into “respectable” and “unrespectable” groups.

In fact another difference I noticed between white girls and Black girls are that white girls get their dating ON. They are seeing Jimmy on Thursday, Johnny on Friday and Joseph on Saturday and all three might even get a piece and even be related. Most Black women I know not only see one guy at a time but that one guy needs to be attending church and be subjected to an AIDS test before getting to even sniff the coochie. I mean rightfully so AIDS is no joke and an issue in our community but I'm saying though?

The few Black women I do know who are living a little more la vida loca have either been influenced by a white girlfriend or influenced by another Black girlfriend who’s been influenced by a white girlfriend…and I’m not saying it’s a bad thing.

What do yall think?

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Why Do White Men Love Me? (episode 1)

by today’s Urban Chameleon contributor

Honestly, I really think that my name, picture and a tracking device have been distributed in the inner circles of bold white men everywhere because the pale-skinned kind never miss an opportunity to step it to me. And because I'm usually too busy always scoping my environment for "real brothas", which are far and few in my world of corporate finance those white boys are constantly pulling a ninja (in the literal sense) sneak attack rolling up on me move.

For example, I was recently at a bar near Wall Street with a couple of co-workers drowning my sorrows after weeks of plummeting stock prices. It was Happy Hour Thursday so your typical mix of bankers and lawyers were streaming in and out. Naturally, I was only one of three sistas there and no brothas. Just as I was about to resign myself to the inevitable boring workplace small talk a gang of brothas made an appearance. Thank the lawd! Luckily, Mary Kate, my fav red-headed co-worker happens to know the leader of the pack and waved him our way. For a brief second I thought to my self dammmmn where the heck is Mary Kate hangin' out that I'm not? Regardless I had her to thank for the smooth intro that was about to take place.

Just as I'm trying to find the right pitch in my voice, flirt in my face and indicate in my body language that I am completely ready to be taken out on a date the white men musta been scopin' because some how they picked up my radar before the brotha and his crew made it within 10 feet of me. "Hey there, can I buy you a drink?" This white boy asks me popping outta no where! Are you kidding me asshole?! I thought. Instead I replied, "Umm that's okay, I'm good." At this point I am straight breaking my neck to catch a better glimpse of the brotha and his crew who by now stopped along their way to us to talk to some other people they knew. Why was this white man straight cock blockin’! I ended up never speaking to the brothas and walked away to yet another invite from the white man to a black tie event and a damn business card.

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