Excerpt from the blog article:
(herein Boyfriend is referred to as the letter 'S')
The more I felt my friends’ approval, the more I felt my life was a statement, the more disgusted I became with myself. I didn’t really want anyone to think a damned thing other than “There goes Jen with another boyfriend.”
Interracial dating turned out to be much easier than I’d anticipated. For every black woman that scowled at me—an over-done stereotype, I say—there was a middle-aged white woman in faded blue jeans smiling with jubilant approval as S and I walked by. But you don’t know him, I thought. You don’t know us. Why do we have to be making a statement? The more time I spent with S, the more invisible race became. Stereotypes fell away. I was by far the better dancer and had a preternatural ear for The Wire’s street lingo, while S needed subtitles. I loved rap, S loved opera. But to white eyes, he remained exotic.
Alongside our evolving relationship, Obama and Clinton duked it out for the Democratic nomination. My friends and colleagues pitched their tents firmly in the Obama camp. But I resisted. So did S. The knee-jerk enthusiasm people had for S seemed showered a thousand-fold on Obama. Oh, if we could elect a black man president! He would absolve our national sins. His election would herald a post-racial America. S and I didn’t buy it.
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