Dear you, and maybe him, too:
“I’m just going to say it: there’s gonna be guys intimidated by what you do for a living.”
A recent comment from one of my homeboys found me reflecting on the fact that for the majority of my life, I’ve been told that caring for me must be some kinda tall order—something that requires more than can be expected of the average guy.
The most frequent refrain, “It’s gonna take a strong man/a special kind of brother/a real n*gga to handle you,” is usually delivered as if it’s a compliment. After all, the suggestion is that it’s my intelligence, my confidence* and/or some of the things I’ve been able to access and accomplish that might make me feel less easy-to-grasp for a less-than-capable man.
This sort of word isn’t just issued to “accomplished” women; we’ve heard it said about Black women in general, right? “You gotta understand, not everyone can handle a Black woman…” We’re told that we’re not always a soft enough place for some of our brothers to find comfort at the end of a long day doing battle with racism. We are not told of anyone that we can expect to go to and rest our own weary heads after also dealing with all that we bear. Just that whomever does chose to love us must be “strong.”
Perhaps this should go without saying, but it does not feel good to be told that you’re too anything to access the care and affection you crave. We’ve found ways to celebrate ourselves as towering figures of womanhood, and I’m certainly convinced that I am the shit, be clear. But it is tempting, at least on occassion, to consider if there is a version of me that might have an easier time in some regards. Do I shrink? Become softer? Sweeter? I feel like a rather delicate flower to begin with, but that doesn’t always translate when you have strong opinions. Might I want to betray my values for what may look like an easier lifestyle?
Spoiler alert: the answer is always “no.”
You know what is a bitter pill to swallow? When I look at my male peers, it seems like the more they accomplished, the more explansive their dating pool got. Yet, it still feels like many of us sisters who are thriving in the lives we’ve created while unpartnered are being told that we’re even more “difficult” candidates for love because we’re thriving.
Alas, here you are. Maybe you’re just special. Maybe I’m not that hard to like. Maybe both are true.
If you’re new to me, know that I’m not some wildly successful scribe or celebrity pundit; just someone working (mostly) contentedly in her chosen field who has maintained an online presence for a long time. Speaking of, I’m also hypersensitive about the amount of information (both true and devastatingly—and deliberately—false) that is available about me on the computer box, which has allowed me to pay my bills for the last ten buckets but has also made it possible for you to go down a terrible research rabbit hole that I’d prefer you didn’t travel without my guidance.
What may be more frightful than the idea of being outpaced or outshined by a partner with a work-life like mine (at least I hope) is the idea that I’d make content out of you. I will admit that I did write about an ex post-breakup some years ago, and we can totally discuss that, but it’s not something I intend to do again. My current brand of online oversharing is talking about my feelings in broad terms in an essay like this, but it does not involve telling the streets about whatever we have going on.
I’m torn between enjoying this space you landed in as a personal blog of sorts, while being fearful that I’m simply amplfifying to the difficulty that my work has added to my longterm romantic prospects. I’m also grappling with why I want to be publicly vulnerable online at all when I know as well as anyone that Black women really don’t need to make ourselves any more vulnerable than we already are. Also trying to figure out how and why I expect to be able to have this space without you reading it.
There’s always a good reason not to love a Black woman, and “she’s got too much going on for herself” is a particularly cruel one. I can’t do anything with a man who’d draw such a conclusion. However, I can (ridiculously) ask that anyone who ever finds themselves reading this while dating me to try and understand why I do not want you on this blog and why it is a space for literally everyone else on the planet but you.
I don’t want you here because I don’t want you to misread this piece and think men don’t like typically want me…please don’t think that, things could get awkward fast. I also don’t want you to think I’m deseperate or lonely, or that I was even agressively looking at the time I published this. My life is good. Whomever gets to step into it is a lucky soul, not a lifeguard nor a superhero.
My love life is not going to be a frequent subject here. There are a lot of factors that go into what I chose to write about, sometimes it’s just a matter of grappling with a passing throught as an exercise of sorts. I had some feels here that I wanted to flesh out and I also wanted to put this on (web) paper so that you know: I am NOT going to write about you! So, like, don’t come back here! This space is not safe for what we are trying to build, whatever that might be.
I just rather talk to you about certain things myself.
xo,
Jamilah
**A lot of assumptions are made about confidence when you’re a Black woman, and when you add in my height and the fact that I’m perceived by some as “successful” or “visible,” then people just think you’re a monument of self-esteem,
*