After two and a half years, you would think I’d be used to this relationship. That I would be used to his way of talking, behaving, eating, thinking. Nope. Every day he surprises me. . . or aggravates me. Somehow I’m still not used to putting up with someone else.
For the better part of the first twenty two years of my life, I’ve been alone. Sometimes lonely. When you’re a multiracial, over-weight girl living in a suburb of predominantly white, close minded, size two figurines, blending into the background comes natural, and at times necessary. You see, most of the residents from my old town only saw a brown skinned girl when her mug shot was plastered on the evening news, or when she guessed starred as an obnoxious bus driver or teacher on their favorite sitcom. So to see me, a soft spoken, intelligent black girl, baffled many and pleased few.
The ones who didn’t know how to “deal with me” chose to ignore me or insult me, and like falling apples, their kids followed suit. I remember one day while minding my business on the playground a group of attitudes found their way on my side of the hop scotch. The girls’ glitter painted hair and pastel clothes distracted me from their villainous eyes, so I was clueless as to why they came to see me.
Are they trying to talk to me?, I thought, Do they actually want to get to know me? The thought of finally turning strangers into friends was exciting. I was eager to learn about them, and in return, school them on the art of me. The ring leader steps forward and says,
“My dad said they have roaches in the ghetto. I bet you saw a lot of roaches at your school right?” Her posse giggled triumphantly, desperately waiting for tears to fall down my cheeks, which was their way of knowing the deed was done.
My blood was boiling. I clenched the stick of chalk so hard I felt it’s thin powder shavings mingle with my sweat and seep into the pores of my palm. If her and her thick headed father wanted to see the “ghetto” so bad, I would gladly show it to them. I wanted to shove that chalk so far down her throat, so far that I could write my name on her colon and she’d never forget what the “ghetto” bred.
However, I thought for moment. What would that solve? Besides, I’d be giving the hell brats what they wanted. They wanted me to “act hood” and flip out, or cuss at them. I was truly fed up with this degrading treatment, but I would not let them see. I swallowed the pain, put on the mask I taught myself to wear well, turned to those half wits, smiled as grandly as possibly and replied,
“No. I actually didn’t see my first roach until I starting going here. Do you guys ever clean up after yourselves?” (Side note: this was actually true. That school was disgusting as hell. As high and mighty as those white people behaved they should have had the environmental maintenance taken care of. Remember, don’t throw stones when your house is filled with pests and rodents.)
My heart leapt with joy as their gleeful faces turned sour and their wishes burned to ash. I couldn’t believe it. I’m never usually quick with the come backs, let alone good ones, but this felt so good. It was perfect. Like a snarkier version of myself inhabited my body for the benefit of revenge. Unfortunately the elusive effects of my mask were beginning to fade. A depressed child can only pretend to be happy for so long. My true emotions were bubbling at the surface, and before they unloaded on the grounds below I raced for a classroom. The teachers were the few that enjoyed my company, since like the nerd I was, I paid attention in class and raised my hand when prompted. It may not seem like it, but teachers actually want students to participate in class discussions instead of sitting like mindless drones. They quite enjoy it. Who knew?
Teachers gave me words of advice and encouragement to boost my confidence when it fell so hard to the ground, it cracked the foundation. A day when I felt particularly shitty and secluded, my fifth grade homeroom teacher pulled me to the side and said,
“If you choose to ignore all the petty, childish insults thrown your way, twenty years from now you won’t even remember half of these kids, let alone how they made you feel. If you hold on to the negative, it will hold you back and eat at you. Your choice.”
This definitely empowered me, but shocked me even more. Even though the teachers cared for me, my experience with compassionate people was limited, especially with strangers from this strange land.
Although I took her advise and lived more for myself, I also became more closed off. I built walls thick enough to contain a country and limited the amount of information I told people. Having personal thoughts and feelings used against you is never fun. Believe me. Any friendships I developed were created out of sheer luck or true kindness when the individual approached me first. Case in point, my friend Kristine.
During freshmen year Kristine was new to the school. After the teacher conducted his embarrassing introduction, he left the seat choice to her. Based off her look: white girl, long brown hair, semi-preppy clothes, I was certain she’d chose a seat with the rabid pack of ferocious cheerleader terrors huddled around their male prey in the middle of the room.
