1
Seventeen. That is how many first dates I have been on since I started this cruel and unusual punishment that they call college. How many second dates, you ask? None. Squelch. ZERO. It is quite sad, actually, but I have chosen to accept my fate as a squabbling old woman living alone with no cats because animals would be the death of me. Puppies are alright, but I have a particular distaste for grown dogs and cats. No, thanks. I will not be wasting my time and money on any creature that was meant to survive on its own in the outdoors.
Now back to the dates. They weren’t all bad. The first one was sweet, until it wasn’t. His name is Brandon. I know what you’re thinking, of course, his name is Brandon. It’s always the B-names that conjure up some kind of intense reaction. It was the first week of classes when a rather dashing young man of the caucasian variety, with just the right amount of scruff, and these super endearing brown eyes, approached me. You know the little scuff guys get when it looks like they have not had the chance to shave, and… Yeah, you get the gist.
Brandon pulled the “is anyone sitting here?” and when I said no, he eagerly took a seat. He then proceeded to chat me up for the rest of the class, showering me with a variety of compliments that left me confused as to whether I should feel flattered or uncomfortable. Practically every girl knows the feeling. For some reason, I decided to play into his feeble attempts for my attention and say yes to his date proposition.
So, that very weekend, I prettied myself up, put on my best pair of shapely jeans, then braced for what could quite possibly be the worst date of my life. Brandon arrived about twenty-five minutes late and made a joke that he operated on Black people time. Though a bit rattled, I met his banter with a dry chuckle and continued into his car. It was a relatively quiet ride, if you ignored the hip-hop music that pumped through his radio.
I hummed along to ease the anxiety that was slowly perusing my mind, while I fidgeted with the seat belt strapped across my chest. As the words to the latest Drake song rang through the car, accompanied by Brandon’s offbeat ad lips, we pulled into an empty parking lot by a field. And lo and behold, a picnic was set up. I was thoroughly impressed by the sight, and regrettably, I got my hopes up.
As I sat on the gingham sheet, my nose was greeted with an array of smells. The picnic itself was very… cultural. Brandon brought jollof rice and all the ‘African goods,’ as he called them. He even put on an afro-beats Spotify station as I ate my food, at a loss for words. At this point, I put a smile on my face and brushed it off as a well-intended get-to-know-you gesture. It wasn’t until he started calling me his ‘Nubian Queen’ that I completely put the brakes on.
The whole Brandon blunder was only the beginning of a long streak of atrocious first dates. Seventeen atrocious first dates, in case you needed a reminder.
My life has been filled with moments where I’m either “too black” for someone on one side of the spectrum, and on the other side, all a person likes about me is my blackness. There was a brief moment when I almost felt okay with people fetishizing my blackness… Almost! I craved the attention that I saw other girls receiving effortlessly, and I’ll admit it. That made my self-respect hit an all-time low. It was not until several guys practically spelled it out for me and told me that I was an experience for them that I forced myself to see the truth.
“I’ve always wondered what it would be like to get with a Black girl.” “I just need a taste of chocolate.” These guys did not like me. They were not even truly interested in me. All they cared about was the rare experience of getting with a black girl. Taking a stop in Chocolate City. No. I am not the one. Thank the Lord I did not give my V-Card up to any of those trash men. No amount of fake loving is worth a lifetime of offbeat ad-libbing to Drake music. Cue… squabbling old woman living alone in fifty years.
Now that I am done wallowing in my past tragedies and predestined future, it is time to take on the day. I turn over slightly, in my oddly comfortable, uncharacteristically noisy dorm bed. My roommate Hannah sits adjacent to me in front of her desk, grazing her cheeks with translucent powder.
Hannah is everything I wanted to be when I was eight years old. A white blonde girl with brown eyes. I always preferred brown eyes. Hannah turns to me as she senses that I am awake. “Morning, Mani,” she says. I muster up a hoarse groan that somewhat resembles a hello in response. I roll out of bed, swiping my phone off my nightstand, then trek into our shared bathroom.
