“Girl…why are you not with someone? Like I don’t get it. What’s going on with you?” 

A doomful question, asked in the dulcet tones of my loving Portuguese friend Mimi. A beautiful honey-skinned woman. A beacon of positivity, intelligence, fun, and vibrancy.

I go to her house on a regular basis, to catch jokes, eat GREAT food and talk about life. She grounds me on a regular basis and interrogates me about my dating life. 

For the most part, she’s one of the only people I speak to about this aspect of my life. 

I learnt a long time ago that many of my female “friends” that are married or in relationships ask about my love life in search of gossip and a chance to ridicule, a mere distraction from their humdrum, pedestrian lives. 

There is a silent hierarchy in the female kingdom that no one really talks about: 

1. A married woman with children = you are the supreme!
2. A married woman no children = holier than thou
3. A woman in a relationship = Monarch
4. A woman with partner and children = A lady 
5. Single mother = A knight
6. A single woman = uh….well quite frankly you are seen as a slave. 

The reality is, most married women replace their father with another guardian: their husband. Many of my friends are married, and many of them have literally never experienced womanhood without the protection of a man. 

“Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,

Thy head, thy sovereign: one that cares for thee

And for thy maintenance; commits his body

To painful labour both by sea and land”  — Rosalind, Taming of the Shrew

[...I would make a great Rosalind…] 

I write this to say, a woman who is fortunate/unfortunate [however you want to look at it] to be single… is actually playing a man’s role in this game we call life. And it’s not easy. It’s not easy at all. It’s very hard. 

I don’t believe anyone wants to be single by choice; Therefore, married and non-single women: be gentle with your single friends, for even a man has a bosom to run to, to lay his head, for comfort. This is not the same for a single woman, without being shamed, criticised and bullied by some of her female comrades. 

Anyway, back to the point. Mimi often probes me about my love life lol… and I give a little glimpse into it, now and then. 

One day, Mimi snaps at me “Girl, stop dating mixed-race men and find yourself a lovely dark skinned man.” 

I laugh…. hard! Mimi, a gorgeous brown skinned woman, is of two extremes: she's into either very dark skinned men, like Djimon Hounsou, or very pale blue eyed men, like Alexander Skarsgård, nothing in between. 

And she already knows that I am an equal opportunity type of woman — as long as you are a man that genuinely respects Black women and my culture… a man who is intelligent, kind, fun, ambitious, vibrant, masculine, 6ft and over [yes, I confess that as my soul superficial ask — as a woman of stature, I am indeed a heightist], has an appreciation for creativity, adventure, trying new experiences and are not threatened by socialising with my male gay friends and you are forward thinking, then… Yes, I will give you the time of day. For the most part, though, I am yet to meet a Black man that truly likes Black dark skinned women, with negro features and 4c hair, and fulfils this criteria.

But as a dark skinned Black woman, I always find it hilarious when a honey toned and/or fair skinned woman chastises me for dating mixed race men. 

You see, they believe it’s my preference. Hilarious! I think preference is a luxury afforded to Black men, white men, white women, mixed-race men, mixed-race women and everything in between BUT a dark-skinned Black woman. 

When you are a dark skinned Black woman, you don’t have preference. You have acknowledgement and acceptance. 

Whoever acknowledges you, understands and accepts you for who you are and LOVES you unconditionally is where you should place your focus. And sometimes that can be a person who does  not have the same skin tone or phenotype as you.

And so I told lovely Mimi my tale of FORGOTTEN, HIDDEN & DISCARDED — three dark skinned Black women on a quest for love. 

And then it occurred to me, I should also introduce the cousins… in this complex tale.

So here we go: the tale of Desire & Acceptance, the dear cousins of Forgotten, Hidden & Discarded…

Desire, an alluring being, understood the trials, tribulations of her cousins Forgotten, Hidden and Discarded. She was a cautious woman, and often quizzed any man that stated he liked her…

DESIRE: the mixed race man with a white mother and a Black father

You say with your full chest that you are a Black man, that you have had the same experiences as my brothers, I laugh and disregard your comment reminding you that your mother is the darling of the world. A protected goldfish, swimming with ease peacefully in her bowl, admired and loved by your father and men alike. That her experiences, her perspective is a part of you, it is what makes you, you. And all you would say is, “I desire YOU.” 

