"White Girl" Dates Nigerian
OK, it's a new year, time to get back to where I left off a couple of months ago (see "That Harold Ford Commercial", my November 2 post) . My apologies for the delay. The subject is race, and, in particular, interracial dating. Being the mutt I am, pretty much every date I am on qualifies as being interracial, but the best stories come from those dates where I'm with someone who is very very white or very very black or very very latino or very very, well, something easily definable. I'm a little of everything, so I always seem to have a different perspective on things.
I met Emmanuel at a party in Soho in the spring of 1993. I was there with my friend Nina, the daughter of a well-established Italian photographer. The party was in a swanky loft, full of very sophisticated, international artistic types, and I felt somewhat out of place. I don't remember how I was introduced to Emmanuel, but I remember being impressed. A talented sculptor from Nigeria, Emmanuel had several works on display in public areas throughout the city, commissioned by local entrepreneurs, philanthropists, and the government. Our host even had one of his creations on display in her palatial apartment. Emmanuel was average looking -- medium height, very closely cropped hair, and dark-skinned. He had a thick accent, an excellent sense of humor, and lots of fun stories.
He and I hit it off instantly, and started dating. After a few weeks, Emmanuel invited me to a party in his neighborhood, which was located deep in Brooklyn.
"It's a Nigerian celebration," Emmanuel informed me. I wasn't sure what that meant for me, so I asked. He told me most of the guests would be Nigerian and dressed traditionally, and the food would be Nigerian. He said we would have a great time. I had no reason to doubt him.
I didn't have traditional Nigerian garb, but I figured I'd be fine in a nice African print dress. Little did I know I'd need a lot more to get me through this party.
We walked in the door, and I immediately felt out of place. I mean, I thought I felt out of place in the posh Soho loft where I met Emmanuel, but that was nothing compared to this. EVERYONE was Nigerian. They were all speaking Yoruba. I was the only American, and the only person whose skin tone was not the color of ebony, and, it seemed, the only person that wanted to speak English.
I had been in situations previously where I was the only American, as I had traveled widely in Europe and Latin America in my late teens and early twenties. But this was different. I was the "white American" that a Nigerian man had chosen to bring to an all-Nigerian party. My multi-ethnic, multi-racial credentials flew out the window here. The women at this party didn't care if I was Puerto Rican, Jamaican, whatever. All they saw was a light-skinned American woman who did not speak Yoruba.
Emmanuel did not seem to notice the immediate reaction the room seemed to have with me, and left me with the hostess while he went mingling. She just sneered at me, and walked away.
I made my way toward the kitchen. The kitchen, I find, is the best place to take refuge when you are at a party where you feel uncomfortable. There are always nice, hospitable people hanging around in the kitchen, and you can just relax and be yourself, eat, drink, help out with the dishes, whatever. The kitchen is a very down-to-earth place to be.
The kitchen is also typically populated with females (unless you are at a gay man's house), however, and so I was thus thwarted in seeking refuge there. Nobody would speak to me. Finally, in the hallway outside the kitchen, one man had the courage to converse politely with me. I was thankful someone actually consented to speak to me, in English. After a few words, however, his Nigerian date came by, looked at me sternly, and pulled him away. Other men at the party looked at me and seemed to feel sorry for me, but didn't dare approach, lest they be whipped by their dates, sisters, cousins, whatever.
I was like a leper.
After standing around by myself for about 45 minutes, I approached Emmanuel, and told him I wanted to leave. He didn't seem to understand my discomfort, but gathered his things and said his goodbyes. His Nigerian friends looked at me disdainfully, and seemed to be happy I was going away.
My liason with Emmanuel did not last long, only a month or two. He was nice enough, but had this idiosyncracy I could not get over: he kept insisting that snot was the main ingredient in butter, or, at least, joking that this was so. Don't ask. I have no recollection why he kept saying this, or how we came into the discussion in the first place. All I know is, every time I blew my nose (which I do frequently), he would chirp, "Stop! You are wasting raw material!" It disgusted and horrified me. I had to dump him. I had difficulty consuming dairy products for months afterwards.
But more than any other event during my brief relationship with Emmanuel, I will remember the way I felt at that party. I was the white girl that a black man was dating, and his female friends were having none of it. I'm not sure if their disapproval stemmed from me being "white", or from me being not Nigerian -- all I know is, I was not acceptable to his friends because of my ethnicity. Well, at least they were obvious and upfront about it. It can be worse to have people disapprove of you for the same reason, in a passive, underhanded way, which happens all the time. If the women at this party did not have a way of distinguishing themselves as a part of a group to which others did not belong (by way of their skin color, language, dress, and other cultural markers), they would have worn signs, like the Star-Bellied Sneeches. I do not yet fully comprehend why this seemed to be the way with the women and not with the men, but maybe that's because I am a woman. When confronted with an outsider female, I guess it's the females' role to cast out the intruder. All I know is, from that point on, I've avoided going to any Nigerian/Yoruban gathering as someone's date.
