It's not the little things that bug me so much – his moms potato salad, his fraternity brothers that inevitably will never grow up, or even his khaki shorts. It's more about the things that perhaps if I were white, wouldn't bother me so much. It's more about the microaggressions he's not aware of committing and trying to judge which of his friends voted for Trump or not. Don't get me wrong, I love white men. They're always up to play in the wilderness, they're mad romantic, and most of them have a stellar 5-year plan. But dating white men can be a different kind of exhausting– it's tiring contemplating whether or not it's too early to bring out your head scarf and having to explain why you don't want your hair touched. No John, I can't shower with you because I didn't bring my shower cap. Yes John, this does mean I do not wash my hair every day. John, please remove your hands from my curls; not only have I worked all day on these springs that you're admiring but I would prefer not to be touched like an exotic pet. Dating white men is like being a teacher but unlike a teacher you're always on the clock and find yourself often frustrated because the truth is, you never signed up to be in the business of educating white men (but here you are, writing articles doing just that). I educate him on section 8 housing, leave-in conditioner, and seasoning's, checking off every stereotype because reality is that it's not likely he's ever had to benefit from financial assistance (his college fund was conceived before he was) and he's never had my mom's fried chicken (one time a guy thought Lawry was my uncles name) but his understanding of these subjects is vital to our relationship because they are the staples of who I am. I have to work hard to defy the same stereotypes I have to educate him on – he hadn't realized that black girls could be as eloquent as his mother, or that sometimes we listen to Fleetwood Mac on our vintage record players just like the hipster white women do. However, this is work – I speak carefully in an attempt to demonstrate my intelligence while also using the correct amount of slang to appear 'down to earth' and my playlist are all carefully curated in a way that's equally both indie tunes and rap beats. When I've mastered this and finally find myself undressing in a white boy's room I wonder if I'm his most recent fetish – I smile when I ride him and imagine myself problematically whispering "have you ever been with a black girl?". Of course, I do so seductively; just like the way he's heard it on the results page of his "young busty black girls" pornhub search. I'm totally kidding. This is actually my worst nightmare but often I find myself rationalizing the fact that this may very well be this white boy's dream and here I am naively fulfilling it.

I had been casually seeing this white boy for a few weeks when I ran in to him at a bar with (you guessed it) a white woman and a few of his friends. A few nights before, I had gracefully placed his cock in my mouth so it's safe to say that I was surprised when he acted as if I didn't exist. I spent an hour crying via face time to my best-friend because I couldn't pin point why I was so upset; I knew it was in general, a dick move, but for some reason this had really hit home. After much deliberation and consulting between my group of beautifully liberated friends, I had realized that It wasn't that we had made plans to hang out that very night, or even the fact that he was there with Becky – but it was that here I was, in a world where black women are already invisible, and I was being treated like a ghost by someone I had been intimate with. He had unintentionally made me feel like I was less than a person, as if I was the 3/5 compromise played out modernly. In private, he was allowed to cook me salmon and participate in pillow talk but in public our friendship was not allowed to exist. I was good white enough to be fucked and sleeping in his bed, but not good white enough to be acknowledged any place else. Saying hello to me wasn't worth the trouble or the shame he would feel if his friends knew that I existed. While this may not be his truth, it was certainly mine. These are the kind of microaggressions white men unknowingly (and honestly, sometimes knowingly) participate in, making it difficult for black women to see themselves as anything other than a pornhub results page. It's important for me to note that I'm sure these were not his intentions – I'm aware that my feelings stem from years of systematic oppression and insecurities that as a black woman, I was just born with. But it's also important for me to note that white men must be more cautious of their actions, specifically when dating women of color, in an attempt to be more empathic of how their actions are likely to be perceived. I'm asking that you be cautious of how you move in an attempt to limit the amount of times that the queen next to you has to question "is it because I'm black?"