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I often think about a specific night in June 2020, probably more than I should. But it’s because it meant something to me. It taught me a lesson on Black love.

Fireworks, sirens, dogs howling and repeat. For a good portion of summer 2020 that was the environment of being in Los Angeles, California. Sounds of protest, historic and unfound in modern times in America. To navigate that as a Black person was something similar to an out-of-body experience with nothing but trauma, tears and pain.

In my life, it opened my eyes to something so important: my relationship with my Black male partner in 2020.

The street lights softly illuminated the room, the wind gently ruffled the blinds and the slight echo of snoring set the mood. My partner, Isaiah, and I had finally climbed into bed after another unbearably hot day in LA, full of tragedy and anguish from the protest.

Due to the heat, I sat up in bed with my mind racing. For days on end, all we constantly witnessed was suffering, abuse of power and “law and order” enthusiasts invalidating our cries for justice and an end to police brutality. All of that Black trauma porn in your face can take a toll on your mental health. Accompanied with the crushing weight of remembering and navigating life in a pandemic makes a person go mad.

Now imagine being Black, socially conscious and suddenly having non-Black “allies” who you haven’t spoken to in years text you to apologize (or message you, expecting you to educate them on what racism is), or the frustration of performative activism saturating your social media feed. All of these things were racing through my mind.

In that moment, I recall looking down at my chest and seeing my partner resting so peacefully — seeing his light breathing, hearing gentle snoring, feeling his soft skin and noticing his firm but loving grip as his arm wrapped affably around my waist.

Resting my hand gently on his head, I began to stroke his hair forward. (Anyone dating a Black man with waves knows better than to stroke it backwards.) Another loud bang went off, and the sharp whistle of yet another firecracker pierced the smog and smoke-filled night. Startled, I jumped but tried to relax once I realized Isaiah was fidgeting because of my movement.

Nervously, but cautiously, I tried to bring myself back to my current reality. I began breathing and self-soothing when I noticed our heartbeats were in rhythm. I then wrapped my right arm around him to bring him closer while still stroking his hair with the other. I looked down and the first tear fell.

And then another.

And another.

I was heartbroken.

I wasn’t heartbroken over the horrendous weather, or the protest, or the police. All of those things were predicted based on our government's failure and purposeful inability to act on climate change or acknowledge its racist history and current white supremacist rooted policy-making. These things were brewing for a catastrophe and it finally reached its boiling point.

I was heartbroken over how the world sees my gentle, loving, courageous Black male partner as a criminal, thug, failure, statistic and more derogatory stereotypical attributes.

The tears began to fall faster, and I thought about how one of the safest places he could be is right here in my arms, at home. But then I thought about how Breonna Taylor and Fred Hampton were killed in their homes.

I tilted my head back in an effort to prevent the tears from falling on his precious resting head and gripped him tighter just to keep the rhythm of our breathing. I looked at him again and whispered “I love you, I’m sorry,” even though he was in a deep sleep. I wasn't apologizing for anything I had done, I was simply empathizing over his treatment from this world, this country and the blatant everyday racism he endures.

Then it hit me: to love my Black male partner is to love him for him. It’s to understand the threats to his life on a daily basis for simply being him. It means understanding that his anxiety doesn't come from a place of being overly paranoid, but instead from walking around with a big red target on his back. To understand the tough shell that he wears on the outside isn’t a front to be cool but to protect himself from the threats of life or death at the hands of a racist. And I personally understood that, above all else, he just wants to be loved and heard.

The tears continued and I thought about how relationships require work — a lot of it. Then when you throw in complexities that other ethnicities and races don’t have to endure, our struggles can go on unseen, disregarded and misunderstood.

However, in that moment, with just the two of us — one conscious and the other peacefully resting — nothing was misunderstood. I love him, and he loves me, and our breathing was still in sync.

Be that as it may, in my mind more was happening. Emotions of anger and resentment at the current state of the country filled my body. As my body began to feel hot it was becoming hard to distinguish if it was due to the heat of the summer, the dormant body resting on me or the anger I was feeling.

I was hurt that the world did not and would not ever see my Black male partner the way that I do, or love any Black person in the way that our community loves one another. I was hurt knowing the chances of him getting killed in a routine traffic stop was 3.23 times more likely than a white man. I was hurt knowing that the education system was designed for him to fail and get funneled into the school-to-prison pipeline. I was hurt knowing that he could be the victim, yet the news would still vilify him for ratings and money.

But then he shifted, almost as if his subconscious mind was alerting him that I was overthinking and I needed to snap back to reality. The movement startled me again and I calmly began to realize where I was. I felt a bit of sweat coming off his body and I moved the blanket off of him to rest my arm on his back and breathe. My heartbeats slowed and we were once again one.

To love a Black man is to understand them, have patience and love them without question, and I wanted to do all of that for my partner.

And before the accusation of being a “pick-me” comes, I want to acknowledge that as a Black woman myself, many of the grievances described here we also endure; however, this is about my partner and what it means to love him. That particular night, trauma aside, brought to my attention how much I do love him and how unfair and unsafe the world is for all Black people.

To close out this memory, his fidgeting brought me back, it grounded me.

The fireworks continued, the dogs kept howling, the sirens rang and I rested my head against his, just thankful for him, his love, his tenderness and his safety.

To love a Black man is to love all of him, and I love mine.

N’dea Johnson

Writing since June 2020 · 2 stories contributed