Monday, March 22, 2010

Attention, time and money

I'd known Conspiracy Theory since my freshman year. He was a fixture on the Yale campus. He'd stop by the African-American Cultural Center (better known as "The House"). He'd come to "white Yale" events of interest that were open to the general public. He'd stroll through the Yale campus.

And everywhere he went, he talked to students.

And everywhere he went, students talked to him.

You see, Conspiracy was a bit of a local celebrity. A self-proclaimed "radical revolutionary," Conspiracy had been a member of a famous organization known for its Afros, berets, black leather jackets, feline emblem and firearms. He had been a defendant in one of the most famous criminal trials of the late 1960's/early 1970's.

And now, 20 years later, he considered it his duty to make sure that Yale students and New Haveners alike knew American history as he had experienced it.

He was not a stalker, a predator, a man obsessed with fresh young meat. His ex-wife was in his age group. So was his ex-girlfriend, a middle-aged white woman he had lived with for many years. And after me, to his credit, he went back to dating women who were "age appropriate."

I think that him dating me was much more of a departure than me dating him.

I already had a history of dating older men. My first sexual experience at age 16 was with a 40-something. And courtesy of my mom, whose second marriage was to a man more than 30 years older than she was, I didn't think the age difference was all that strange.

So how did a 52-year-old radical revolutionary and a 20-year-old Yale student get entangled in a live-in romantic relationship that lasted over two years?

Attention, time and money. In that order.

It was my junior year at Yale, and I had moved off campus with two other girls. My entire time at Yale, I felt angry, isolated and depressed, and moving off campus hadn't made much of a difference.

The biggest difference was that I could no longer count on the dining hall to feed me.

I had to feed myself.

And I hated to cook.

So, initially, one of Conspiracy's greatest selling points is that he would take me to dinner.

At first, our get-togethers had the air of platonic friendship, no strings attached.

After two years of feeling like an invisible black girl lost in a sea of indifferent, rich whites, someone was actually listening to me and using words like "smart" and "beautiful" to describe me. Attention.

On a campus that moved at a frenetic pace and where I found it hard to make meaningful connections, someone actually wanted to hang out with me. Time.

And as a broke girl living on Fruit Loops and Brach's Orange Slices (because the T-Factor diet said I could eat anything I wanted as long as it didn't contain fat), having someone buy me dinner made me feel powerful. Money.

Attention, time and money turned Conspiracy into an instant friend and in short order, into a lover as well.

Conspiracy Diaries Part 2 of 25 (1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25)
Conspiracy Lessons Learned 1-4 (1 2 3 4)


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Saturday, March 20, 2010

The story that's never been told

After Number Two came Conspiracy Theory, my first real boyfriend.
  • He was my first orgasm.
  • He was the first relationship that lasted more than a few months (and in my entire life, there have only been two that I could measure in years – Conspiracy and Brown).
  • He was the first, last and only man I have ever lived with.
  • He's the only man I ever introduced to my family.
  • He's the only man I kept in touch with years after breaking up.
I can honestly say he saved my life and enriched it in many ways.

I can also honestly say that he stunted my growth and controlled me in many ways.

You see, Conspiracy Theory was an older man. Much older. As in 32 years older. As in five years older than my mother and four years younger than my dad.

So our relationship was never balanced, and it was never equal.

And in hindsight, it was never honest. The entire relationship was shrouded in secrecy and paranoia and dangerous ghosts of the past, because that was Conspiracy Theory's world. A world of shady characters, life-threatening betrayals, government agents, police brutality and intricate, internecine plots.

So even though we dated out in the open (causing much wagging of gossipy New Haven tongues, both on and off campus), our relationship was never open. I became the keeper of secrets, both his and my own.

So much so, that I told no one much of what I'm about to write down. Not even my own diary, because in the early days with Conspiracy Theory, I stopped keeping a diary.

So I must go from memory. Memory that's sometimes hazy, sometimes out of sequence. Memory that won't necessarily give me full insight into what 20-year-old me was thinking and feeling at the time. Memory that's colored by how things ended and by the viewpoints and opinions of the woman I am today.

But imperfect or not, hazy or not, scary or not, it's time to unearth those memories, unbury those secrets and tell the story of my two-year tryst with Conspiracy Theory.

It's the only way I know to get my life and my power back.

Conspiracy Diaries Part 1 of 25 (1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25)
Conspiracy Lessons Learned 1-4 (1 2 3 4)


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Sunday, March 14, 2010

Stop dating jailbirds

"Anita, stop dating jailbirds."

That was the completely unsympathetic and unsolicited advice I got from my friend, Theater Goddess, as I strolled the Yale campus one evening shortly after Number Two got arrested. I was recounting my tale of woe to her and a few other girls.

