by Auld, Alexei
I asked if any of her friends had dated “outside their race.”
“Suzy did. She dated a Filipino. They were cool, but she had to break up with him.”
“What did he do?”
“Nothing. He was Catholic and treated her nice. She just could never marry outside her race.”
“So his sin was his skin?”
“I don't wanna talk about it.”
So we ignored it and went on a date. I didn't know why until I saw her.
She was a hot-as-fuck racist. Smoldering. I looked at her and in my head made up all kinds of excuses for our “miscommunication.” We met over some drinks and avoided the race talk. She was pretty funny. Curt, but funny. She was from some town in Connecticut I'd never heard of before.
And she loved Smallville.
Was she the one?
After hearing her strange take on Lex Luthor being in love with Clark Kent, we moved to Ma and Pa Kent. What they wanted for Clark versus his own birth parents. Did they want him marrying an earthling? Could he even seal the deal without splitting her in two?
I said, “Is that what they'd want of him? To live a celibate life?”
“Don't all parents?”
Mine did. To avoid me becoming my philandering grandpa. And I think my folks probably would send me on a ship to a planet where if I ever had sex, the act would kill someone. I knew better than to share that with her.
Instead I said, “So who would your parents want your significant other to be?”
“Educated and white.”
“So they wouldn't like me, I guess.”
“I'd have to work on them.”
“Probably not. They'd love me.”
“Who wouldn't?”
“People with no taste or racists.”
“They're not racist.”
“Come again?”
“They're not. But I don't wanna talk about it.”
“Do they have preferences?”
“What do you mean?”
“I once met a girl whose parents were 'Chinese' Chinese.”
“Instead of?”
“Chinese-Jamaican, so they had this world ranking on what nationalities were acceptable. Long story short, there was everyone from Asia. Then white people. Then black people. She asked about Eskimos and American Indians, given the Bering Strait theory, and they had to think about it. She asked about me, and they couldn't agree as to my being Chinese and, assuming the Bering Strait theory was true, it counteracted the white and black heritage.”
“I don't get you.”
“My point is, do your parents like anyone other than white people and somewhat white people?”
“It's cultural.”
“What is?”
“They feel comfortable around white people. It's not racist, it's cultural.”
“Foods? Language?”
“I mean, there's some slang you use that I don't understand.”
“Do your friends and fam have issues with non-Italians?”
“No, just non-whites. It's cultural.”
“So, if you take a Chinese-American who grew up on your block, was Catholic, went to the same schools—”
“I went to a girls school.”
“Bear with me for a moment. This guy is third-generation American, just like you and your friends, but he wouldn't be acceptable?”
“No.”
“But a white guy who grew up in a trailer park in West Virginia, eats grits, and is a Southern Baptist who thinks the Pope is the lapdog of Satan would be acceptable?”
“Culturally similar.”
“Ethnically, not culturally.”
“I don't want to talk about it.”
“But we have to.”
“Look, I'm not a racist.”
“I'm not saying you are.”
“Yes, you are. You're saying my family's racist and so are my friends.”
“You're not. You're dating me, so you're different.”
“I dunno.”
So, I thought about it and spoke with some friends:
“She's a dumbass.”
“Stupid racist bitch.”
“Maybe she has a point.”
That was Percy. I knew him back in college as well as law school.
“She says she doesn't want to talk about it, but you do.”
“It's fucked up.”
“Yeah, but you're rubbing her face in it.”
“I told her she's not racist.”
“But her people are, right? And if she's different, isn't that the same as 'I hate black people, but you're different'?”
“No it isn't.”
“To you, maybe, but to her, it's the same thing. You're rejecting her family and friends. Judging them.”
“But—”
“You're right, but what does it prove? How does that make her feel? Don't you know that she knows what her family thinks of her dating you? What her friends think? Imagine if you got married. The prospect of having kids with you and knowing how her friends will treat them? How their kids will. How her parents will treat her grandchildren.”
“It's fucked up.”
“Yes, it is, but you keep on reminding her about it.”
“What do I do?”
“Don't bring it up. If she's cool with you, if she's with you, that's all that matters, right?”
“What about her friends and family?”
“What if her friends told her you're a keeper?”
“What if they did?”
“That's good enough. And if they didn't, fuck them. You're not dating them. You're dating her.”
I was resistant, then thought about it. We’d been on two dates. Was that dating?
Whatever. Valentine's Day came up, and I'd find out.
***
I never really celebrated Valentine’s Day (not including sharing Valentines in elementary school). When Bella asked if it was a big deal to me, I told her that I never had a girlfriend on Valentine’s Day. In fact, I was one of those guys who didn’t choo-choo-choose to date a girl from Thanksgiving to Valentine’s because it was too dicey. I mean, if you’ve been dating for a few weeks, how do you deal with Christmas or Valentine’s Day? You can’t ignore it, and I’d learned that the hard way.
