Marry White

Richard Pryor once said that the reason black women get upset when they see a black man with a white woman is because they can’t stand to see us happy.

I laughed at that joke for twenty years. I was a proud black man who married a beautiful sister. I attended HowardUniversity and associated everything black as good and everything white as bad.

For a few years, we were happy. We went through the normal trials and tribulations of any relationship and then something weird happened. We had a second child. I say it’s weird because we already had a three-year-old son and my once young and skinny wife gained a lot of weight during the pregnancy and, over the course of two years, lost it all. She had a great job, and we were having the time of our lives with a new house, new car and everything most couples generally want.

The second pregnancy created a green-eyed monster. I could not go anywhere without her suspecting I was having an affair. Her paranoia reached to the extent that she began checking my mail, my clothes, and even the mileage on our car that came as a courtesy of an Oprah show. I had to take my young son everywhere I went, which included concerts that she did not want to go to. We were quite a sight, seeing all the latest bands live in concert; my son still remembers watching Public Enemy as a five-year-old.

Our daughter arrived in September ‘86 and my wife gained almost sixty pounds, and she made no attempt to lose the weight, claiming I should love her regardless. When I started doing weekend sports to encourage her to stay healthy, she resented it, and it didn’t matter how many times I invited her, she steadfastly refused to do anything but eat, sleep and watch TV.

The company I worked for got bought out by a larger firm and only a handful of staff were kept on, I was one of them, and my staff and I were sent to a new corporate office and given a floor to ourselves. We were viewed as invaders and were very much on our own. One particular member of the new company, a young white who was the Director of Marketing, was very friendly and the two of us soon became partners in crime. We swam together at lunchtimes, did the gym together in the evenings, and together we created a number of events which integrated my staff with theirs on a more personal level.

She and I became good friends and shared many discussions about relationships. She was not married but living with a man and the relationship seemed very one-sided, she giving, him taking. Although I discussed my own relationship only in glowing terms, it soon became apparent to me that we were both miserable.

As fate would have it, one night we decided to go and see a movie. I had begged my wife to come and watch and she had again refused. We went after the gym and then returned to work to finish some reports. Although nothing even of a vaguely sexual nature occurred, we shared a goodbye kiss in the elevator and I suddenly realized that my white colleague was a very attractive young lady. This is important because I never viewed white women that way. I went home guilty and neglected to tell my wife that I had gone to the movies.

I admitted my indiscretion and was promptly thrown out of the house, my wife later admitting she expected me to run to my mother. I didn’t; I had no intention of advertising to my mother that my 10-year marriage was in trouble. So I sought out my new white friend, whom I knew had a large house, and could talk her into letting me spend the night in her extra room. Apparently, her lover only stayed on weekends and was away, and she not only invited me to spend the night, but professed her undying attraction and love for me. Angry or confused, we slept together, and the rest is history.

We’ve now been married for 10 years and we have a five-year-old son. My eldest from my first marriage lives with us, but my daughter still lives with her mother.

The difference between the women is night and day; no wild fights, no weeks without talking, no begging for sex, no feeding myself. My wife does it all. She cooks, she cleans, and doesn’t complain about it. She does just about anything I ask her. She takes care of me in ways I never dreamt of, and she introduced me to things like oral sex, thongs and bikinis and a figure that might look better in a playboy magazine.

She still has her figure, she is kind and courteous, a church woman, and she will go out of her way to make sure that you are welcome in our home. I never dreamt a relationship could be this way and I am somehow the envy of my white and black friends.

I am not trying to introduce stereotypes, but it seems clear to me that there are some noticeable differences between the races and it may have more to do with racism than anything genetic. I think my first wife was not only a woman, but a black women dealing with what a white society deemed as the way a women should look. She tried it and was successful at it, but her genes kicked in. All of her family members are big and suddenly she did not conform to what attractive was in the public’s eyes. I still thought she was beautiful, but I think she thought I would run as soon as the opportunity presented itself because I cared about fitness and looking your best. Now she’s the size of a house and still single.

My white wife looks after herself, takes pride in looking her best, and of course conforms completely to society’s perception of beauty. Yet, she does not wear make-up and does not go out of her way to dress up. Society has allowed her to be herself because she is white and acceptable. She is, however, a woman in a man’s world, and although a vice president, she now never seems to be considered for the president’s job - because of her sex, I’m sure, and maybe because everyone knows she is married to a black man.

White people do not have to consider race and this freedom allows them to look at the world with rose-colored spectacles. It never occurs to her that we encounter problems as a racially diverse couple, but that freedom allows her to accept me as a man first who happens to be black. Sisters too often see only a black man and not a man. They see us too often as someone they have to control and nurture and, too often, they’re right. They do not have the freedom to accept a man as a man because they already know on a day-to-day basis what he must encounter just to put food on the table. This pressure tears many relationships apart because black still means trouble and still means second class. A sister has to make more noise to be heard because they will walk over her if she doesn’t say anything. My wife does not have to make any noise because society has already decided she deserves anything she wants. A sister has to work for it, be better at it and maim and kill to get anything she wants and most hard-working brothers have to do almost the same thing.

If I can pass any advice on to my black daughter, it will be the ability to love your man as a man and stop thinking how you have to prove you’re a strong woman; don’t demand respect, earn it; be mutually beneficial to one another; and accept faults and weaknesses and attempt to improve on them together. When he wants cup of tea, make a cup of tea at 3 A.M. If he’d like a sandwich, make it. He will do the same for you.

There’s a scene in The Brothers where Bill Bellamy tells his white girlfriend he’s not feeling good and she jumps up and offers him a drink. The look on Bellamy’s face is priceless because we all know most sisters are not going to do that. He then decides to test her and asks for a sandwich and she says “Sure, Ok.” Sisters, watch that scene and learn.

I work at a black college and spend everyday watching our young brothers and sisters try to get along. It astounds me how many games are played by both sexes, how there seems to be a constant need to be better than, or take advantage of, someone else to prove some sort of superiority or, in many cases, equal status. We had fifteen young ladies get pregnant and with an average freshman class size of 2700, our graduation class has never exceeded 400. What happens to the other 2300? Whether these figures are comparable to white institutions is immaterial to me; there is a fundamental breakdown going on and it seems to me it starts with relationships.

My kindness to the students is perceived as weakness; too many girls want to know what I want when all I want is for them to graduate. Too many men want kids and don’t want the responsibility of raising them; they want to sleep with as many women as possible just to say they did and too many girls are willing to comply just to be accepted.

I’m not saying marry white or become white. I’m saying be a man first, be a women first, take a chance that someone will appreciate you for who you are, not because you are a particular skin color. Embrace being a child of God. Stop submitting to what society has said you are and be who you want to be. Who’s really the rebel, the kid into hip hop, baggy jeans below his butt, who says, “I’m going to do it my way,” or the black man who puts on a suit and tie cuts his hair and asks the white man for a job?

I submit the latter is the rebel; the other is what we are perceived to be and, unfortunately, too many of our kids play into the stereotype. Too many black women play into the stereotype.

Love yourself and respect yourself and someone will love you and respect you. Be aggressive, but learn to be submissive; cater to your man and he will cater to you. Surprise him by being there for him and guide him, don’t force him. Compliment him on his accomplishments, however big or small, and console him during failure and encourage him to try again. Make him the center of your world and you will be his. Make him want to come home and stay, fulfill his every fantasy and tell him yours. Say no because you can’t, not because you won’t. Never use sex as a weapon or a reward, make it a right to have fun for both of you. Tell them everyday you love them, even when you don’t feel like it, and lastly, sisters, be proud of who you are, not of what you think you should be.

Love everybody.