Those 3 Ws stand for something in my head in this moment. I don’t want to pretend like there isn’t something specific on my mind, but in this moment it is more about the overall and the abstract.

One of the things about being a Black woman in this nation is that we are always held in the comparative light of White women. One of the things about Nicole is that even though I wanted to grow up and be Molly Ringwald, I am and I always have been a fat Black chick.

Women in general have to battle the concept that we are not attractive or worthy until some man chooses us.

Black women have to compound that with not being European in resemblance.

One of the things that I was battling, even if I did not know it, was this overall concept that because of my race I am not worthy of love and protection.

It’s not specific to me, Nicole. It’s general outside of me, and it reared it’s ugly head in my breakup even though I thought that one specific Black man was beyond that which is so pervasive in this society.

I can understand it better in hindsight. He was perfectly crafted to fall for the trap, yet in my hubris I allowed myself to believe that my love, my service would overcome 50 years of conditioning. Sigh.

As I reflect on the man, I kind of have to because there are things that are not yet done with us, legally – as I reflect I can better see what I missed while in the middle of it all. I missed them because I wanted to, because it was important to me that the 2 of us defy the odds and prove Black love can win.

Black love CAN win, we were just not the template for that. He was too far gone by the time I was ready to step up.

The damaged boy was never healed when the bankrupt former meth addict arrived. Her only contributions were her white skin and need to be saved. That was all he needed to prove to himself that he was all he wanted to be in his head, and use that to construct the illusion which would lure the rest of us in. I wasn’t the first, and I won’t be the last.

Editor’s Note :

This post like so many was a multi day effort. I began it yesterday. In the day that occurred prior to my return to the keyboard, I saw what looked like his car, with him in it riding by my place. I did a video on social media and told some of my story. My “reward” for that was to dream of him. Hearing that voice which once made my heart skip a beat as he described grief and being tired. I woke up reminding myself that I did not end the relationship – he did. He made his choice and what he is experiencing is no longer my responsibility. It didn’t stop me from wanting to help him in that dream though. When I tried? He lashed out and assaulted me, almost like he did in the leasing office that day. Even my subconscious wanted to remind me that regardless of my love for him, the scorpion always stings the alligator because people will always be who they are.

I was about to type that I never saw the signs, yet that would be a lie. I did see them, and when I loved him, I chose to reduce their presence.

I can look back at the stories over the years. How he’d describe the yt girlfriends in college, one of whom prevented him from being homeless. I could have compared that tenor and tone to the description of the ex wife, who was not yt. I told myself it was because of the bitterness of divorce. It was not.

I could point to his Kevin Samuels fan boying. I completely ignored that though because by then it was about the move, and no internet snake oil salesperson was going to define this man who I ‘knew’.

He at times would go off on rants about how Black women valued themselves too much. I chalked it up to his desire for our race to do better, ignoring how that accountability he demanded never quite landed at his own feet or appeared in his mirror.

I think I wrote in one of my journals how odd it was that me- a woman who loves Black men but frequently does not like them ended up with a Black man who didn’t appear to like Black women.

I would find that out the hard way in May.

I’ve described her in the vague here, but the difference in us is huge. He had this:

He threw that away and settled for this:

They say a picture says 1000 words and these 2 tell a lot.

These 2 tell the story of a specific Black man, so caught up in his proximity to power that he chose to hurt me instead of giving it up.

Does he love her? I suppose, he says he does. They have a long history. What the photos do not tell though is that he and I also have a long history. He may have been with her for almost 20 years but I’ve been here for 10 of those.

I wasn’t just some jump off like Gabi, after all the jump off would not have done what I did, what we agreed and he encouraged.

When the former meth addict showed up, as the opposite of the ex wife, yeah I get the appeal. When she shows up, giving the illusion of obedience, yeah I get that too.

I have to stop here and leave for work but I will come back to finish this, more to explore. In the meantime I will publish and finish these thoughts in part 2.