Why A Black Man Should Marry a

White Women

 
 Table of Contents
Preface
Chapter One - Lonely Home
Chapter Two- Dog in the Dirt
Chapter Three- Free loading
Chapter Four- Sports
Chapter Five-Tap Dancing
Chapter Six- Rent
Chapter Seven- Moonlighting
Chapter Eight- In the Pot
Chapter Nine- Reflection
 
Preface
There is a move or quite possibly a push to see interracial relationships form as a societal
shift in America. It is interesting enough to note that many races, much like species in the wild
base the choice of their mate on sustainability, attraction, or provisions they can potentially
receive. What is the result of environmental changes in nature? It is adaptation is it exclusively a
magnetic attraction? These observations have led me to question many realities that have
manifested in my life and experiences I’ve observed up close and in person. Why has the black
mans’ adaptive nature evolved to prefer the white women as opposed to a black woman? Is it
simply an opposites attract scenario, where boy meets girl and their two worlds collide to form
an orchestra of balance and harmony? Is this increasing phenomenon something that indicates
the worthlessness of black women? Is this reality a statement of the failures of black men? Has
this been caused by external forces? So many questions surround the path to our societal
evolutionary habits. These psychological tendencies have expanded to play out in the larger
group’s tendencies and trends. So many people ponder why black relationships are not as
cohesive as they were in the past. Some people wonder why the American landscape has changed
to display multiculturalism and inclusion as a shining star of achievement. Many people wonder
why there are too few black mates available. Moreover, many asses the growing disconnect
between black men and women and how they communicate their innermost insecurities,
obstacles they face, and unique self-expression. The question of value is real and has led me to
ponder the current status of black love. These very complex relationship topics have an origin.
They have an answer. And my answer is clear. The black man must marry a white woman.
 
 Chapter One
Lonely Home
Who really wants to experience the journey of life alone? I think if we answered this question
honestly the answer would come with a resounding belief that no individual person would like to
remain that way for the duration of their existence.
It is one thing to have come accustomed to the absence of a dedicated body of warmth to lay
with, it is all together a different thought to not feel like that significant other will ever be present
~Quick

