Are Black Women Difficult? A Black Man Shares His Challenges With Dating Them

It’s Saturday or Sunday, could be Monday too. I’m not sure. If it was 2019 BC (Before Covid-19), I would be certain. Then, I had clearly defined days, set structure and a sense of responsibility that didn’t keep me in bed till 2:00 in the afternoon. I was still staring at the ceiling trying to decide if I wanted to get up or not when my phone vibrated. I decided to ignore it, but the incessant hum changed my mind. It was an incoming call from Eric R.

Eric R. fell into my life when I was going through a breakup and he was going through a divorce. He was a cool dude who wasn’t trying to mate & I was a cool girl who wasn’t trying to date. So, as life would have it, we became fast friends. He was already talking before hello escaped my lips.

“Get yo lazy ass outta bed.”

I was about to lie. Tell him I was already up, but my brain and my mouth weren’t working in conjunction. I heard myself say instead, “I was just about to.”

“Did you eat?”

Did I eat? I racked my brain trying to remember. I had a sandwich. Was it this morning or yesterday? Nothing was definite these days.

“I think so,” was my response.

His deep sigh was an indication that he was beginning to know me too well.

“Get up and get dressed. I’ll be by your house in about 45 minutes. I got you food, some masks and I’ve got Clorox Wipes. You need anything else?”

My no was automatic. He’d already done enough.

***

It took me exactly 40 minutes to shower, dress and open my blinds to introduce my room to sunlight. I pulled my braids back in a ponytail, grabbed my trash bag and was almost down the second flight of stairs when I met him on his way up.

“Where you going?” he asked.

“To the trash bin and then to your car,” I replied.

“Who you got hiding in your house? Why can’t I come up?”

I didn’t answer. Truth was, I’d become a bum. My apartment was clean, but not company’s coming over clean and I didn’t feel like explaining it. I grabbed my food, gave him the trash to dispose of, and told him I’d meet him in the car.

It took me less than a minute to put the stuff away and head back downstairs. He was already seated and staring into space when I opened the car door and slid into passenger seat. I knew he was waiting on me to open the conversation, but I decided to remain silent. Using silence to communicate was a lil trick I accidentally stumbled upon in my interactions with him. I found that he was a talker. And usually, when he came by me, it meant he wanted to talk. But, prying sent him into evasive mode; the trick was to just sit there and be silent. Allow discomfort to seep him. He would talk soon enough. I didn’t have to wait long.

“I met a girl on a dating app,” he said.

“Nice. How’s that going?”

“Man,” his sigh was long and deep, “black women are just too difficult to deal with.”

Oh hell, not you too. That was my initial thought. But, my therapist was helping me to work on responding instead of reacting so I took a deep breath and was trying to decide how best to answer when his thoughts broke my reverie.

“She’s Jamaican too.”

“What? A difficult Jamaican woman?! You lie.”

His laughter was immediate.

“Well, she has this playfulness about her which was what I found appealing at first, but the more she talked, the more she was telling me why she was single without realizing it.”

“What was she saying?”

“Things like, black men want submissive women, but don’t deserve submission. And, she’s stubborn and any man who comes into her life better not dictate anything to her because she’s been taking care of herself all her life and don’t need anyone. Man, she just went on and on and on.”

My mind was doing a hundred and ten. I had so much to say about what he’d revealed. But, I’m only human and curiosity was getting the best of me. I decided to focus on something that was none of my business instead.

“What’s her name?” I asked.

 “I don’t remember.”

“Really now?!

“It’s true. She told me the whole thing. It’s a hyphen name. Anna-Kay, I think. I don’t remember her full name.”

Whether he was fibbing or not, I decided not to push it. He continued, “I met another girl and the vibe was totally different.”

“Japanese?”

“No, she’s Caucasian. From Wales. I mean we were totally on the same page about everything. She wasn’t argumentative or defensive and she was just easy to talk to and seem so wholesome.”

Wholesome.

