The Artist

The night of the Christian Mix and Mingle, I met an artist. He walked up on me while I was bending over a table to rest my back. It was killing me, having just walked down the street in cheap shoes behind a very fast moving Kyndra. 

"Are you here for the thing?" he asked, pointing at the crowd of people who were gathered at this location. And you know where it was. I was at one of those repurposed Atlanta spaces that was once a factory or something. Visible pipes. Lots of steps. Now it is a jumble of galleries and lofts for events and photo shoots. 

"No, I am here for a dating thing," I said, still not standing up straight. I'm sure my butt was directly in his face, but my lower back was screaming! 

"Oh." 

I looked over my shoulder and butt to see a very fine chocolate man wearing overalls that were covered in paint. This caused me to sit up and at least pretend like I was comfortable. 

After a brief conversation, I found out that I was talking to a man named Fritz that owned a small gallery filled with his own work on the bottom floor. I was so interested in hearing about his work and looking at his face that I didn't notice that Kyndra had left me. Apparently, we were in the wrong building. He gave me one of his cards and I went on to find Kyndra. 

"I think I am going to call that artist and see if I can make him my Spring beau," I told Kyndra the next day on the way to church. She was not on board. She and the church clique are all about a man finding a woman and all of that. I don't know if that applies to me. I'm a plus size woman with a big afro in a red dress. If a man was going to find me, wouldn't he have found me by now?

That night, I looked up his website. He draws and sculpts people that kind of look like The Simpsons, and apparently, when he is not showcasing his art, he is leasing out his space for yoga classes and seminars. He was just as fine online as he was in person, minus that paint-spattered clothes. 

I stared at his email for about ten minutes before logging out of my computer for the night. All I could hear is Tony Gaskins, the Instagram relationship coach, talking about how men enjoy a hunt and that women looking for men is a no-no. I don't know. I guess a part of me does like the idea of an old-school romance where a man puts forth the effort. So I followed him on Instagram but I didn't email him. I told him my name when we met. If he's interested, he can find me. 

Mingle No Mix

Kyndra invited me to a Christian Singles Mix and Mingle and I jumped at the chance to go. I never miss an opportunity to dress nice and possibly meet cute men. As to be expected, there were WAY more women there than men, and out of the men, there were more White men than Black ones.
"Have you found the love of your life?" I asked a woman who sat down beside me, a plate of appetizers in hand.
"Girl no," she said, crossing her legs. "There are hardly any brothas here."
"But there are White guys," I pointed out, nodding to a group of casually dressed White men dancing off-beat to a rap song.
"Girl stop," she said chuckling, nibbling on a meatball.
A long time ago, Jamaica told me that the reason why a lot of Black women were alone is because they refuse to date out of their race. I didn't want to believe it, but this may be true. I do have close Black female friends that are married to Black men, but I have so many single Black homegirls that are lonely and giving up. I wonder if they would be happy and in relationships if they weren't waiting around for Black men that may not come.
"You go talk to one," the same lady dared me. My stomach started to ache. Even back when my Black peers alleged that I wanted to be a White girl, I didn't see myself with a White man. Looking at the White men in the room, as nice as they seemed, made me think of the White athletes from high school that acted like they owned the place with their arrogance and poor attitudes.
"Naw," I said, "I'm just here to have fun."
For the rest of the evening, I watched a really cute Asian girl dancing with a group of White guys, smiling from ear to ear. Meanwhile, my wallflower section of Black women sitting against the wall was growing with every song played. I realized then that Jamaica might have been right: if Black women no longer wished to be single, they were going to have to be willing to mix and mingle with men that are not Black. That is a tough pill to swallow but a reality. This reality, however, doesn't keep me from fantasizing about marrying a Black man. Call me a dreamer.