I broke my rule and went out with a girl I met right before Valentine's Day. When Valentine’s Day hit, I acknowledged it by sending a cute e-Valentine. My girl acknowledged it by not acknowledging me, my phone calls, or emails. Percy fared worse. He had one date with a girl, and it happened to be a week before Valentine’s Day. He ignored it and she ignored him. So I’d learned it must be reckoned with.
Back to Bella. She told me that Valentine’s Day wasn’t a big thing with her and wondered what I thought. I agreed. She then told me of an “Un-Valentine’s Day” party she was throwing at her apartment for her single female friends. The purpose of the party was to hook them up with eligible bachelors. I’m not a jealous kind of guy, but I thought it was pretty strange when she banned me from the party. Bella wanted to see me the next day, but didn’t want her friends to feel uncomfortable with me or her other friend’s boyfriend there as well. I thought it was pretty dumb. If Valentine’s Day is supposed to be about relationships, why deprive yourself and your partner on that day? What message would she be sending to the “eligible bachelors” by having an absent boyfriend? Would I punk myself out by not being there and instead sitting at home like a little bitch on the most romantic day of the year? All of a sudden, a day that meant nothing meant everything. But I played it cool. Told her I thought it strange that her friends wanted her to watch them hook up with guys. Told her how voyeuristic it seemed. Told her I’d meet up with her after hanging with my friends, and that sank it.
I invited Percy. Bella was in hostess mode…making drinks, cooking, entertaining. She had a concoction called “sexi-tinis” that humbled the strongest drinkers there. We weren’t interacting much. And then it happened.
Her father showed up.
I knew she
had kept my identity a secret. I knew her father wanted her to be with a white guy. I knew that he, although Persian, viewed himself as a white guy.
I didn’t know shit.
He came into the party and instead of introducing himself as Ibrahim, he introduced himself as Ryan. Motherfucker tried to pass himself off as Irish. It was then that I knew he definitely would not be down with my ass.
He made his way through the room, and Bella made passing comments to me about him. Passing comments devoid of bodily or eye contact. If you didn’t know, you’d never guess we were dating. And that was the point.
It was weird. All my life, people’s parents have loved me. I went to a mixed elementary school, and white, black, Asian, and Latino parents would tell their daughters I was the kind of kid they wanted them to date when they got older. In high school, mothers doted on me as if they wanted me to ask them to the prom. College was the same. I never had been a person any woman had been ashamed to be with or seen with. To be in a situation like this hurt. I was dating Ryan’s, I mean Ibrahim’s, daughter. I’d heard so many stories and wanted to walk up to the man who raised her, shake his hand, and spend some time talking with him about anything…
But I couldn’t.
It was her party. Her father. I didn’t want to disrespect her wishes, even though everything in my being suggested otherwise.
When he was making his way out of the party, Bella introduced him to me and Percy as if we were just two classmates. Her father doted on Percy, who, if you couldn't guess it, was white, and seemed uninterested in me. After he left, Percy noted:
“I didn’t know her father was Irish.”
“Me neither,” I replied.
Her cousin and his wife arrived. They shook hands with Ryan and made their way through. Apparently they knew who I was. Her cousin was a little standoffish at first, but wanted to get a smoke with me. What struck me about them? They looked ethnic. Both of them were tanned. She was an Indian/African/French mixture from Trinidad who thought I was Trini, too. He lived in Australia and could pass for an Aboriginal mixture. We vibed on MMA and kickboxing, which had some great Australian and New Zealand fighters. The three of us had a good time that night. When they left, his wife said, “See you when we come back to the States.” He interrupted, “Come visit us, mate. We’ll have heaps of fun.”
With that, I felt accepted. I thought it maybe was a generational thing.
I kissed my girlfriend, who was burned out from the party, and gave her the Leonidas chocolates, and the Maroon 5 and Stevie Wonder custom playlist I’d made for her. She gave me a grooming kit from Sephora.
The next day, she was supposed to go home and have dinner with her parents and cousins.
“That will be the test,” my mother proclaimed.
“A test of what?”
“You know her father’s going to talk about you with the family.”
“He didn’t even know who I was.”
“Oh, yes he did. Why do you think he went to the party, hmm? To check you out.”
Sigh.
“That’s right. He knows.”
“He didn’t have two words to say to me.”
“Where did he sit?”
“Excuse me?”
“At the party. Where did he sit?”
“Near the front of the apartment.”
“At the front. Um-hmm. Did he have a view of the entire party? Or was it obstructed?”
“Wait a minute…”
“He did, didn’t he? He was perched. Watching. Checking you out, boy. He wanted to see the guy that was with his daughter.” She let loose an infectious cackle. “And guess who’s the topic of dinner?”
“You think?”
“I know. I’m your mamma, boy. I know how things work.”
The next day I asked my girlfriend how dinner went. She gave a terse “Fine.”
She said her cousin said I talked a lot.
Was that a bad thing? “Anything else?”
“Nope…”
I was doomed.