Wholesome, growing up, was aunty Jacky. Good Christian woman who never missed a Sunday at church. Her house was always neat and tidy. Not one cushion out of place. Fruits, vegetables and Tupperware arranged neatly in the fridge. And, everything was always so clean & sterile.  Almost void of life and living. I used to be afraid to accept food for fear I’d get into trouble for dropping crumbs on her floor. She was the opposite of aunty June. A big-chested, loud woman whose kids ran amok and made a mess of everything even if the house had just been cleaned. There was always nice smells coming from her kitchen and I was never afraid to drop food on the floor. Something about her house made the experience more genuine … more authentic. I always felt at ease and happier there. Don’t know why my mind went in that direction, but once again his voice was jarring me back to present.

“You’re very quiet. What you over there thinking?”

“A number of things.”

“You gonna share?”

I decided not to share. I decided to pose a question instead. I said, “Remember the conversation we had some time back? We were talking about how black people were dying from coronavirus and YOU highlighted how as a race we’re disenfranchised and held back in every, single aspect of life. From illness, to breakdown of family structure, to trauma. You remember that conversation?”

“I do.”

“Can it be then that black women come with a lot more trauma because more often than not, we’re the ones most affected by the ills of society? Could it be that we have more ancestral pain?

“It can,” he said, “but how can you not be aware of your own trauma?”

“Are you aware of yours?”

“So, we gonna switch it to me now?”

“It’s a rhetorical question Eric. Don’t answer; self-assess.”

He was opening his mouth to speak. But, by now, emotion was beginning to trump logic and my thoughts were overflowing in my head. They needed to come out. I continued,

“I want you to understand that many of us aren’t aware of our trauma. And, sometimes those of us who are aware aren’t able to connect the dots without help. We aren’t able to see how it affects us in relationships or our daily lives. Just as our black men sometimes aren’t able to connect the dots and it spills over into alcoholism or gluttony or anger or sex-addiction … even defensiveness and aggression …

“I agree but …

“I’m not finished Eric.”

He apologized. I continued.

“You know what we do when you come to us like that? We see that you aren’t ‘wholesome’ and we still stay. Even to the detriment of adding to our own trauma, we stay. If you give us three chances to improve, we give you ten. We nurture and care for you; point out your flaws and faults and help you connect the dots and sometimes all we want is for you to give us the same respect. See that we are not wholesome, but help us connect the dots. Help us, just as we help you.”

I’m quiet. He’s quiet. I’ve said too much. Things are uncomfortable. I was about to fill the silence when he said, “Seems like things got a little personal just now.”

My thoughts were in disarray. I knew it wouldn’t be wise to let on just how personal it got. So, I merely nodded. “Yes, it did.”

I couldn’t quite read the look on his face. He appeared contemplative. I wasn’t sure. All I knew was, I’d already dug a hole, so may as well commit and bury myself. I continued.

“My intention is not to sit here and claim perfection on behalf of black women. My aim is to have an open and honest conversation. And that means you also have to examine the lens through which you see black women.

He gave me a ‘where are you going with this look’ but I didn’t stop. I said, “I’m just going to make one final point to see if it will help you connect the dots in your own life. I may be wrong about this, but you once told me how you hated growing up with your mom. Remember?”

He nodded.

“You described her as toxic and said you preferred being around your father.”

“I did say that.”

“Could it be that sometimes you see black women through the lens of the relationship you had with your mother?”

The silence in the car was deafening, but I was gonna wait for him to fill it this time. Even if it took all day. Finally,

“You know why I hate talking to you and my sister?”

“Why?”

“Y’all make me think too much.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“I’m like you. Thinking is not my strong point.”

I smiled. He smiled. The tension was starting to dissipate. It was a perfect time to ask, “So, you gonna give Anna-kay another shot?”

“I aint telling you ish.”

“That’s okay. The info will come out somehow.”

He smiled. Then,“Yea, amma talk to her again.”

“Good,” I said. “Good. ‘Cause you know what Eric? ALL women are difficult. No matter the nationality, we all bring some amount of drama.”

“Yea,” he said, “y’all crazy.”

I didn’t disagree. I merely ended with, “That may be true, but isn’t it better to get your ‘crazy’ served with a nice plate of Jamaican style oxtail and rice and peas with a bit of fried, ripe plantain on the side?”

He agreed.