As an educated woman of color working in development overseas, I am constantly interacting with other men, usually, other means white—specifically European. A single woman, I am accustomed to unsolicited commentary about my hair, skin color, and choice of male companionship. The strange bit is, I get more of it when I am in America than when I am abroad. Is it the interracial thing or the transcultural aspect of dating outside your ethnicity and nationality that generates the stink eye from my fellow Americans of African descent?
Like many recent graduates, I spent some time in Europe. It was on an epic train ride in Spain that I met a beautiful man, who I mistook for Moroccan. I quickly realized he did not speak French, but Italian. Over the course of the ride where we watched urban sprawl giveaway to the remnants of Morrish conquests we connected. I am not going to lie, it was difficult at first as we searched for a common language finally landing on a Spanish-Italian mix, but the bond was real. I was almost sad the 18-hour trip was over. When we went our separate ways we exchanged physical and email addresses, this was in the late 1990s. Via email and yes, handwritten letters, we kept in touch. His English improved as did my Italian.
Eventually, my schedule slowed down and I accepted one of Carlo’s* invitations to visit Rome. At this point, it had been easily 18 months since I'd seen him. Feverishly, I searched through my journals and photo albums from the previous summer looking for a picture or a description of him. Nothing. I called my friend with whom I had been traveling and asked whether she remembered the Italian from the train. Her response, "I can’t recall your white boy.” Sheepishly, I asked him to email me a photo (again this is pre-Facebook).
A few hours later, I checked my Yahoo! email and there they were. “Hot damn that man is fine!” I yelled to no one in particular. In one picture, he was sitting cross-legged on a white sand beach in Thailand wearing sungas and nothing else. His complexion was darker than mine and his thick hair was cut close to his head. The other photo was a profile, taken at the beach near Rome—his Roman nose and chiseled jawline were on prominent display.
That was the beginning of my first serious relationship with a European man. We lived together in Rome and traveled across Western Europe. When we were in Europe no one seemed to bat an eye. Our life was good there—we had the regular fights of a couple, but they were not race related.
Things abruptly changed the moment we landed in the States for a vacation. Traveling from New York to Washington, DC and then on to New Orleans via Atlanta, the looks and commentary increased with each line latitude we defended. He noticed the eye-rolls and headshakes from other passengers as we held hands at the airport speaking in Italian. He didn’t understand it and honestly, I didn’t know how to explain it without a long history lesson on the rape of enslaved African women at the hands of White men. After several years we broke up.
As I left my twenties and embraced my thirties I traveled further afar. I met and dated white European men in Africa, the Middle East, and Southeast Asia. As I traveled with these men in lands where they were the minority, I sometimes found myself questioning my idenity—was I a sellout? Did I have reverse jungle fever? Girlfriends in the States, searching for a Black American man who matched their intellect and dynamism would say, “I’d rather be alone than with one of them.” AfroLatino male friends and family in New York would make comments like “Leave it to Sali to move to Africa and date an ofe.” Then there were the African men, like the Somali dressed as a Massai on the beach in Zanzibar. I was on vacation with my French boyfriend. The Somali asked me,“So, you only like mzungu?” I laughed and said, "No brother that would be you. Chasing these White girls up and down the beach for a little tourist fling or a photo."
I don't think I consciously choose to date "outside my race", but maybe I do. I want to date men who have the same or greater education and earning potential as me. I wanted to explore my new country, go on vacations, and out to dinner. In many of the places I have lived, my local friends were on a salary less than 45% of that of a Western expat. I would always offer to pick up the tab but that can often be perceived as an insult. The White men I dated were my co-workers and expat counterparts. We seemingly had more in common—like going to the beach and actually getting in the water or enjoying the sunshine on our skin.
While sometimes a bit of self-doubt creeps in never let it win. Why should I limit myself to a Black and American man? The majority who cross my path only share a passport and a box on the census with me. If I click with the 7-foot dark chocolate Senegale in the white linen shirt or the golden brown Spaniard in the leather sandals, it's my choice and I am going to date who I like.
*I changed his name
