To be Black and in love.
To be Black and to love love
Infatuation.
I remember the first boy to like me.
Brown hair, brown eyes.
Middle school crush with an infatuation.
A fascination
With me.
My existence, not my being.
Admiration.
I remember the first boy I liked.
Brown skin, hazel eyes.
Warm admiration of a Black girl with braces.
Short glances and inescapable heartache.
Passé and naïveté.
Immaturity and insecurity.
Admiration spoken too soon.
Adoration.
I remember my first time.
Deep love.
Deep respect.
Till adoration turned into passion without veneration.
Till love turns into lust.
Lust for the exotic.
Desire for my thighs not fully formed.
My Mama’s hips passed down.
My body, not my soul.
My frame, not the mind within it.
Devotion.
I remember my first love.
I remember the first boy who loved me.
Simultaneous warmth given to one another.
Steadfast fall into irresistible comfort.
Like walking with full faith in the path’s direction.
Like traveling with no care for the destination.
“Beautiful black woman, I love you”
My devotion.
My love, loyalty, and languish.
Languish.
Foolishness.
“Beautiful black woman, I love you”
Till they don’t.
Till you’re too loud for their ears.
Too wide for their hands.
Too impatient for their disregard.
“Beautiful black woman, I love you”
I wish to hear those words.
Longing for those words.
Dreading those words.
And the hidden trap door beneath them.
So I say to Valentine's Day.
MiC Columnist Iman Jamison can be reached at ijamison@umich.edu.
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