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I had hushed conversations in the corners of cafés about how important it was to keep feeding the black community with positive affirmations and how it began with loving black men.I wore Black Lives Matter buttons, attended marches, sported hoodies, vowed to date only black men, and prepared myself to raise a son who might be faced with a death in the same vein as Trayvon, a name I had spoken so often that it felt like that of a brother.We always felt halfway to a crime that we could never commit.We were two people of color, the passive transgression, but the responsibility of leaving our races still clung onto our chests.I wondered how men with such delicate bodies seemed to be the only ones who could endure the storm. We bought crop tops, tight jeans, and earrings so big that they touched our shoulders.When my cousin on the all-black side birthed a baby girl whose father had become abusive, we took a long ride to a shopping mall. On the ride home we were quiet and I decided I would never date a black man as long as my feet touched this earth.Our portrait was perfectly hung and constantly dusted for shine.
I found myself on a first date with a guy who was born and raised in Yonkers, with a family from El Salvador.
It didn’t feel like love at first, more like companionship at our all-time lows.
We were open with each other; he had been warned to stay away from black girls, and I was advised to not date men of color.
We live together in a small studio in Chelsea, where we cook dinners and take showers.
We ask each other about dessert options and call each other good-looking even though we have gained weight.