By Guest Blogger T. Lynn
I used to think I was different than everyone else, a true individual with very unique experiences.
Apparently, I’m just a statistic.
According to a Yale University study among women with advanced degrees, Black women are twice as likely never to have been married by age 45 than White women. Tell me something I don’t know. Most of my friends are single, educated sisters who can’t get a date…a date with anyone we like, anyway. On the other hand, well damn! My singlehood has been documented and confirmed by sociologists, which makes it some kind of fact. Grrrr!
But wait, there’s more! More than any other group studied, Black women are we’re less likely than even our men to have college-grad spouses. Think about that for a minute, and realize that it’s because Black men are more likely to marry White women, while Black women would rather find a Brotha with a GED than cross over into “something new” territory. Yes, that information is in the study too. Someone get me a drink.
I have nothing against a high-school graduate; neither of my parents went to college. And, degree or not, my Dad is one of the smartest men I know. If I could find someone like him I’d be shopping for rings as we speak, ready to propose. But the non-diploma’d men I’ve dated are intimidated by my friends from college and business school. It’s not like we walk around saying, “Let us gather and wax sentimental about the alma mater. Boola Boola!” or start sentences with “When I got my MBA…” But occasionally I’ll want my guy to come to the Yale-Harvard game and get drunk at the parking lot tailgate. And when he’s standing in the chug line-up next to me, I want him to feel comfortable with the guys tapping the keg. Is that too much to ask?
Similarly, I don’t really want to marry a White man. Hey, I have plenty of White friends. But some things about them remain strange to me. Like, where are the washcloths? Don’t y’all use them when you take a shower? When I’m staying at your house, I expect you to give me a towel and washcloth, not a towel and a bar of soap, know what I mean? My Black husband would get it, and we’d pack some extra terrycloth when we visit. Then there’s the hair thing. The mother of a Caucasian friend actually put her hand in my Afro before introductions! Imagine if that came from my man’s mother? Imma have to say it’s a bad idea to bitch-slap potential family members, even if they do dumb stuff.
Perhaps there’s hope with one of the nice Pakistani cab drivers that always tell me I’m beautiful. Some of them are doctors in their country. And we’d have nice brown babies. It’s something to consider. What do you think?
Guest Blogger T. Lynn runs her own blog about a variety of topics at http://mypolaropposite.wordpress.com.