I remember the pink home we lived in on South Elm Street. My mother Marlene
Hopkins, my older brother Tim, my younger brother Mark, and my Uncle Fitz all resided with
me in this house. The little pink house was a quaint two bedroom with about 1200 sq. ft of space.
Adjacent to an old VW junk yard that had a sea of endless “punch buggies” where my brothers
and I played recklessly was our little pink home. As far back as my memory can serve, I never
saw a man other than my Uncle Fitz in that home. At the present, my mother Marlene Hopkins
has long passed from cancer, but my memory has a tapestry of strength, struggle, and
perseverance pertaining to her beautifully short-lived life. My mother was what you would call a
prodigy, she graduated college at the age of 18 and as far back as I can remember, she worked
hard to educate, and provide for my brothers and me. Although there was love in this home; from
mother to sons, from brother to sister, and from a nephew to uncle perspective, there was
something lacking. Where was the body of warmth to aid in the balance of feminine and
masculine energies of our home? Where was the intimacy, the passion of sharing goals, energy,
collectivity, or simply decompression of thoughts and stress relief from a day of a black women’s
struggle to provide for three little boys? My older brother Tim was fathered by a man that still
lives in the small town we were from, to this day I never remember seeing him step foot in that
little pink home. I know in reflection that he was a mailman and lived in a home across town
where he fathered four other children. Out of these four other children, they had three different
mothers. This fact we will leave here to address at a later point. He never came for birthdays,
never took my brother shopping, to play ball or even walk with him across the stage for his
kindergarten graduation. By all accounts he casted the vote of absente father in respect to Tim
and formed a void-filled father-son relationship in my eyes. My younger brother Mark and I had
the same father. He maintained the same voter party system as Tim’s father, however. Nowhere
to be found, not even close to the city we lived in and could never be placed on the emergency
call roster at the school my brother and I attended. You may say, “But Uncle Fitz was there.”
This is true, but to follow your logical train of thought, his presence was felt in the home, but his
presence was not what was missing from our little pink home. Uncle Fitz was a damaged man.
He served in the United States Army during the Vietnam War and suffered from a list of physical
illnesses to include Post traumatic stress syndrome, alcoholism, and drug addiction. Marlene was
by no means receiving help from Uncle Fitz, he needed her to function, stay warm, and to eat.
Realistically, Uncle Fitz was a free loader as a direct result of the cards life dealt him and the
choices, he made following those experiences. Despite all of that she loved him no less.
My mother worked in the mall in our town. She was a carousel operator which was a job
that we enjoyed the benefits from dearly. Anytime we got off the bus from school to finish her
shift with her, we would take endless rides on all types of animals and regal chariots. These
outings would give us a sense of freedom. An escape from the two-bedroom captivity we knew
to be the pink home. We would get some spending money and consume as many cinnamon-
covered pretzels as we could afford. If memory serves me correctly, that came to a grand total of
one freshly baked pretzel that needed to be divided amongst three arguing boys, competing for
the coveted finger-licking experience. As my mother shift came to an end, we prepared ourselves
to leave the closing mall. Tim would grab her coat, I would grab her bag, and Mark her hand and
then we would take our trip often late at night across town to our little pink home.
Let’s reflect: Lonely Home
Many Black women are the backbone of their homes, often the pillar of strength to their
extended family and in some instances the community at large. Single mother homes happen so
often in black America. I always ask myself, “why in the black home is there so many single
mothers”? Companionship is one of human nature’s most beautiful necessities that formulates a
base of strength and confidence. In my upbringing, I recognized there was a huge void in my
mother’s life. She did her best cooking, cleaning, working, and teaching three boys how to be
respectful and disciplined. But where was the support?
Tim’s father lived less than fifteen minutes away and I never saw him. He had many
children all over the city and I can imagine that he had a very similar relationship with their
mothers. Why did he not value the warmth of the black women’s affection. So much so, he tried
and tried and tried again, only complicating the situation by bringing multiple lives into the
world whom would grow up with complex self-worth issues, rage, and feelings of isolation. I
know one of his children to be a gun-carrying “dope boy” and his daughter to be a self-
conscience attention seeker, who finds comfort in any man’s bed. These perspectives were felt by
my younger brother Mark and I as well. The lack of a teacher, a mentor, and an experienced
facilitator in life was so debilitating. We visualized our fathers walking away and handing us a
pair of crutches to lean on when we needed to attempt to stand for something, take accountability
for our actions, or be fearless in the face of racism, rejection, or day to day obstacles in general.
How much pressure is it as a black woman to incur the weight of a brother with drug
addictions living in your home as you simultaneously attempt to teach three young men not to
resemble the actions of this very present influencer? I would assert that the difficulty level must
have been extreme. Nights filled with arguments about stolen items from our home, drunken
anger about the war, and disruptive sleep cycles of her precious little boys. Being College
educated with all things being equal is a good thing. You can imagine in black communities now
a days, parents point to higher education as the way to become successful, validate your worth,
and even to “make it”. In real life, my mother had her bachelor’s degree in business management
with a concentration in Human Relations back in the 1990’s. Her job was to operate a mall
carousel. She made $8.15 an hour and had no medical benefits. Marlene was a very sociable
person and I can reflect enough to remember she was cultured and communicated quite
effectively. Why couldn’t she land an office, government, or corporate job with higher wages and
a perks package? Was this reality a result of her stance as an angry black woman? Did her stance
on harassment or workplace jokes make her less appealing to the mainstream? Was it because
she a woman? Was it because she was black? Was she in the wrong marketplace? Was it because
of her lack of support in our little pink home or the inability to care for three little boys with a
demanding job? Was she forced into that career field because she wasn’t a white woman? Maybe
she was too “dark skinned.” Maybe she was too headstrong and goal oriented. Maybe she just
didn’t take shit from worthless men. Nevertheless, the bed was lonely. The Christmas tree was
typically plastic, and beanie weenies were a quick fix to a problem of value that was placed on
the women she was and could have been to a dedicated and confident companion. Maybe it was
because she was a nurturer and needed to operate as a mother to all the men in her life. Maybe
life would have been better for her and she would have died from cancer with a strong man
beside her instead of three little boys, alone in our pink home. Maybe she would have had a
better life if she was a White woman.
What we know: Lonely Home
• Black Women are the least married population in America
• Black Women are the largest population percentage wise to have children out of wedlock
• Black Women are the most educated female race in America, out educating their Black
male counterparts.
• When married, black women are divorced at higher rates.
• One in four black women are medically uninsured.
• Black women experience unintended pregnancies three times the rate of white women.
• Married or cohabiting African American households have a median wealth of $31,500
while single African American women have a median wealth of only $100. African American
women with children, however, have zero median wealth.

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