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Nearly a decade ago, a fraternity brother of mine bitterly confessed that he could not deal with black women. He is African-American by way of the Caribbean. Although I couldn’t say I hadn’t heard this sentiment prior to him stating it, I was intrigued to hear it out loud from someone so close to me.

This same man went on to declare that black women simply had too much attitude – on the bus, at work, in any given situation – just difficult and mean without cause or reason, especially the ugly ones.

A few years later he married a brown-skinned Dominican woman.

I’ve watched many black boys like me grow into men who exclusively date and many times marry whites, Latinos and other ethnicities that are not classically considered “black.” Some have been from the athlete set who are in many instances quietly “groomed” to pursue interracial relationships. Some have been artists who in their pursuit of life without restrictions refuse to be “tied down” to race and culture. But many have been outcasts – those in school who weren’t cool or cute enough, the kind that may have been a little on the chubby side, the ones who weren’t even considered when it came time to go to dances, parties or anything else social. I presume many in this last group might feel they had the last laugh considering the ongoing conversation African American women have today regarding the dearth of available “good black men.”

I was a member of the outcast set. Throughout most of my high school career, during the height of the eighties, I rocked a lopsided ‘fro and Coke-bottle glasses. I had crooked teeth which I hid from everyone by rarely smiling. All of this was attached to a slim body devoid of muscles. Be it snickers shared amongst friends or never being asked to any dances, the sisters made their distaste for me loud and clear.

Maturity has been kind to me. I shed most of my awkwardness as I grew up and as a Chicagoan who immersed myself completely in New York City life after grad school, I gained a savvy that allowed me to reinvent myself from the ground up. I’m happy to say this upgraded me had no axe to grind, no revenge to seek, no penalty to levy, nor any white women to flaunt in the face of my sisters. From my mother to my wife, I’ve never stopped loving the women I’ve always loved: black women…

To read the rest of this article, go to BlackandMarriedWithKids.com.

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