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To them, Black men were filthy and diseased, which could only mean one thing: I was too.As my luck with white men plummeted, I was inevitably pushed further towards black guys.I felt a certain pride in hanging out with people who were Dominican, Indonesian, Laos, Filipino, Hispanic, etc. My parents taught me good morals, like not judging others by their appearance, though I did have to keep my jaw clenched when I visited relatives.They would ask me about the “colored kids” at my job as a camp counselor and spoke the word “bi-racial” in hushed tones, as if it were something to be ashamed of.Flo Rida’s “Can’t Believe It” flowed through party speakers with its lyrics “Damn that white girl got some a** I don’t believe it” and “black girl got some a** it ain’t no secret”, taking me back to feelings of insecurity I started having as a little kid.The first time I had ever questioned my physical appearance was before I even began first grade.I began attending parties where I was one of the few white people.Guys would approach me, rarely avoiding grabbing my butt or asking the question, “So you like black guys?
Fitting into this lifestyle felt more natural to me than living in Rochester ever did.
They seemed to be intimidated by my dozens of Facebook pictures with darker men, causing them to run before they even got to know me.
“They’re riddled with sexually transmitted diseases” one ignorant guy messaged me on Tinder after seeing a single picture of me with black guys on my profile.
While some people smiled at us as we held hands in D. or walked side by side around the Inner Harbor, others just stared with disapproving eyes.
The thing is, people were tolerant, but they were not always accepting.