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Adam also told me that he enjoyed watching and was allergic to dogs so to be fair to him, it was never going to work out between us, even before the racism. Is he allowed to say ‘I’m here with the black girl’? And maybe you don’t even identify as black, you haven’t discussed it yet. But is he supposed to feel guilty when you tell him about something racist or sexist that’s happened to you? How is he supposed to react when you refer to something as a ‘white boy’ thing? We’re lucky to live in the UK, where most people don’t have a problem with inter-racial relationships, and the minority that do are mostly too aloof to say so in public.
I guess the lesson here is to have a more thorough screening process, maybe a set of questions that a guy has to answer via Whats App before you agree to go for a drink with him.
I don’t look the same; I have hair on every inch of my skin; I’m worried he might be fetishizing me; my circle of friends is multi-ethnic and loud and proud about it; I grew up in a diverse suburb that I can make fun of but he absolutely can’t; my favourite tote bag reads “Carry yourself with the confidence of a mediocre white man.” These are points of tension.
So, they don’t have to lead to actual tension—but a lot of the time, they do.
They too are far from perfect and being with a white person has not changed how I’m seen.Each time, he had a rebuttal that probably sounded cleverer in his head. “You better not let your parents control your life like that,” he said, with a derisive laugh. Of course, I didn’t realize I’d made that choice until I reflected back on my last year in men. But it’s the latter who always seem to require an explanation for all of the above, and also for why I lived at home as long as I did and had an early curfew, and why meeting my parents isn’t as simple as pencilling in a Friday night dinner.“Don’t be like other brown girls.” This from a man who had opened the date by telling me he’d never been out with “a brown girl” before, so he was excited to check that off his list, as if I were an item on a sample platter. And it wasn’t entirely based on Trent; the long list of Trents, Daves and Andys who came before him contributed to my decision, too. As a Pakistani-Canadian woman in her late 20s, there’s a pressure to never move out of home, to have children, to opt for an arrangement, to maintain the “back home” quo, where dating of any kind and pre-marital sex is considered deeply taboo. Sometimes it feels like even the way these men say my name—the practiced pronunciation, and the inevitable request for definition—is a slight, and that’s not because it’s wrong to ask (it isn’t). I wouldn’t, after all, inquire about the ethnic origins of a James or a Michael. Something tells me those conversations aren’t happening in the same way with our other halves.Last summer, I was on a date with a 20-something man we’ll call Trent. I had been explaining how my parents met and married through an arrangement, something that’s common in South Asian culture.At first, conversation flowed—we talked careers, food, travel, friends, family. He didn’t quite follow, which is understandable, so I tried to explain: “It’s a cultural tradition.” “They define love and marriage differently than the American way.” “It may not be for you or me, but it was for them,” etc.