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Yesterday, after my weekly tutoring volunteer work at the library, I was in line to check out a book and I noticed a couple ahead of me. I could only see them from the back, but I could tell that they were interracial.

At first, I thought it was the kind of mismatch you seemingly find a lot in interracial couples. The girl was an obvious dog—about 5-feet tall and 200 pounds. The dude, however, was tall and had long dreadlocks.

Dreadlocks, I thought. Yeah, of course, white girl.

But as he turned and I got a better look at him, I could tell that despite his towering stature and semi-hip athletic wear, he was a complete klutz with sparse facial hair, corny glasses and a gut.

Perfect. I thought. Nobody misses either one of them.

Then the white girl started to turn some and I panicked.

No, no! I was thinking. The only thing in the world I didn’t want her to do was…too late.

I should explain one thing here: I don’t go anywhere without my sunglasses on (and yes, I know I just committed an grammatical abomination).

The sunglasses, however, might give one the impression that I at least think that I’m cool. The truth is, I simply took a picture in a pair once and liked it so much that I decided that that’s who I am.

So when the girl spotted me—me standing there cool in my sunglasses—I panicked because I knew what was coming next.

Until somebody proves me wrong, I’m going to remain forever convinced that from birth, each American white woman is taught that every Black man alive wants nothing more than to rape them rotten.

And I also don’t think that some of them ever learn that this simply isn’t the case.

The nightmare occurs however when a white girl that otherwise couldn’t attract flies if covered in barbeque sauce, lands a relatively cognizant Black man.

This seems to confirm her suspicions and she then (at least seemingly to me) sets about testing her sex appeal against every Black man she encounters.

Now, I’m not talking about marriage in this case. Any couple that gets married has (hopefully) transcended anything as meaningless and insignificant as race.

But it’s the white girls with Black boyfriends, the Kim Kardashians of the world without Kim’s Kardashian, that seemingly expect us brothers to lose all control and fall all over them.

I stared at the ceiling as 5-foot fat went into her act.

My apparent indifference probably caused her to convinced herself that I had Bishop Eddie Long on speed dial.


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