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.Half of my mother’s four sisters are married to white men.
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 had stopped knowing who to count out at parties or open bars, and so I winged it.
I found myself on a first date with a guy who was born and raised in Yonkers, with a family from El Salvador.
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 felt too ironic; the first black man who I dated had left me in exactly the way that I feared.
He had grown tired of letting me pretend, I realized.
It was only a month later that it struck me that it was over.