She said she was too stressed with school to see me. She then noted that she was “getting too close to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t want you to take offense to this, but…I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
“Why are you stressing?”
“I don’t want you to want more from me. To get closer.”
“Anything bringing this on?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Look, I have finals next week, so I’m not going to be able to see you until…”
I’d had enough. “Look, you’re not making any sense. Why are you freaking out?”
“I told you, I don’t want you to want more from me.”
“Have I asked for more?”
“No.”
“Is there anything in my behavior that suggests I want more?”
“No.”
“Then why are you saying this?”
“I don’t want you to have expectations.”
“Of what? Marriage?”
“Well…”
“No offense? But don’t flatter yourself by thinking I want more. As a matter of fact, it’s offensive to me that I’m minding my business and you feel the need to insult me by stiff-arming me when I haven’t even manifested any desire for more. You act like I picked a wedding date, a preacher, and a shitty band already, when all I’ve done is chill.”
“I know.”
“So why can’t you?”
“I dunno.”
“Do you want more?”
“No.”
“Be honest. Because, if you do, this is the worst fucking way of getting it.”
“I don’t.”
“Do you want to break up? Because if you do, we can…”
“No. No. I don’t want to break up. I want to be with you. I want to share graduation with you. I want to share my first day of work with you. I don’t want to break up.”
She started crying, and I calmed my ass down.
“Look, Bella. You’ve got a lot to deal with. A paper due Monday and a final on Wednesday.”
“I know.”
“Instead of stressing you out, why don’t we take a break until you’re finished with school? So next weekend we can relax and enjoy.”
“I’d like that.”
“Okay. But if you want to talk before then, don’t feel bad or guilty. Just give me a call, okay?”
“Okay (sniff) thanks, baby.”
She hung up. I went to sleep.
Then next day, I realized that we had some huge issues. I thought that maybe we’d phase each other out. Probably, I could date other people then break up with her, so I didn’t rebound like a little bitch. Most of my friends thought it made sense.
The next week I called her and she didn’t pick up. I left a message. She never returned the call. I left an email. She never replied. Not wanting to be a whiny punk, I took the hint and went back on the internet.
I felt like I did when I watched a few seasons of Sex and the City. At first, I thought the women were pointless and whiny. Then I got excited and loved the novelty of the show. When that novelty wore off, I wondered why I watched it in the first place and hated myself for loving it. At least my Carrie didn’t embarrass herself by appearing in a useless Gap ad with Lenny Kravitz.
That really would’ve blown chunks.
Unlike Bella, I needed a sure thing. Someone who already liked me.
And I knew just the pervert.
50
LOLA WAS DOWN with R. Kelly action. We reconnected for the first time since she’d interviewed me. The place? At a boring Krueller partner house party. She was still an Amazon. Unnaturally small waist accompanying wide hips, big butt, and massive bosom. I thought she was Brazilian. Tall, bronzed skin, long legs, long middle finger. I knew because every question I asked her was answered with the flip of the bird.
Saucy.
During a cigarette break on the rooft
op, we heard salsa music.
“Man, I wish there were some Chinese Cubans here.”
“Why’s that?”
“They’re extremely entertaining.”
Great. Another Bella.
To teach her a lesson, I shot her a look of death.
“‘Extremely entertaining’?” I fumed. “The fuck that means?”
She looked like a crab dropped in a boiling pot of water while replying, “Are you Cuban?”
I pursed my lips, glared, and walked away.
I was golden.
She ran behind me and had all kind of splainin’ to do.
It took all of my Shakespearean training to keep a straight face. I finally waved away her excuses and said, “It’s fucked up you’d say something like that. But whatever…”
Defiantly, she abandoned her defensive posture.
“Fuck it. Wanna drink?”
After a few rounds of rum (you know I had to drink Cuba libres to drive my assumed Cubanness home), we sat on a couch and she was running her mouth about some political shit I didn’t care about. I was too busy basking in my dramatic triumph and trying to figure out if I should tell her that I wasn’t Cuban.
Mind you, this wasn’t the first time I’d been mistaken for another group. So you see, being considered a Cuban isn’t that far off. My dad being Chinese-Jamaican and all, and folks in the world who claim a country might have the same historic mixture, but for some reason or another don’t talk about it.
I found out she was a litigation partner who took some art classes at Columbia.
I gave her my number…
“Since you’re in the art program, you might have some friends who engage in creative stuff and might need the services of LAMB, you know, the arts legal services organization.”
She glared.
“I don’t know why I’m giving this to you, since you probably won’t use it. But whatever…”
She snatched my number, smirked, and walked away.
When I walked home, I was pissed at myself. Why did I give her my card? She was fine, but a fucking beeyotch. By giving my number, I dropped all dignity. I invalidated all strength by handing off an unsolicited card that wouldn’t be used for anything other than her talking shit to her friends about yet another punk-ass summer associate she met at a party who wanted to hook up with her even though she was rude and racist as shit.