I expected sympathy.

After all, my boyfriend, had, quite tragically, just got arrested.

Her tone of voice was unapologetic, unsympathetic, matter-of-fact and almost bored.

"Anita, stop dating jailbirds."

I was hurt by her insensitivity.

Back then, I was egalitarian in my dating choices. I didn't discriminate based on educational level. I didn't discriminate based on social class. I didn't discriminate based on criminal record, drug use, sexual history, morals, values, looks.

I didn't discriminate at all.

I accepted whoever chose me.

That's why I cringe whenever some allegedly well-meaning black leader decides to help a sistah out by writing a book or making a speech about how educated, unmarried black women need to stop being so picky and just settle for whatever we can get.

To that I say, bullsh*t, bullsh*t, bullsh*t. Stop dating jailbirds. Stop dating men who have less education than you. Stop dating men who are in a much different income bracket than you. Stop dating men who don't share your values. Stop dating men who don't share your credit score. Stop dating men who have baby mamas (unless, of course, you have baby daddies).

Yeah, I said it.

Just stop.

Even if people call you a saddity b*tch. Even if it means being alone. Even if that leaves you with no one to date.

Just stop.

Dating boys who were uneducated, who were in and out of jail, who had baby mamas, who had sporadic incomes, who had low self-esteem, who had bad credit, who had values that weren't compatible with mine did not make me a saint. It didn't pull them up to my level. It dragged me down to theirs.

Have standards, girls, have standards. Stop dating jailbirds.

(Number Two Diaries Parts 1-8: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 | Lessons Learned Part 3 of 3: 1 2 3)

Sunday, March 7, 2010

This is how women get AIDS

According to the Centers for Disease Control, African-Americans represent 12 percent of the U.S. population and 46 percent of those with HIV/AIDS. Looking back at my relationship with Number Two, it's easy to understand why.
  • He was screwing me, his ex-girlfriend, and quite probably, other men.
  • He was a "first-date-only" condom guy.
  • He engaged in what medical professionals politely call a "high risk" sexual position where blood-to-semen contact is not uncommon.
  • And, most importantly, I let him do all of the above.
That's the truth of why black women represent 61 percent of new HIV cases among all women.

Because we let our men dog us, and we don't stick up for ourselves in the ways that matter.

I have never had a grown-up conversation with a man about his sexual history before becoming his lover. (Partly because that would have meant divulging my sexual history. And partly because as a first-date kinda gal, I didn't do a lot of talking to begin with.)

I have never insisted that a man and I both get tested before having sex for the first time. (How exactly do you bring that up? "Here, honey, roll up your sleeve so I can draw some blood, and while you're at it, please give me $200 so I can buy this anonymous STD test, mail the sample to a lab and wait for the results.")

I have never insisted that a man wear a condom or else get out of my bed. (And I have a really juvenile confession to make about the reason why: It was one of my secret tests. "If he brings the condom and puts it on, that means he's a good guy, and he's responsible, and he cares about me." Yeah, right.)

I don't have AIDS or HIV.

Not because I was smart.

And definitely not because I was careful.

Simply because I was lucky.

I knew what I was supposed to do, but somehow I didn't have the courage, the nerve, the audacity, the outspokenness, the self-love, the assertiveness to do it. And I kinda hoped I could make it his job, like taking out the trash or opening the car door.

But the statistics don't lie.

Our men aren't going to protect us, because men don't like wearing condoms. And apparently, many don't like monogamy either.

It's up to us to protect ourselves.

It's been four years since my last sexual relationship, and I don't know when I'm going to meet someone I want to get hot, sweaty and horizontal with.

But when I do, for the first time in my life, I'm going to have to care enough about my health and well-being to actually insist that he get tested and wear a condom.

Am I the only one who finds this difficult?

(Number Two Diaries Parts 1-8: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 | Lessons Learned Part 2 of 3: 1 2 3)

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Girl-on-girl is just not appropriate

I'm not talking about sex. I'm talking about fights. Of the Jerry Springer variety. Of the verbal sparring variety that I engaged in with Tay Tay over Number Two, a fool who didn't deserve either one of us and, as it turns out, was probably gay.

Tay Tay, to be sure, was ignorant and obnoxious. She called me up on more than one occasion to bait me with tales that "my" man was really "her" man. And the evidence is certainly in her favor, until we get to the fact that maybe "her" man wanted to be with a man.

Which would at least partially explain why he treated her – and me – so badly.

But at the time, my 19-year-old self blamed her for making him treat me badly, blamed her for continuing to be involved with "my" boyfriend, blamed her for being the ugly b*tch with the wart on the end of her nose, which is how I actually thought of her.

