I remember the first time I ever got mad at a guy.
Yeah, I know it sounds strange but growing up the way I did, in a house full of women who were subservient to the almighty male figure, my father; it makes perfect sense.
That’s what I learned.
You didn’t talk back.
You didn’t get mad, and if you did, he’d give you something to be mad about.
Yeah, I know it sounds strange but growing up the way I did, in a house full of women who were subservient to the almighty male figure, my father; it makes perfect sense.
That’s what I learned.
You didn’t talk back.
You didn’t get mad, and if you did, he’d give you something to be mad about.
I was twenty and I don’t even remember his name. I’d been out with him a few times and we’d gotten together for an early evening date. We sat in The International House of Pancakes finishing off the banana pancakes he had insisted I try. I don’t like cooked bananas. I find them disgusting in any form other than their natural state. I never liked banana pudding, banana bread and banana pancakes sounded just as gross, but he ordered them for me and I didn’t object.
We sat there post-meal, talking, playing with the syrups and licking them off our fingers. I felt close to him. I could tell he liked me and I was convinced our few innocent dates had been leading up to something special. I had never spent this type of quality time with a guy in a pancake house before.
He took my hand in his and looked deeply into my eyes. He started to say something. I held my breath. He was going to say “I love you.” I could feel it. I had seen that moment in movies; that look on the guy’s face, the instant of hesitation before the words came pouring out. But his eyes wandered over my shoulder as he spotted a couple he knew entering the place. He invited them to join us.
We watched them eat banana pancakes and lick the syrup off each others fingers. You could tell they were in love just by the way they looked at each other and always kept some part of their bodies touching as if it was essential to their survival. I was polite, while secretly wishing to rewind back to where we had been before they intruded. I’d be patient, it would be over soon and the two of us would be alone again.
We watched them eat banana pancakes and lick the syrup off each others fingers. You could tell they were in love just by the way they looked at each other and always kept some part of their bodies touching as if it was essential to their survival. I was polite, while secretly wishing to rewind back to where we had been before they intruded. I’d be patient, it would be over soon and the two of us would be alone again.
No, we wouldn’t.
They invited us back to their place for drinks.
They invited us back to their place for drinks.
My guy said yes, and looked at me in a way so that I had to say yes too.
We went to their trendy Art Deco apartment, listened to rare vinyl records, and drank red wine in antique glasses. I love red wine, but I hate the way it stains my teeth and tongue dark purple like it did that night. We sat on their plush velvet sofa talking, laughing, playfully accentuating our comments with affectionate groping of our respective partners. I felt somewhat flattered that he wanted me to get to know his friends. It was my first time double-dating, doing couple stuff, getting past the you-me activity and opening myself up to a matching him-her.
An hour into the evening, the couple got up and went into another room. My guy and I sat there cozily in the relaxed atmosphere of his friends’ apartment. The blues was playing on the stereo. I don’t know who, just some sad black man wailing about how unfair life was. I never much cared for the blues when I was younger.
My guy got up to see what happened to his friends. He walked into the other room and closed the door behind him. I stretched out on the couch, like a cat after a nap; happy and satisfied with myself. Vanity took hold and I grabbed my purse, rummaged inside for my compact, opened it and checked to see how I looked. Pretty good. I wasn’t too shiny and the lighting was reddish and made my skin look better than it did in the light of day. I checked my teeth and tongue. They were purple from the red wine. I pulled a tissue out of my purse and rubbed my front teeth. It didn’t help. I decided to forget about it. After all, my guy had seen my teeth in the harsh light of the pancake house and had even commented on their whiteness. I put the compact and tissue back into my purse, poured myself more wine, settled back into the comfy spot I had molded into the couch and listened to the black man sing his pain.
My guy came out of the room alone and sat next to me. He told me he had something special to ask me. He held my hand, like I had seen guys do in movies when they're about to propose. He told me how much he liked me and was attracted to me. My heart raced but I wondered why he was saying this now. Then came the sell.
He said his friend was also attracted to me. And that he was attracted to his friend’s girlfriend. He wanted to know if I would have sex with his friend, so he could have sex with his friend’s girlfriend.
Wait! This wasn’t the way it went in the movies. Well, not the ones I had seen at the time. His face was earnest and the way he asked, made it seem like he was making some loving gesture to me that I should be grateful for. I went numb.
I repeated his request, “You mean you want me to have sex with your friend and you’re going to have sex with his girlfriend?”
