So... It Hapenned... Now what?

A while back I read an article entitled "For Colored Girls Who Cry Because Black Men Inter-Marry" (http://madamenoire.com/12484/for-colored-girls-who-cry-because-black-men-inter-marry/). After posting this article, I bantered back and forth with Twitter and "real" friends alike, perched on my soap box, about how Black woman should start considering White men as viable dating options. I preached about how, since they made us an option, they should be ours, and about how men should be men--regardless of color, very "I Have a Dream"- like and proclaimed that love was love and people were people.

And then, Essence's Relationship Editor, Demetria Lucas, hit us with the harsh statistic that 63% of "our" men don't mind seeing Black women in interracial relationships. More ammo for my stance that Black women should be seeking love, not Blackness, in their futures.

And then it happened. Gathering my things after a particularly stellar presentation from yours truly, he saunters up and asks if I'd like to further discuss my ideas over dinner because he'd be interested to hear.


Jet black hair. Green-hazel eyes and, from the way he wore those dress pants, I just KNEW he was one of those bodies you admire running around the track--shirt off.

And he was asking me to dinner.

I blew it off at first. Smiled and took his card, gave him mine. On the way back to the office my coworker Latina-girl, Lorena, gushed about how I "pulled" a white man whilst I vehemently denied it. Taking his card from me, she turned it over to reveal a scribbled in cell phone number with a smiley face ( I could have passed on the cheese, thanks, but I guess it was cute).

I still shrugged it off. What would Mr. JC from N*SYNC want with me? Natural hair, brown skin, plain dark brown eyes, outspoken and a tendency to be louder than necessary. It didn't make much sense.

But then he called to follow up. Voice smooth he asked:

"What about that dinner?"

Politely, I told him I'd get back to him about that. And, of course, my mind went a flutter with all of the social implications that going would present. It would be me getting the stares that I reserve for Black men with White women in upscale restaurants. I would be on the receiving end of the eye rolls and scoffs. I would have to step off my soap box! What would my friends say? Those friends that grew up in Hollis with me and only mixed with White people because our performing arts high school brought in people from all over New York City. What would my sorors say, as I pledged to uphold the longevity and education of Black people about the beauty of their Blackness.

What would they think? Would I be a hypocrite?

And what would we talk about? Superficially, our life experiences are extremely different. Looking at him, the only "hood" he knew would be attached to a frat sweatshirt and, for me, its a word with a meaning so mailable that its taken on its own definition having little to do with it being the lazy way of saying "neighborhood." But, I thought, my boss, coworkers and casual acquaintances probably wouldn't be able to tell that's where I'm from, right? So isn't it unfair of me to make that inference?

Then,of course, would we even have a physical attraction?

Would I look into his eyes and be intrigued? What attributes of his would I look at and "not mind" if our children stole (he does have the cutest dimple in his left cheek...)?

And of course, "The Dip." Arguably my favorite anatomical part of the Black man. It's that little valley of surprise that happens under your fingertips when you are caressing a Black man's back and come to that point where his back stops and his butt starts. "The Dip."And if he did have it, and I closed my eyes, could I make my mind believe that it was melty, bittersweet, chocolate under my hands?

Would I want to make my mind believe that?

Or maybe, if we ever got to that point, I would want it to be his skin that I would caress. Maybe, we would talk about art and he would share my sentiments that "The Scream" was Edward Munch's only great piece. Maybe, like me, he liked Jazz Art over Plantation Art. Maybe he, like me, would appreciate Andrew Lloyd Webber and his contributions to the formation of American Musical Theatre but still have a hankering for Ella Fitzgerald over Billie Holiday. Maybe he would search for a voice recording of Porge and Bess with me just because Maya Angelou's acting is often overlooked but her voice is unmistakable...

And maybe he wouldn't understand my hair, but does any Black man understand it more then "she has/doesn't have a perm" and "it looks nice"? Do they really get the idea that shea butter produces the best moisturizer for my 3b/4a curl pattern? And maybe he would appreciate my body even more because it was different than what he was used to, and it wouldn't make me his "exotic" at all. And maybe, like any other man and woman, we would learn each other because we liked each other, and not because of our pigment.

And maybe, by denying him, I would be denying parts of me. The part writes my most productive pieces to my Charlotte Church/Brian McKinght Pandora (Josh Groban "You Lift Me Up" currently blasting) and saves Lupe for when I'm trying to zone out. Maybe he likes Lupe too!

And maybe this is not about me abandoning my race and not doing my part to instill the longevity and fruitfulness of the Black family. Maybe this is me--Stephanie- thinking that this Brody Jenner look alike is interesting to me. Maybe this is me being interested to hear more about his ideas on Guerilla Marketing. Maybe this is my being interested in how his running regimen compares to mine.

Maybe, just maybe, this is Stephanie going on a date...