We’re still single. Forty-two percent of us. And if I can be so bold as to make a representative statement, we’re sick of hearing about it. We know it ‘cause we live it. I hog up the whole bed at night because there’s nobody telling me to stay on my side, so I’m more than well aware that I am rolling solo. Hashing and rehashing a problem without presenting a solution is insane. So until somebody coughs up a marriage algorithm or a surefire mind control tactic, I’m officially tired of hearing about it.
Our fatigue at being the subject of plenty of book writing and advice doling doesn’t stop the show. Everybody’s got a word of wisdom for us poor, lonely sisters, but the one I hear most often: we need to diversify our love interests. Look beyond brothers, these so-called experts encourage. They ain’t thinking about us, anyway. And if they are, they’re thinking about too many of us at one time. Date an Indian fella. Try an Asian guy. Hook up with a White dude.
I know we’re supposed to be sampling something new, but I just can’t do it. I’m too in love with Black men. This weekend, it was a blessing to live in D.C., for the Lord himself opened up the heavens and flooded the city with some 25,000 members of Omega Psi Phi. The streets, the trains, the hotels, the lounges and restaurants, even the monuments were recolored in purple and gold. There were stately Ques, brand new Ques, chocolatey Ques, caramel-colored Ques, thick, catfish and cornbread eatin’ Ques, big bicep and six pack havin’ Ques, mature Ques, and of course, wild hoppin’ and barkin’ Ques. For three days, Washington was a bonanza of beautiful bruhs but more importantly, beautiful brothers.
It was just a reminder en masse of what I already know; I’m not ready to give up on them. I don’t think I’ll ever be. Every day I run across dudes going about their business. Downtown, it’s the professional guys who make me cut my eye and think ‘can’t nobody wear a suit like a Black man.’ In my neighborhood, it’s the blue collar fellas fixing their cars who make me appreciate their manliness. I love the way brothers diddy bop when they walk, the way their eyes sparkle when they smile, the way the veins and muscles ripple through their forearms, the bass that rumbles in their throats when they talk. Even if they’re not Idris Elba gorgeous, there’s a sexiness about our men that’s irresistible. And when they get a fresh haircut? Glory.
My attraction isn’t all physical, of course. I do get a little deeper than that. They’re resourceful, intelligent and they don’t let anybody run over them, including their woman. I feel connected to them, tied together with an easy, natural chemistry. Riding the train the other day, this crazy tourist started spritzing herself with a bottle of water, projecting her random spray onto me and the brother in the next seat. We never said a word. We exchanged about five different looks that conveyed five different thoughts and busted out laughing. I’m not so sure I could get my point across like that with a man of another race. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have even tried.
I think about my grandfather, who was the hardest-working, most committed and loving family man I’ve known, and that’s what I want for myself and my own children. Packaged just like him; tall, handsome, with a superstar grin and an I-can-handle-anything demeanor. Experts may warn and studies may show that I should give up on the brothers. And even in my own experiences, I’ve had them pass me over for a White chick or a more exotic gal, but it hasn’t happened often enough to make me quit cheerleading for their team. What can I say? The heart wants what it wants.