What I didn't consider at the time is that the ugly b*tch with the wart on the end of her nose was pushing a baby stroller and the baby in that stroller allegedly belonged to "my" boyfriend. The same guy who took me to her apartment on our first date to pick up his stuff.

Her side of the story was never told. So why did I blame her?

I have a hopefully more enlightened bottom line today when it comes to boyfriends and their baby mamas, ex-girlfriends, ex-wives, ex-whatevers, also known as "the horrible women who ruined his life":
  • Take whatever he says about her with a grain of salt. But do listen carefully, because what he says about her is probably remarkably similar to what he will one day say about you.

  • Remember that he was there, too. He may talk about how she did this or she did that, but he ain't no innocent bystander. What was his part in accepting the drama or adding fuel to the fire?

  • If you have a beef with her, your beef is really with him. If their relationship is really over, there is no you and her. It's you and him, and on a separate note, her and him. He's the responsible party, and the deserving recipient of your rage.

Tay Tay did not turn out to be the last ex-girlfriend who ever called my phone acting stupid, but she did end up being the last one I was reciprocally stupid with.

Flash forward to my early 30's, three years after I broke up with Brown. I was in a relationship that wasn't serious or satisfying, but after three years of crying and walking the floor, it was my first attempt at moving on.

Ring, ring went my cell phone ... in my cubicle, at work. On the line was a 21-year-old chickie-poo with some dramatic story about how she got my number off her ex-boyfriend's cell phone. I was polite to her, even as I explained in an even tone that I wasn't interested in her or her drama.

And that night, I called the new boyfriend and explained that my problem was with him. He was sleeping with other women, and that wasn't something I had agreed to. End of relationship, end of story.

It's so much better when women treat each other with respect, instead of attacking each other.

(Number Two Diaries Parts 1-8: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 | Lessons Learned Part 1 of 3: 1 2 3)

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Hittting him where it hurt

I'm not sure whether the suspicion that Number Two was gay had ever crossed my mind or whether it was entirely planted by my new boyfriend, Conspiracy Theory. But once the suspicion took hold, a lot of things about my relationship with Number Two made sense.

Him calling me an "Eveready" in a sulky tone because I wanted to have sex and he didn't. Him sodomizing me. Even him going to jail.

The idea that being a chronic minor offender meant you were a gay definitely came from Conspiracy Theory. He claimed that all the "don't drop the soap" horror stories didn't apply all that much to the real penitentiary where the real inmates were. He claimed it was the local city jails where the real gay action took place. That guys who were gay but too chickensh*t to come out of the closet would find ways to get arrested so that they could hump the other in-the-closet short-timers.

It sounded plausible. Because I knew that Number Two was a revolving-door offender.

When he was arrested, he instructed me to call an aunt and uncle and ask them to bail him out. They refused to help him "this time" in a tone that suggested that "this time" was maybe the third or fourth or 10th time.

So now I believed Number Two was gay.

And that's what I threw in his face, the day I confronted him, fully enraged, over the fact that he still owed me money, had stolen my tools and had put a ding on my credit report.

The argument started over the money, but as it escalated, I threw it in his face that I was just someone he could "f*ck up the butt." Every time I mentioned his predilection for sodomy, he flinched. So I kept saying it. Loudly. With the intent to hurt him.

(For his part, he retaliated against me in a way uniquely common to black New Haveners confronting black Yalies: he kicked me out of the race, declaring that I "wasn't really black.")

By the end of my tirade, he was in tears. And I was riding high on a cloud of vindictive rage. I'd hurt him. Not as much as he hurt me, but it felt GOOD.

I saw him around occasionally after that. There was an exchange by the mall, where he gave me some of my owed money and also demanded that I return a tacky, chipped ring he had given me off his own finger. I flung it onto the sidewalk with all my might, against the advice of Abusive Psychic, who counseled me, "Anita, you're crazy. You never, ever give back jewelry."

Then there was the time I was walking past his tiny apartment, and he introduced me to a short, cute brother with pretty eyes as his "roommate." Roommate? His studio apartment was the size of a matchbox. The mattress on the floor took up the whole room. If they were roommates, they were sharing a bed.

And then there was the last time I saw him, a few years later, after I had graduated and moved to South Carolina to live with my mother. I was driving in the backwoods, in some godforsaken small town, with no idea of where I was or why I was there. I turned into a little gas station or convenience store to make a U-turn, and heard a voice say, "Oh no."

I looked up, directly into his horrified face. He was from South Carolina, and apparently had moved back home. I was the last person he expected or wanted to see.

I didn't even speak or acknowledge his presence. I just turned my car around and drove away.

And that concludes the Number Two diaries.

(Number Two Diaries Part 8 of 8: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 | Lessons Learned Parts 1-3: 1 2 3)