Peering my eyes open, I am met with my disgruntled appearance. I lazily reach over and pull the shower handle down, allowing the flow of water to commence.
I then swipe open my phone and turn on my shower tunes playlist, which features a multitude of classics from Hannah Montana to Aaron Carter. After stripping down to nothing, I step into the steam and let the hot water droplets cascade down my back, jolting me awake.
After a few minutes of scrubbing, I shut off the shower and tightly wrap my towel around me. As ‘Burning Up’ by the Jonas Brothers begins to blast through my phone speakers, I grab my toothbrush and hold it to mimic a microphone as I mouth the words to the song: High heels, Red dress. I smear toothpaste on top of the bristles and begin to brush my teeth while humming and dancing along to the music. As Joe’s solo comes on, I am already finished brushing, so I jump on top of the toilet and put on the performance of a lifetime for my invisible audience.
After finishing the guitar solo and third encore in my head, I continue into my room, where I find Hannah reading from a textbook. I open my dresser and peruse the drawers for an outfit.
What says ‘cares enough to look semi decent, but not enough to be concerned about your opinion’; A band tee, cuffed jeans, and combat boots- check. I tuck the boots in by my bed and take the clothes into the bathroom with me. I pull the outfit on, finishing it off with a pair of white socks, and look in the mirror, giving myself a nod of approval. Spritzing my favorite Bath & Body Works mist, I make a final twirl before exiting the bathroom.
I plop back onto my bed and instinctively open the Tinder app. So much for being content and alone. Hey, blame my generation, not me.
The first guy looks cute, and his caption says ‘Got Milk?’; automatic right swipe. I await the ‘It’s a match!’ screen, but it never comes. Out of curiosity, I continued to swipe right until I got a match. After about fifteen swipes, I decide to stop and not further bruise my ego. It’s not like I was trying to date anyone; I just want to know if someone would want to date me. It sounds vain, I know. However, to me, it is more of a supplement to feed my already low self-esteem.
Huffing, I turn over on my bed. My phone rings just as I am about to fling it across the room. I look at the Caller ID, my mom, Imara Boro. Great. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mom. It’s just that ever since college started, I feel like I am constantly trying to hide a part of myself from her.
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve had a special relationship with my mother. For practically my whole life, it has just been us two. My mom took on the role of both parents, and I have never once heard her complain. She’s a strong woman.
After taking a deep breath, I pressed the answer call button.
“Hey, Mom,” I answer. My mom chuckles, “Hey, daughter.” She knows I only call her ‘mom’ when other people are around.
If people hear you tossing around the word ‘mommy,’ you start to seem childish. That may just be my irrational fear, but I have never heard anyone use the words ‘daddy’ or ‘mommy’ while talking to their parents in front of me. Well, unless they are an entitled rich kid. Either way, that is not a persona I want to give off.
“Are you okay, Fana?” She continues to tease, “You’re not eating the cafeteria food, are you? All those chemicals go straight to your brain.” I play along, “No, I think our talks are finally wearing me down.”
I probably should have introduced myself sooner because I’m guessing you are a bit confused. My name is Imani Boro, I’m eighteen, almost nineteen, if you consider almost nine months away, and I am hopelessly stubborn. Most people call me Mani, but my mom has always called me Fana. Fana is my middle name. My mom says she calls me Fana because Fana means the light, and I was the light that brought her out of many rough times in her life. But I think the real reason is that her name is Imara, which is only one syllable away from Imani, so it would be a little weird.
“You aren’t involved with any boy over there, are you? I don’t want you coming home with a baby any time soon,” my mom probes. “ You definitely don’t need to worry about that,” I say, closing my Tinder application. “It’s more likely I’ll bring home a crate of cocaine than a baby.”
A gasp escapes from my mom’s lips, “Imani!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I reply smugly. “Do not make jokes like that!” She says. I glance at my watch. “Okay, I won’t.” I reply endearingly, “I have to go, Mommy, but I promise I’ll call you back soon.”