You touch my hair and skin, recalling the day when you started to despise your mother's translucent skin and straw coloured hair, an “ice maiden… a true Scandinavian barbie” you would say. And I would say that woman made you, carried you for 9 months, you are a part of her, she is what makes you, you. And without her, you would not be you. And all you would say is, “I desire YOU.” 

You would shout about how Black men see you to be soft, emotional, effeminate, that they don’t respect you. And I would say, they see what I see: an insecure man, with a white mother and a Black father, who doesn’t love himself. And all you would say is, “I desire YOU.” 

You strip away your mother, dancing around your identity, avoiding your whiteness, disregarding the woman who raised you to be the man you are today, a woman desired by your father and men alike. Instead you say “I desire YOU.” .

You shout at me “I desire YOU.” You desire my experiences, to call it your own, you desire me, to wear me across your chest as an emblem of your blackness, you desire me, to colonise my love, hoping and praying it will gain acceptance from the men who forgot you, as they have forgotten me. Men eager to create you but not to claim you. Eager to bash you as they bash me. 

“I DESIRE YOU!” You scream… you desire me, to skin me like an animal, and place me around your shoulders, a magic coat allowing you to step into a world, a community that you so so so desperately want to own, to dominate, to receive that acceptance you so badly desire. 

And then, finally… you take your throne, oh you beautiful Prince of Darkness. 

And then…

You discard me. Forget me. Bash me with your privilege and suffocate me with your misogynoir. For you are your father’s son and your mother’s child.

The golden child they so desperately wanted. The golden child they desired. And I foolishly  desired you. A wolf in sheep's clothing. 

Seeing and hearing about her cousin Desire’s traumatic love affair, Acceptance sat in fear. For she didn’t want to be like her cousin Forgotten, nor did she want to be like Hidden, and she certainly did not want to be Discarded. So she waited… and waited… 

ACCEPTANCE:  the mixed race man with a Black mother and a white father

“A goddess”. That is what you call me. You take my hand and spin me round and round, admiring every inch of me. When I come home, exhausted, frustrated by the constant biting of my tongue, you place a kiss on my lips, acknowledging my pain. You share stories of how your father’s family used to treat your mother, like a poltergeist, a fearful presence acknowledged but not accepted. 

You creep up behind me, and place your arms around me, swallowing me, absorbing me into your skin, breathing me in, all in one, telling me that your mother was so loving and affectionate, that she wanted to give you all the love in the world, a love she never had.

When I am weak, and my muscles stiffen, you pick me up in your arms and place me in warm hot water, singing a lullaby your mother taught you, gently scrubbing away my self doubt, soothing my pain and bringing me back to life, no longer a cyborg but a delicate flower blooming. 

We walk together, your hand clasped around mine, proud to introduce me to anyone. Screaming to the high heavens “I’m with her, this goddess! I’m with her!” So eager to signify to everyone that you acknowledge and accept my presence. 

You whisper to me you know the world's biggest secret: That god is a Black woman and that a Black woman's power is a blessing to you but a curse to others. Only the wise and delivered can see it. 

You share with me your topsy turvy existence, your protective shield you held to your mother’s charcoal skin, defending her against visceral tongues wagging: “she a phase”... “a prostitute”... “a bed wench”... and that “she birthed a bastard.” 

You say your father said “God is a Black woman” because your mother made him see the real world. He jumped off his high castle and finally looked up from the ground up. Your mother gave your father life, before he met her he was a dead man walking.

There are times when I want to speak but nothing tumbles out and you still hear me. 

You accept me… You acknowledge me…. Your own personal Jesus. Your saviour. Your eyes of the world. For now.

Disclaimer: The people described in this article are not specific to any individual, but an amalgamation of different people I have met on my journey thus far. Artistic licence has been used to an extent to enhance these experiences. No human being was harmed in the creation of this, just some of my distinct, loving and at times painful memories exposed, to you the reader.