Is the Negro with the Susie a Race Traitor?

I was told by a life long friend, “Brian, only write about what moves you. Filter the request you get from your readers.” I have reluctantly taken this advice to heart over the past nine months. I can say with honesty that my God has only directed my fingers to type commentaries and sermons that are full of passion, a dedication to tough love, empowerment, education, and controversy. However, I have failed to write a commentary that exudes a strong opinion on interracial dating. I have asked myself why on various occasions, but it was not until four African American women suggested I “touch” on the subject that I decided to share my thoughts via Muata’s Truth Telling.

Part of my un-spiritually lead hesitation has a lot to do with the played out-ness of the subject. Didn’t we (black writers/commentators) address this in the 90’s? The topic is saturated with opinion after opinion! And, it is so sensitive that I, the controversial one, have wrestled with my thoughts on the matter for months. It is not like white woman- dating black man is a new thing. Blacks have been dating whites and Asians have been dating Latinos for years. Like I said: This is nothing new. So, what is all the fuss about? Aren’t we in a more accepting and understanding world now? If this is the case why has this once upon a time rejected by the masses crime resurfaced with intensity and with a sting?

In my analysis I believe the sting has been felt by the black female primarily. White women can care less about their men crossing the line. They are probably glad to get rid of the pompous white boy anyway! However, the evidence of the sting is on the faces of countless black women when they see that tall, dark, handsome, and sexy brotha holding hands with a Susie. I have seen the expressions. Black women are pissed off and they feel like they have been betrayed by that perceived race traitor: The Negro with a Susie. Read the response from a well educated, fine, wealthy, successful, and unmarried black woman when asked, “Why are you single? Where is your man?”

The sista’s response:

“I want a black man, but I am terrified he may be gay or he maybe only interested in dating a white girl...I am disappointed in what today’s society has produced as black men. They will not step up, and when we decide to step our game up; he (black man) gets all insecure. I guess his insecurity is received better by the white chicks.”

Brothas, what do you have to say regarding that statement? All I could say at the time was, “Ouch.”

Her statement is articulated by thousands of black women across America. I have to agree with the hopeless feeling black women to some degree. When I ask, “Where is the black man?” Here is the response I have gotten: in prison, living a gay lifestyle, on probation, avoiding child support obligations, in America’s military, and/or with a white woman.

In an effort to gain a complete understanding of why good brothas have successfully executed the crossover, I decided to ask a few brothas. The feedback below is from brothas who date black women exclusively. Are you wondering why I only questioned these brothas? You should be wondering because their responses are telling and they give insight into the black man’s mentality on the subject without the blindness of a brotha who is involved with a Susie.

-White women are more accepting of my manhood.
-White women appear to be happier, joyful, content, etc.
-White women do not have sex hang-ups i.e. giving head.
-White women are ego accommodating.
-Black women are mad as hell.
-Black women appear to always search for a father figure via their men.
-Black women’s insecurities usually negatively affect the relationship.

Now, the last time I collected and disseminated the black mans’ verbiage concerning black women I got chastised and attacked. Please do not kill the messenger. Don’t direct a venomous anger and biting frustration at me. Just think about the above bullet points for a minute, a hour, or a day. Seriously. Think about what brothas who date black women ONLY have said.

My sistas, if this part of my commentary upsets you share with me why. Keep in mind the responses came from brothas who are dedicated to the black family remaining intact. Despite his frustrations he continues to work toward the eradication of black female-male division that has been successfully injected into our lives by conspirators. He has decided to stay in the dating game with the yellow, brown, and black skinned sistas.

I personally believe that “maintaining” the black family is paramount. I also believe people should be free to date who they damn well please! If Rusty (white boy) wants to date Shakeeta (black woman); if Carlos (latino) wants to date Jennie (white girl); and if Tyrone (black man) wants to date Christina (latina) so be it. It is not my business, and I can care less until that black dude avoids eye contact with me when he is with his Prize. Go figure. He avoids eye contact! Is he ashamed of the Prize that got Emmett Till's face smashed in? Does Susie not measure up to the blonde-head-blue-eyed gem? This is the black dude I do not respect. He flees from the division and complexities his new girl’s father created, and then he is embarrassed. What is that all about? Embarrassed?? I usually do not blatantly insult people in my commentaries by name calling. I typically try to do it subliminally with class. However, on this occasion please forgive me: This black dude is a Punk-B&*%$. A weakling. And, I say to him, ‘Be proud of your decision and selection. Flaunt your Prize. I would!”

Back to the sistas.

I have always believed one should conduct a self analysis when there is meaningful criticism of one’s personality and behavior. Conducting this personal inventory could lead to a more thorough understanding of self.

We can say that the black woman is mad because of what she has had to put up with: Black male shiftlessness. On the other hand, I contend that what the black woman has dealt with has not changed significantly over the years. My mother and most of the X generation mothers put up with the same crap the 21st century woman is dealing with today. Although, the difference is in the response. My mother did not respond with a level of frustration that affected her disposition/persona. She did not walk around looking mad as hell. She smiled from time to time despite the realities on the home front. My mother in most circumstances did not display insecurity. She did not have time to be “caught-up” in the foolishness my father and other men displayed. She had to be strong for the family!

Wait a minute. I hear the sista’s cry: ‘Brian, you are hitting us too hard. Stop comparing us to your mother. If you want your mother go be with her.’ I hear ya. But, I am just telling it like I see it: She ain’t nothing like the women today’s society is producing.