“Do what you have to do, Fana. Be sure to text me or call me if you need anything, alright? I love
you,” she says. “I will. I love you too.” I end the call and open the Tinder app to check if I have any matches waiting for me. Still none. Closing the app again, I turn over, frustrated. “Hey, Han?” Hannah looks up, “Yeah...?” I let out a dramatic sigh, “I just wanted to tell you that I have officially come to terms with the fact that I’m going to be alone forever.”
Hannah closes her laptop and faces Imani, her legs dangling off the bed. “Mani, what are you even talking about?” I reply, sternly, “What I mean is, guys hate me. It’s like I am a man-repellent. I haven’t had one successful date this whole semester.” Hannah looks dumbfounded, “That doesn’t mean you’ll be alone forever! Dude, you are insanely hot, funny, smart, and a complete catch if we’re being honest. Guys are just stupid at this stage of their lives.”
I turn to read Hannah’s expression. She looks earnest enough. “The thing is, I don’t think the problem is me, ya know? I love myself, I’m freakin awesome, dude. Guys are just not into Black girls, and I don’t understand why. I mean, even Black guys aren’t into Black girls, and it’s just complete BS.” I reply cautiously. Hannah and I have never had the race conversation, so I’m drifting into uncharted territories. She’s quiet for a moment. Then she says, “I mean, I know plenty of guys that are into Black girls… Maybe, you just haven’t found the right guy yet.”
I meet her eyes to see if she’s serious, and when I realize she is, I hold back a scoff. She just doesn’t get it. I measure my response, “That’s the thing. I mean, it’s one thing if you are, you know, ethnic and only date members of your specific ethnicity or race. Which is understandable, but still an old way of thinking. But it’s a whole other thing if your dating preference is just not dating one race of people. It’s just another way that people in this society get away with being racist. But then again, why would I even want to be in the dating pool of a racist person if—”
“Mani! Stop.” Hannah’s abruptness stuns me to silence for a moment. “I don’t know if it’s necessarily like,” Hannah hesitates, “racist if you’re just not attracted to Black girls. Like, if you don’t find yourself being attracted to them, it’s not really a mindset that you hold. It’s just like… pheromones.”
I gape at her and finally allow the scoff to escape my mouth. “Okay.” Hannah, sensing the shift in my tone, reaches out to me, “You know what I meant.” I recoil my body, “ No, I don’t know what you meant.”
“Mani,” Hannah says. “No, Hannah. You can’t just say that people not deeming a skin tone viable for love is a mindset. There is no science behind that! That’s bullshit!” I stand, feeling my emotions rising. “You know what? Never mind. I should’ve known you wouldn’t get it.” I swipe my bookbag off the ground and saunter out of our dorm room, seeking refuge in the residential halls’ common area.
I swing the doors of our floor lounge space open, still clearly riled up from the previous conversation with my roommate. I spot a few familiar faces seated around a corner table, so I head over and claim a spot. The group, sensing my heightened emotions, turns to me. “What?!” I quip. “What crawled up your ass today?” Rachel retorts. Out of all the girls in the group, I’m closest to Rachel. We had some hardcore bonding moments when dealing with the same insufferable professor at the top of the school year. Rachel is quite possibly the most gorgeous friend I’ve ever had. She’s this tall mixed, Black, and Mexican girl with the most piercing green eyes you’ve ever seen,
“Well, hello to you too, Rachel,” I begrudgingly reply. “Seriously, Mani, what’s wrong? You
literally came in here looking like you wanted to murder somebody,” says Luna, a petite Filipino girl.
I look around the circle as the rest of the girls nod in agreement. I roll my eyes and sigh, “If you must know, I got into a little argument,” I recalibrate my words. “Not really an argument, more so, I got annoyed with my roommate. I’m just tired of expecting White people to understand my problems. Actually, I’m just really tired of white people in general.” I slump into my seat, “No offense, Ri.” I turn to Riana, a tall girl with ivory white skin, freckles, and a fierce pixie cut. Riana shrugs, “None taken. I mean, even I’m sick of white people, ninety percent of the time.”