Oh well. One less person I have to get to know, I thought. In my experience most people feared being genuinely nice to me, terrified their clique of friends wouldn’t approve. They’d berate me in public, but humor me in private. Once I found out I added another layer to my wall in their name. Because of this, the only time I knew a friendship was real was if they approached me first and talked to me in public without insult or sneak digs. When this happened I perked up like a book worm in the middle of a half price bookstore because I knew I finally had a real person in my life.
Anyhow, Kristine completely bypassed the lipstick zombies and made her way to my dim side of the room. The terrors mugged and cursed her name, but she could care less. I’m glad I didn’t let my preconceived notions about her cloud me because her personality did not match her look. She turned out to be funny, brazen as hell, bold, and smarter than the terrors. Since then she has been honest and loyal, which is hard to come by.
With this new addition to the roster I slowly tore away at the wall, but there were still days that I spent by myself. No longer because I was lonely, but because I finally realized the beauty of having alone time.
Single is under-rated, and it’s only lonely if you let those feelings creep in and take root. I didn’t have to worry about someone criticizing me or controlling me. I was never on someone else’s clock, never hassled. I never had to consider anyone’s feelings but my own. I would treat myself to movie dates, with an over priced margarita and large popcorn from the concession stand. I would rent movies, buy all the food I shouldn’t and binge watch five Tarantino films in one night. I immediately regretted the outrageous amount of calories ingested the night before, but I didn’t have anyone to look fit for so I burned fat when I felt like it. I went to clubs and danced with friends from work, with friends from school, with random creepy Russian guys, with random gay guys, hell, by myself. When the music was on you couldn’t tell me nothing.
Even though I adapted to single life, I wasn’t dead. I wanted some companionship. I wanted someone to dance with, binge watch Walking Dead and Tarantino films with, someone to dine out with, someone to travel with, cuddle with, kiss with, have sex with. No reason grimace or hide it. We all want that in a relationship.
I would not rush it though. I wanted it to be right. I wanted it to last. I knew the only way I’d find the right man for me, is if he approached me first. As I showed you before, real people only come into my life when they present themselves to me and show me their true colors, and from there I can make my decision to keep or toss. It may not seem like the best system, but it’s protected me this far when prior methods crashed and burned in my face.
So like most fun loving, single girls, I waited, and waited a little longer. Finally he showed, and in the most unconventional way possible. I’ll release the details at a later date because that’s not the point at the moment. The point is he showed and I couldn’t be happier, and he is by no means who I thought he’d turn out to be.
He doesn’t dance, unless he’s trying to make me laugh. He cooks the most delicious food. His mashed potatoes and fried chicken . . . Oh!
He’s not the tidiest person, but he’ll clean if I drop subtle hints. He’s hilarious and his laugh makes me laugh even harder. We have so much fun together whether we’re doing something or nothing. My walls started breaking down even more until they were mostly a pile of rubble. He’s also smart even when he doesn’t know it. He’s so handsome that sometimes I’m shocked he chose me. He’s self conscious about his appearance so much that he’s kind of a label whore. Only Levi’s and Nike’s can grace his body, and he scoffs at lesser fabrics. He’s very family oriented and is one of the most caring men I’ve come across.
Two winters ago when I had my beat up ’98 Accord, through a series of unfortunate events, I locked my keys in the car while pumping gas. Mind you it was 10 degrees outside with a wind chill of two degrees, so needless to say, my ass was cold. I just left my grandma’s nursing home down the street and thankfully my mom was still there. I called her to come get me since she was only a five or so minute drive away. In her worried, frantic mother tone,
“Oh my gosh, ok. I have to give something to the nurse. I’m leaving in a minute.”
So I wait. Then, I wait a little more. When it’s cold outside, you begin to literally count the seconds until salvation arrives. I continue to wait a little more, then my imagination takes hold.
