“Why Sistas Stare At You and Julie When You’re Walking Hand in Hand Through the Mall….It’s Not Cuz We’re Hating…It’ s Cuz…..”

Welcome back to our in-depth look at White Girls. If you missed Pt. I, never fear…the sale ends when all red-tagged items are gone. Let's call it The White Sale.

So insecure interracial minds wanna know:

Q: Why DO black bitches, I mean, sistas stare at me and Julie when we’re walking hand in hand through the mall?

A: It’s not cuz we’re hating…It’ s cuz…..we’re nosy. Plain and simple. At least THIS sista is.

What had happened was...

He and I interned at the Today Show together back in the day. Mad cool, Chris started a week before I did, so he was assigned to show me the ropes…ya know, the important details like the tape room, the research library… the Rosie O’Donnell and SNL studios (where I would later have my infamous dance-off with Shaq…another story for another day).

It was an intense semester and Chris and I bonded and kept in touch long after. So when he called me one night a few years back to tell me he would be in town from Nevada I was happy to make plans.

So we meet at a midtown Manhattan pub near Madison Square Garden, get a lil bent. Then we start walking down 7th Ave into the mild evening air… cloaked in nonstop conversation through the garment district, in and out of the heart of Chelsea, past the swanky bars on 14th Street, and into the pulse of the West Village.

Every progressive metro has a “Village”. In Philly it’s South St., In DC I guess it’s U Street, Dallas it’s Deep Ellum. Ya know, the communal social toilet where you can get the best drinks in town. Where the mohawks and chain belts mingle with the same-sex kids, where tattoo shops and purple hair are as common as the stop signs on each corner. Anything goes in the Vill…except I guess, for the eccentric sideshow of a sista with a white boy. ::GASP::

Oh, I didn’t mention Chris was a cute white boy...and I, a wise sista? I digress…

By now, we’re so comfortably lost in the great, easy conversation. Immersed in the joy of spending quality time with a good person with whom we shared a pivotal moment in our young professional lives. We’re holding hands as we walk.We stop at a little kiosk near 8th St. looking at cheap silver rings and braided bracelets. The Indian woman behind the cart gives me the ice grilly. Rather than defensive, I get suspicious…

Did it look like I was about to scoop up that thumb ring that I thought was cute but not for THAT price? Is my shirt buttoned too low like a loose chick? Is my part crooked? WHAT?? I got a gin and tonic stain on my cleveland or somethin? [note: my cleveland is more like Akron. Sista could use a high-calorie diet for the tits. ::sigh::]

I pay her no mind, but Chris notices it too, and as we continue down the way… toward a clearing in the skyline that would have given us a plain view of the WTC had it been a few years earlier… he informs me that for blocks we have been the talk of the town like Wendy Williams. I’m suddenly hyperaware of the constant stares. And not like regular, “Damn, those are some cute pumps Sista's rocking” looks. But undeniable "WTF?" glares.

We laugh it off as we approach Tribeca, pointing out a million other things that should have been considered an oddity...

The bag lady pushing a dirty baby doll in a stroller walks along unnoticed.

The cat with the nut-hugging plaid orange cut-offs is chillin like Ralph Ellison.

But the Black girl (rocking the cute azz pumps, might I add), and the handsome, trendy white boy are starring live on Broadway.

While the attention was amusing, I could relate...

Anytime I visit my hometown, the mall is always a destination. A quick one, for sure, unless you sincerelly want a reunion with your 3rd grade classmates or any bad fucks from back in the day. They WILL corner you at the food court. Never fails.

And it also never fails that nowadays I can’t travel between Claire's Boutique and Yankee Candle without passing an interracial couple or two. And by interracial I do mean black boys with white girls. And more and more the party involves a stroller.

I don’t give a fcuk about PC, this is an ode to my own personal politics…and this is alarming to me on so many levels. These are the same dudes you couldn’t pay to walk around with a sista of ANY hue. Naw, he prefers to stroll the summer festivals and concerts with his boys. The same dude who demands my homegirl get rid of his seed. This is the cat that is hugged up tight playing house with Becky and Darnell Jr.

So when we see the Lizzie Lovers, with said Lizzie, in the mall or on the street, yeah we do stare. But hear Heather tell it, we’re isolating them, and making them feel uncomfortable…like a sista is lifting up her shirt to brandish a gat in the waistband or some shit. Gimme a break like the sitcom.

Personally speaking, I usually don’t give them the satisfaction of thinking that I care that they’re together, because in all honesty, I don’t. It’s not my concern. He’s your headache now, Laura.

But sometimes, just to be an azzhole, just when I see them consider turning and walking in the opposite direction when they see me approaching, I might look them both in the eye as I pass by. And smirk. Same way I would do an Ex on a day I’m looking extra fly.

In this day and age, I doubt many sistas are really that pressed about making a scene…unless of course looking is considered Act I.

Here are a few reasons why I look at Darnell and Becky:

Ø I want to see if I know him…in which case I can try to figure out why he’s with her (slow down…it’s not a white thing. Any time we see an odd couple we wonder why and how. Think: JDupri and Janet)

Ø I want to make sure he’s never or never in the future tries to holler at me. I’m typically not into dudes who like white girls. Shut up…personal preference.

Ø I want to glimpse their dynamics. Ever wonder if Tiger Woods’ wife ever slips and calls him a "fcuking honkiniggachink"? I do. Or if Heidi Klum laughs when her model friends tell her that their code name for fine azz Seal is "Amistad"? Yeah, I’m dying to know too. So I always study to see if she looks like the kind of redneck who’s perpetually got “broke nigger” (yes, with an 'ER') on the tip of her tongue.

Ø I wonder if what brothas say is true…are white girls more accommodating (read: buy them shit), and are they really more obedient? So I’m nosy, looking for Foot Locker and Structure shopping bags stuffed under the stroller, and downward cast eyes from Jenny, as receipts hang from her jacket pocket.

Ø I want to see what “type” of brotha this is. Is he the young, broke opportunist? The mature, I-never-meet-any-sistas-on-my-socio-economic-level dude? And since I’m convinced I’m an excellent judge of a book cover, I always trust my 1st look instincts.

Ø I’m also interested in what type of white girls like black guys. Is she the no-one-at-my-Dad's office-can-find-out, Mom-is-so-pissed WASPY chick…the Girls-Gone-Wild type…the Honor-Society-student-gone awry…or the corn rowed I-grew-up-with-niggas white girl named Tasha? Just wondering.

Look, we hear about white girls like it’s a fairy tale lifestyle….so naturally we’re curious about you and Snow White. You really expect us not to be after you hoist them up on pedestals high above our nappy roots? That’s like asking a Mexican not to look toward the border.

We’re curious…but not always contemptuous. And rarely as consumed or concerned as this (too long) blog post may suggest.

But I get it. I can relate. Perhaps the Village People were just curious about me and Chris. Was I a valley-girl-accent in-black-face? A stripper meeting a client on my day off? A die hard suburbanite? An athlete’s daughter? Straight from the Ivy League? A starving artist on my way to the casting couch?

And who the hell was this cute white boy with impeccable taste, walking her all the way from Midtown to Ground Zero?

So I’m opening up the phone lines to the females reading this…

Do you get curious when you see the Black.White? Why? Why not? Do you fear Darnell and Donna get the wrong impression? Have you ever been confronted by an insecure couple?

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