The lounge door creaks open. Riana and I turn back to see Garrett enter. “Ninety-nine percent of the time,” Riana quips.
A little context on Garrett. He’s the frattiest of the frat bros that you’ll ever meet. To my knowledge, he’s relatively harmless, unlike his brethren. The most harm he’ll cause is one too many unfunny puns and slang that is two decades old.
Garret bounds up to the table, “What’s up, ladies?! My Girls! What it is, what it do tho!” Garrett pulls up a chair next to me. I brace myself for what is bound to be one of the cringiest pick up lines I’ve ever heard. “What’s up, shawty? How bout we ditch this place and head somewhere else just the two of us?” Garret slips his arm around my shoulders. “First of all, don’t put your dirty little hands on me,” I lightly push his chair away from me. “Second of all, your pits stick, so that’s yet another reason for you to not put your arm around me.”
Garrett smells his armpits, briefly. I continue, “And thirdly, don’t ever call me shorty.” Garrent playfully retorts as the rest of the girls lap up our interaction. “It was more like Shawty. Like, shawtys like a melody in my head,” he says.
“Shaw-Tee, whatever,” I say. “No, you see the T is pronounced more like a hard D,” Garrett continues. My eyes narrow to a glare as he goes on. “Speaking of a hard D—”
“Garrett! I swear to Christ you are riding on thin ice.” I start through clenched teeth.
“That’s not the only thing I’d like to be riding—” Garret quips.
“Someone please get him to leave!” I desperately look around at my amused friend group. Thankfully, Riana calms my simmering anger by getting Garrett to cut to the chase, “What’s the real reason you came here? We all know it wasn’t just to hit on Mani, yet again.”
“Since you asked,” Garrent slams a half-crumpled flyer onto the table. “My Frat is throwing an epic rager tomorrow night, and I came over here because I wanted to personally invite you,” he corrects himself, “You guys, all of you are totally invited.”
“Gee, thanks, Garrett, it’s so considerate of you to keep us in mind. Now, can you crawl back into whatever hole you came out of?” Riana pivots away from Garrett.
Garrett clasps his hands and stands, “Always a pleasure, Riana.” I look up at Garrett, feeling his lingering gaze amidst the silent gap in the conversation. “Muh lady,” Garrett curtseys before heading to the door. “Oh my God,” I mutter under my breath as he exits the room.
Zoey, my Colombian friend who’s been curiously silent during that whole interaction, peers as the frat poster with Anika, who isn’t doing a great job at concealing her growing smile.
“So what are you guys thinking?” Luna says, breaking the silence. “Wanna check out this epic rager?”
“I’m down, if you guys are,” says Zoey.
Anika shrugs, “I’m in. If I don’t go, my mom will probably drive up here and attempt to teach me how to crochet for the thirtieth time this semester.” Dread seeps in as I feel the direction this is heading in.
Rachel turns to Anika, “Hey! I love when your mom comes up! She always brings the best food.” Anika rolls her eyes, “Well, too bad. You’ll have to wait another week to scavenge off my roti leftovers. Tonight, we rage.” Anika pokes Riana’s side, “You’re coming right?” Riana throws her head back with a long, dramatic sigh, “I’m in, if Mani’s in.”
The four girls look at me pleadingly. “I don’t know guys... I think I’ve seen enough of Garrett for one week.” I say. “Come on, Mani, it’ll be fun.” Anika pleads. “And we haven’t gone out and done anything together this whole semester,” Zoey adds. “And it’s not like you’ll be dealing with Garrett alone. We’ll be there with you,” Luna piles on.
“Okay! Alight. Fine, I’ll go,” I reluctantly say as the girls already begin to celebrate. “But only for a little bit,” I cut in. “You guys better not make me regret this,” I say, knowing good and well that this may be a mistake in the making.