I thought, well it probably takes her one and a half minutes to leave the nursing station and walk to her Jag outside. Then it takes approximately 1.2 minutes to get settled, start the car, put the heat on, and strap on her seat belt. Probably another 2.4 minutes to warm the car a little so the oil can do it’s thing on the engine. Another 1.8 minutes to leave her parking space, drive to the edge of the lot leading to the street where the gas station is located. Forty seven seconds to look both ways and wait for traffic to clear before making a safe right turn onto said road. Then finally, 3.9 minutes to travel down said road, make a right turn into the parking lot, and a slight left to the designated pump where I wait with frozen breasts underneath folded arms in a poorly sewn gray hoodie. No worries.
The thought of just walking there had crossed my mind, but I figured, why should I? Mom will be on her way faster than it would take me to walk. Plus my purse was on the front seat and I did not trust that to wandering eyes of strangers. So, I waited.
After waiting 15 minutes I was cold, pissed, and I had to use the bathroom. I thought damn, I would have been there by now. The phone rings. I answer gently with numb icicle fingers.
“Alright, I’m on my way”, she said. She hung up. I would have done the same if blood flowed through my digits and allowed movement, but I had to let technology take hold and hope the android was smart enough to disconnect without a babysitter.
After 20 more seconds of blistering cold hitting my cheeks, I decided to call my boyfriend. I didn’t think to call him first since he was 35 minutes away at home. Plus it would have taken him 10 extra minutes to warm the car since he hadn’t drove all day. By my calculation my mom seemed like the more viable option, but in hind sight . . . no.
After two rings he picks up the phone and I unload,
“My mom was supposed to be here 11.2 minutes ago. My boobs are cold, my ass is cold, my face is coldest. I’m hungry. I gotta pee. Can you please bring me my spare key? I know it’ll take you time. I don’t care. She takin’ forever and she’s just down the street. Please help me boo.”
“Alright. I got you.” He disconnects. Now I must wait.
Ten point three more minutes later I finally see a familiar face. It’s my boo. I was ecstatic. My heart started beating again. Blood returned to my limbs. Hope returned to my life.
“How in the hell did you get here so fast?” I cried with joy.
“Shit, I was speeding. It’s cold as f*** out here”, he chuckled. “I’m not gonna leave you standing out here while I warm the car up. What kind of s*** is that?”
“Oh, you didn’t warm it up?”
We both laughed. He gave me the key to my salvation. I started the car and happily headed for home behind him. Halfway home my phone rings.
“Ok, I’m leaving now.”
I smacked my lips with distain. It was my mom of course, but I had to mess with her for taking to long. I replied,
“Who is this?”
“Your mom, what the– ? You said you needed me to come, right?”
“Girl that was two hours ago. Dre been came and got me. You good. Might as well stay with granny now.”
This is just a minor example of his affection, but I knew if he would risk a traffic ticket just to rescue me from Mr. Frost, then I finally found a keeper.
Things were excellent for a while. I never had a real relationship before, so I wondered what people complained about because ours seemed awesome.
We both love going out to the movies if a new suspense, action or comedy came out that looked interesting. We both love Mexican food and drinking, so El Toro became our spot. I got him hooked on Tarantino and the sadistic world of The Walking Dead, and he introduced me to Spaceballs and Little Shop of Horrors. We’re eager to travel the world and make money so we can support ourselves and our families. Our personalities slightly differ, but all our goals were in line and our love seemed strong and capable of conquering most obstacles.
Now. Now I don’t know. We teeter back and forth. I feel like we argue about little things too much sometimes. We could spend days mad about who said what, when and how. Barely looking at each other. Barely saying more than two words to one another. Sometimes even after we talk it out, it makes things worse because more issues surface. I struggle to pull out what he’s thinking and feeling, and it makes me feel like he doesn’t trust me. Like he’s afraid I’ll judge his emotions, which I would never do. At times it feels like his walls are thicker than mine were, and just when I feel like I cracked the surface, he adds another layer.
Once we finally cool off and move past the bull, we’re great. We’re loving on each other like nothing happened. At times I’m confused. I don’t know how to deal with my own emotions half the time, let alone someone else’s. I guess the question I’m trying to ask is, are most relationships like this? Are they normally up for a while, then down, then back up again? Or is this just us? I used to worry so much about keeping him. I love him so much, but now I’m to the point where if I keep him, then I keep him. If it ends, then it ends.
Is that bad? My granny always told me I’d fine with or without a man, and I know this to be true, but for some reason I feel guilty feeling this way.