Within my own family, I had two gay uncles who died of AIDS-related illnesses before I was 10.
When I first got braids a couple of months ago, I was riddled with compliments.
As a racially ambiguous woman, I have the privilege of changing the way society receives me at my discretion.
Sometimes I am black, other times I am Indian or Latina, or I may be French, or just a white girl who tans a bit too much.
I like to think of myself as someone who’s adventurous when it comes to love and sex, someone who’d never rule out potential partners or new experiences.
But when I discussed my issue with friends, other queer men of color, they all said I have a type: white men.
He is simultaneously invisible and ever present in the minds and lives of white America. Debased, filthy and unworthy, black men, we are told, are sexual deviants incapable of either desiring or maintaining healthy, meaningful relationships.
In fact, at a recent fellowship dinner at Columbia Law School, a wealthy, white businessman told me that the biggest business problem occurring in America is the inability of black women to find [black] husbands.
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