But in my late teens and early 20s, this didn't prevent me from assuming my own racial blind spots, especially when it came to love.
He wasn't rich and his career wasn't exactly father-approved.I was ignorant that appearances could be both deceiving and alienating — that my racialization of romance kept me at arm's length from deeper intimacy. I have proof: a letter I wrote to "my future daughter" when I was 11 years old.Not trusting that white or black men would see beyond my skin color let me stay apart, aloof, even a little superior. There it is, in proper preteen cursive handwriting:"When I grow up, I'm going to marry a surfer with blond hair and brown eyes.It reminded me of seeing so many successful and powerful black males — politicians, businessmen, entertainers — who appeared alongside lighter-skinned, sometimes white female companions. It wasn't for me, so I either outright rejected black men or begrudgingly went on dates with them only to write them off well before the dessert course arrived.Caucasian men were another problem: I didn't believe they saw me as a potential romantic partner, given that I knew so few white male/black female couples.In hindsight, my distrust of men didn't get me far.