My criticism stings like the sting of seeing Mr. Fine Black Brotha with Ms. Susie. I am aware of this. I am also aware that you (sista) have a tough road to travel. You are too dark, too strong, too independent, too educated, too rich, too light, too aggressive, too... You are familiar with the adjectives used to describe black women. No need for me to go on. But, one last thing: You have been too accommodating, and now it is time for you to take a man’s advice. Read below.

Do what you need to do to be happy. Always remember your happiness need not evolve around a man. Work on self development and not development for a man. If you do this you will not be disappointed by that black dude’s decision to look pass you. You will have your strength to rely on. With the strength, the smile will replace the frown. And the strength will be retained in our families. We need you.

Written by a brotha who is not ashamed to admit he has been involved with a Susie. Inspired by the Caucasian parents in Chicago that recently kidnapped their daughter, and attempted to force their daughter to abort that mixed breed fetus. Yeah, are we more accepting?

Breathe Easy

At approximately 6:15pm on September 11, 2006, I sat down in my leather recliner and tried to remember if I took the time to breathe while dressing for work, while riding the train, and while at work. It is evident my respiratory system continued to function on this emotionally driven day of 911 remembrance. If it did not you would be reading a dead man’s commentary. Since I am not dead you are reading the words of a man who is alive, but drained from the stresses of his days.

Have you ever been so busy that you forgot to eat? If you know me you know that I will never forget to eat. However, I am one to forget to take a deep breath during my
self-created chaotic days. There have been countless Monday’s, Tuesday’s, Wednesday’s, and Thursday’s that I do not remember breathing. Seriously. It was not until I was sitting in my car at the end of a day while waiting on the light to change that I remembered to take a deep breath. And, at that time I was aware of myself. Truly aware! The deep breath was my reminder that I was a living human being. It was also my reminder that I have neglected myself. On days like this one, which is at least 4 days of my week, I did not leave my office, I ate at my desk, I rushed applicants off the telephone, I typed numerous emails with countless misspells (thank God for spell check), and I even forgot to drink my four quarts of water. This is not the way I should carry out my day. Unfortunately, I have become the one thing I dislike: A busy, self-centered, french fry craving American.

I cannot recall the last time I just relaxed. Even when I try to, the damn cell phone rings. How I detest my cell phone. I have told whomever would listen that I want to throw my cell phone out the window and never get another one. But, I have convinced myself that I need it. Isn’t it funny how our minds work? I forget to take a deep breath during the day to center myself, but I will not get rid of something that’s a constant nag.

Since I am losing the battle to slow down, I decided two years ago to take my deep breaths during my therapy sessions. Yes, therapy. You can’t be surprised that I have a therapist. If you have not noticed I am a complicated, conflicted, pissed-off, and intense black man. Some say I am a walking time bomb, and many believe my intensity is fueled by hatred. I contend that this is far from the truth. I don’t hate anyone or anything, I just dislike… Well, I will not get into that. If you are an avid reader of my commentaries you perfectly know what and who I dislike. You also understand my commentary objectives. Continue to read.

During college I did not understand why my white classmates were going to therapy. I thought they were trying to bring attention to themselves, and I also thought they were wimps. They complained about everything. “My toilet is stopped up; my room is cold; my room is too hot; I have too much research to do; my parents did not send me my $500 monthly allowance; etc.” It was an endless list of crybaby crap that I could not understand because I just was happy to have my own bed. It was their unnecessary whining that helped me realize that some of them were incapable of doing what was necessary to be happy, and I realized I needed to face the issues surrounding my upbringing. I could not do this alone. I needed therapy assistance to address REAL problems, and not trivial privileged people matters.

All this time I have been trying to be better than them (those white folk who threw temper tantrums at my undergrad school). Why wouldn’t I, when I was told, “Brian, you have to always be one step ahead of them because they have skin privilege and you do not.” This was hammered into my mental psyche every day of high school by my uncle Raymond. The pressure that developed from his ACCURAATE statement has overwhelmed me for years. To some degree therapy has eased the pressure. However, because of the accuracy of his statement I have been on a mission to stay three steps ahead. As a result of this, I have become an overachiever who finds it necessary to be “perfect”. We all know that no one can be perfect. Believe it or not, we cannot be “white like snow” like the church told us we could be while forcing the image of a pale face Jesus down our throats. Now, that’s perfection at its best: white like snow and a white Jesus! Many of us (black folk) have tried to be “perfect” and from our efforts we have worn ourselves ragged. To the extent that I can only breathe on Thursday mornings during my 45 minute $150 therapy sessions with a white man who is fascinated by my blackness.

So, Brian, what are you trying to convey here? Well, I am trying to encourage you to breathe. Really breathe. Take more deep breaths, turn off that text messaging machine, and most importantly look into going to therapy. I have always believed that black people are prime candidates for suicide. Considering our history we should have killed ourselves a long time ago. The raping of our heritage was brutal. It stretches back to the West coast of Africa. The affects of the rape is evident today in the way we treat each other, and in the methods we have taken to “stay ahead of them”.

Through my therapy I have discovered that I have spent years trying to please everyone around me. I have tried to be the image I created of Brian E. Payne, and not be Muata: He who searches for truth. I have worked so hard not to fail. So much so that I am compulsive with all my actions. This has led me to always attempt to be perfect. Not white like snow perfect, but PERFECT. My actions have suffocated me. I want to breathe again. How about you?

Written by Muata. Inspired by those black folk who finally stop saying, “Ain’t nothing wrong with me. I am just tired.”