Culture  I Wanna Date the Black Guy that Works at McDonald’s

Cocoa Butter Column

Isaw my momma the other day and she said
“Baby why don’t you ever bring home a
white man?
I’m tired of these ni***as with Timbalands Ni***as with pants that sag
Ni***s with “dreams”
Ni***as … can’t get you what you need Baby give vanilla a try
Bring yo momma home a white guy.”
To this I respond:
No momma,
You see I can’t do that because I’ve always been a sucker for the underdog.
They say once you go black
You don’t go back,
But I never went black
I am black.
So to me dating a black king is less of a kink and more of a calling.
I know they say “never say never”
But I’m not sayin’ never
I’m just sayin’
Probably not…

Or at least it would take a whole lot for me to feel safe in the arms of a burning bright white sun
As opposed to being cradled by the moon in a pitch-black sky.
I wanna date the black guy that works at McDonald’s
I wanna date the black boy reppin’ that broke life.
Not them boys screamin’
“Ay yo ma!” from across the street
Or them thirsty boys that’ll do anything for the gram
Them boys still playin’ dominos & uno for the fam like “this is what’s gon get me out the hood!”
No, not them boys… them brainwashed lost boys, them “you too pretty for a dark skin girl” type boys
I can only love them once they wake up from the fog
I can only love them once they’re ready and willing to love themselves; ready and willing to love someone who looks just like them
I want the black boy who’s got gardens of prose growing in his heart
That boy that looks in the mirror & has the ghost of Tupac, Mohammed & Martin showing him how to walk like he’s got places to be
The black boy helpin’ out his single mom tryin’ to be a man & son at the same god- damn time.
That black boy…
The black boy that walks into a room and everyone sees a monster, when all I can see is an innocent knight in onyx armor That black boy…
The black boy who was never told it’s okay to cry
Cindy Lao | Illustrator The black boy who was taught that when
he hears sirens he must comply or die That black boy…
Black boys like the ones I grew up with The one who had a crush on me in third grade because I would share my Vaseline with him
He knew I had his back when his lips were chapped and bought me a jump rope for my birthday with the 50 cents he got from beating his uncle at dominos because he knew how much I wanted to fly
I want the black boy who holds his tongue at work when a white boy looks to him and says “thanks my ni***a” as if he were still property
I want the black boy that can’t dance, rap, or play basketball for shit because he can be into Marvel, heavy metal, and anime if he fuckin’ wants to
Because he has the right to be an individual Because he has the right to not be a living stereotype
But I do want a black boy who loves watermelon because…
If you don’t love watermelon I don’t trust you I wanna date the black boy who works at McDonald’s because he knows life is hard and still manages to be soft on the inside

He knows that it took his mother twenty hours, ten nurses and five blood transfusions to get him here so he doesn’t complain

He knows that it took blood shed to birth him

But also that there will be blood shed if he dares look a cop in the eyes the wrong way

I want a black boy who’s willing to put in the effort to become a black man
An endangered species
Hunted for their thick skin and savoury crimson red blood that gives one the energy to build anything.

Momma I am willing to be a black widow.

Even if it means that I must spend the rest of my days befriending the sons and daughters of structural racism before ripping the hatred from their souls, swallowing it whole and letting it grow in my belly where I will kill it with kindness and education To give birth to a new day where the black boy who works at McDonald’s is free to breathe his glorious breath.
Dear world…
I can’t take the shootings and the lynchings anymore. My body has never birthed a black baby but every time one dies I feel the labour of having them ripped from my body, turned into a hashtag and then seeing them disappear from your memory as quickly as their souls faded from their eyes. I don’t know how many times my heart can break but I do know that so far has been far too many
The tragedy of the black widow
Is that she holds the secrets of the earth in her bosom
Her curves rise and fall like hills and valleys Her hair wild like the thicket of rainforests Her eyes brown like the sand at the bottom of rivers
So, when a black king dies, we weep with the strength of earthquakes

Because our bodies are the kingdoms of earth and water that they leave behind.