We went to their trendy Art Deco apartment, listened to rare vinyl records, and drank red wine in antique glasses. I love red wine, but I hate the way it stains my teeth and tongue dark purple like it did that night. We sat on their plush velvet sofa talking, laughing, playfully accentuating our comments with affectionate groping of our respective partners. I felt somewhat flattered that he wanted me to get to know his friends. It was my first time double-dating, doing couple stuff, getting past the you-me activity and opening myself up to a matching him-her.
An hour into the evening, the couple got up and went into another room. My guy and I sat there cozily in the relaxed atmosphere of his friends’ apartment. The blues was playing on the stereo. I don’t know who, just some sad black man wailing about how unfair life was. I never much cared for the blues when I was younger.
My guy got up to see what happened to his friends. He walked into the other room and closed the door behind him. I stretched out on the couch, like a cat after a nap; happy and satisfied with myself. Vanity took hold and I grabbed my purse, rummaged inside for my compact, opened it and checked to see how I looked. Pretty good. I wasn’t too shiny and the lighting was reddish and made my skin look better than it did in the light of day. I checked my teeth and tongue. They were purple from the red wine. I pulled a tissue out of my purse and rubbed my front teeth. It didn’t help. I decided to forget about it. After all, my guy had seen my teeth in the harsh light of the pancake house and had even commented on their whiteness. I put the compact and tissue back into my purse, poured myself more wine, settled back into the comfy spot I had molded into the couch and listened to the black man sing his pain.
My guy came out of the room alone and sat next to me. He told me he had something special to ask me. He held my hand, like I had seen guys do in movies when they're about to propose. He told me how much he liked me and was attracted to me. My heart raced but I wondered why he was saying this now. Then came the sell.
He said his friend was also attracted to me. And that he was attracted to his friend’s girlfriend. He wanted to know if I would have sex with his friend, so he could have sex with his friend’s girlfriend.
Wait! This wasn’t the way it went in the movies. Well, not the ones I had seen at the time. His face was earnest and the way he asked, made it seem like he was making some loving gesture to me that I should be grateful for. I went numb.
I repeated his request, “You mean you want me to have sex with your friend and you’re going to have sex with his girlfriend?”
“Yes,” he said, as if it made all the sense in the world. His voice was smooth and as sticky as the blueberry syrup I had licked off my fingers a few hours earlier.
I felt hurt, insulted, I wanted to object defiantly, but my response came out more like a question.
“No?”
I felt hurt, insulted, I wanted to object defiantly, but my response came out more like a question.
“No?”
That made him angry. Words that hurt spit out of his mouth.
“Damn it! Can’t you do this one thing just for me? I thought you liked me.”
Confusion set in. I did like him. But if he liked me, why was he asking me to be with another guy? Would this make him like me more? Is this how you got a boyfriend?
This whole evening was going wildly wrong and in a direction previously uncharted. I was sad and disappointed and angry. But I couldn’t express it. I was afraid to talk back to him. I grabbed my purse and bolted out of the apartment, down the Deco-railed stairway, through the Deco-tiled hallway and out the Deco-leaded glass front door.
I sat in my blue Chevy Nova and cried until I had steamed up all the windows. I mopped my eyes with the same tissue that had rubbed at my wine-stained teeth and used its wet remains to wipe the fogged windshield.
I started the car up and began the drive home. Rage welled up in me. I began screaming out my thoughts; well-articulated sentences peppered with vitriol. I chastised him. I defended myself, my honor, my morals. I amazed myself.
Confusion set in. I did like him. But if he liked me, why was he asking me to be with another guy? Would this make him like me more? Is this how you got a boyfriend?
This whole evening was going wildly wrong and in a direction previously uncharted. I was sad and disappointed and angry. But I couldn’t express it. I was afraid to talk back to him. I grabbed my purse and bolted out of the apartment, down the Deco-railed stairway, through the Deco-tiled hallway and out the Deco-leaded glass front door.
I sat in my blue Chevy Nova and cried until I had steamed up all the windows. I mopped my eyes with the same tissue that had rubbed at my wine-stained teeth and used its wet remains to wipe the fogged windshield.
I started the car up and began the drive home. Rage welled up in me. I began screaming out my thoughts; well-articulated sentences peppered with vitriol. I chastised him. I defended myself, my honor, my morals. I amazed myself.
Too bad he wasn’t there to hear it.
The second time I got mad at a guy, I punched him in the chin.
Now I know...
There’s no need for me to bolt out of a room because I fear speaking my truth.
And there’s no need for me to resort to physical violence.
Between the black and the white,
I’ve discovered the gray.
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