I met Emmanuel at a party in Soho in the spring of 1993. I was there with my friend Nina, the daughter of a well-established Italian photographer. The party was in a swanky loft, full of very sophisticated, international artistic types, and I felt somewhat out of place. I don't remember how I was introduced to Emmanuel, but I remember being impressed. A talented sculptor from Nigeria, Emmanuel had several works on display in public areas throughout the city, commissioned by local entrepreneurs, philanthropists, and the government. Our host even had one of his creations on display in her palatial apartment. Emmanuel was average looking -- medium height, very closely cropped hair, and dark-skinned. He had a thick accent, an excellent sense of humor, and lots of fun stories.
He and I hit it off instantly, and started dating. After a few weeks, Emmanuel invited me to a party in his neighborhood, which was located deep in Brooklyn.
"It's a Nigerian celebration," Emmanuel informed me. I wasn't sure what that meant for me, so I asked. He told me most of the guests would be Nigerian and dressed traditionally, and the food would be Nigerian. He said we would have a great time. I had no reason to doubt him.
I didn't have traditional Nigerian garb, but I figured I'd be fine in a nice African print dress. Little did I know I'd need a lot more to get me through this party.
We walked in the door, and I immediately felt out of place. I mean, I thought I felt out of place in the posh Soho loft where I met Emmanuel, but that was nothing compared to this. EVERYONE was Nigerian. They were all speaking Yoruba. I was the only American, and the only person whose skin tone was not the color of ebony, and, it seemed, the only person that wanted to speak English.
I had been in situations previously where I was the only American, as I had traveled widely in Europe and Latin America in my late teens and early twenties. But this was different. I was the "white American" that a Nigerian man had chosen to bring to an all-Nigerian party. My multi-ethnic, multi-racial credentials flew out the window here. The women at this party didn't care if I was Puerto Rican, Jamaican, whatever. All they saw was a light-skinned American woman who did not speak Yoruba.
Emmanuel did not seem to notice the immediate reaction the room seemed to have with me, and left me with the hostess while he went mingling. She just sneered at me, and walked away.
I made my way toward the kitchen. The kitchen, I find, is the best place to take refuge when you are at a party where you feel uncomfortable. There are always nice, hospitable people hanging around in the kitchen, and you can just relax and be yourself, eat, drink, help out with the dishes, whatever. The kitchen is a very down-to-earth place to be.
The kitchen is also typically populated with females (unless you are at a gay man's house), however, and so I was thus thwarted in seeking refuge there. Nobody would speak to me. Finally, in the hallway outside the kitchen, one man had the courage to converse politely with me. I was thankful someone actually consented to speak to me, in English. After a few words, however, his Nigerian date came by, looked at me sternly, and pulled him away. Other men at the party looked at me and seemed to feel sorry for me, but didn't dare approach, lest they be whipped by their dates, sisters, cousins, whatever.
I was like a leper.
After standing around by myself for about 45 minutes, I approached Emmanuel, and told him I wanted to leave. He didn't seem to understand my discomfort, but gathered his things and said his goodbyes. His Nigerian friends looked at me disdainfully, and seemed to be happy I was going away.
My liason with Emmanuel did not last long, only a month or two. He was nice enough, but had this idiosyncracy I could not get over: he kept insisting that snot was the main ingredient in butter, or, at least, joking that this was so. Don't ask. I have no recollection why he kept saying this, or how we came into the discussion in the first place. All I know is, every time I blew my nose (which I do frequently), he would chirp, "Stop! You are wasting raw material!" It disgusted and horrified me. I had to dump him. I had difficulty consuming dairy products for months afterwards.
But more than any other event during my brief relationship with Emmanuel, I will remember the way I felt at that party. I was the white girl that a black man was dating, and his female friends were having none of it. I'm not sure if their disapproval stemmed from me being "white", or from me being not Nigerian -- all I know is, I was not acceptable to his friends because of my ethnicity. Well, at least they were obvious and upfront about it. It can be worse to have people disapprove of you for the same reason, in a passive, underhanded way, which happens all the time. If the women at this party did not have a way of distinguishing themselves as a part of a group to which others did not belong (by way of their skin color, language, dress, and other cultural markers), they would have worn signs, like the Star-Bellied Sneeches. I do not yet fully comprehend why this seemed to be the way with the women and not with the men, but maybe that's because I am a woman. When confronted with an outsider female, I guess it's the females' role to cast out the intruder. All I know is, from that point on, I've avoided going to any Nigerian/Yoruban gathering as someone's date.
posted by Clown Hair at
6:11 PM
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