In the past, I’d have sought that comfort out in a white man, but that night I knew it wouldn’t be enough.
It’s not that I don’t think white people are anxious; two months into Trump’s presidency, most of the white people in my life are activated.
All seem no more or less happy than other couples I know.
Yet, until recently, I did not consider white men as romantic prospects. Meanwhile, my social circle is full of black women married to or dating white men.
Whenever I’m standing on a subway platform, I play this game: I hover near a person I think is cute and try to slowly make my way over to him so we get in the same car. Like most of the girls in my class, I wanted attention from the boys.
When we do, I look his way every so often to see if he’s staring back, to see if we’ve got what my best friend and I call “the affinity,” a mutual acknowledgement that we one another. But while they chased after blondes and brunettes, I was ignored.
One was a guy who was interested in talking to me, and the other was acting as his wingman.
The wingman walked up to me as his friend stood beside him and screamed over the music, “You’re perfect!