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Our family is a classic case of women and the black men who left them versus the white men who stayed.

I remember being 6 and slapping my white uncle in the face to figure out why his face turned bloodred.

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.

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.

He had grown tired of letting me pretend, I realized.

We stood on the head of our warnings every day as we got to know each other. I knew I was a far away from the Latina girls he was used to with silk hair, milk-toffee skin, and sharp tongues: I had forgotten how vulnerable it felt to be black in the apartment building lobby of a potential love. Before every date I would always buy myself a new outfit or piece of clothing to impress him, as though being constantly new would distract from any shortcomings.

I would stretch my hair every inch that I could, to make it appear longer. There were days when we fought and said things to each other like “That must have been from how you were raised.” We got assaulted on the street by men who would yell “Black and white don’t mix” and smash their shoulders into ours.

There was something about watching a black boy murdered from the comfort of my home that made me want to go out and love a black man as hard as I could, as though somehow it could resurrect the child in him.

I started dating my first official black boyfriend, a neuroscientist, shortly after.

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