Evan Bones Kendall's Site

Women of Color Love Me

Probably all women love me, too, but in particular in this little essay, I'd like to focus on women of color because there have been quite a few with whom I've had a "special relationship".

I put special relationship in quotes to single it out, not to include any hidden meanings about what kind of love we had. See, it's not lust that I'm talking about. I'm not saying women of color lust after me. Well, not all of them, anyway. Surely some can resist my irresistible charm.

I'm also not referring to love in this case as family love. It does happen to be true that I have women of color in my family, but I'll write about that in a bit. I'm starting with the love a teacher a shows a student; that's the kind of love I mean.

I mean love where a person shares something with another person. It could even be an animal, I suppose, too. I'm talking about love not in the eyes of the lover, but in the eyes of the lovee, love that is valued by the recipient and makes him or her feel special.

When I was in the fourth grade, I lived in Jacksonville, Florida. I don't remember all that much...and if that's a conscious decision, it's not because there was anything wrong with Florida. I do vividly remember--and this is a testament to the meaning of learning, when lessons make lasting impressions--I remember my teacher was an African-American woman. I don't recall her name or much of anything about her except for a turquoise dress.

Because I succeeded at it where a great many of those around me failed, I vividly remember being given a sheet of paper by her, a quiz of sorts. It said, "Follow the instructions." Instruction one told me to read all of the instructions before beginning. Instruction two said to add two plus two and there was a blank line indicating where to write four. Instruction three said to take the result of instruction two and add eighteen to it. A number of other instructions followed, including non-mathematical ones like draw a happy face and say your name out loud.

And I noticed students around me were writing answers to the questions on the handout and saying their names out loud. I didn't. I was still following instruction one, which said to read all of the instructions, the final of which was, "Ignore all previous instructions."

So I did nothing, as instructed. This teacher showed the class love that day by teaching us a lesson. Many around me experienced love as tough, a hard lesson. That's probably a messed up way of thinking about love, but at least it didn't hurt much. I, on the other hand, in succeeding, felt love shine through me and I thank this fine woman of color.

It was a Latina, sometimes referred to as an Hispanic woman, who helped me out greatly in my first real job. I got an internship in an office distributing movies to movie theaters. It was there that I learned the value of computing. I was willing to stay late and was precise enough to handle electronic spreadsheets so that this woman, to whom I directly reported--so that she loved me by assigning to me complicated work that challenged me and allowed me to succeed.

If I were only given meager challenges, like making photocopies or doing somebody's least favorite job, then chances are I wouldn't have been so motivated to rise to the challenge. That's the meaning of love, to rise to it. Love is tough and challenging, but for the purpose of good. Love that comes too easily is forsaken. I wrote a poem about that.

Like an angel descending into my reality, late one night on TV, on an education show on public television, I was loved by a black woman who validated me. She said that if you have a unique perspective, you are duty-bound to share it. And she was talking to me. Well, maybe that's a stretch, but she was sharing love with me. I had a unique perspective, but I wasn't sure what to do with it. She told me to share it. Shortly after that, I started writing Mikka Mi Amor.

Then there's the African-American woman who was on the hiring committee that got me my professorship. She loves me by encouraging me to do my thing and giving me the responsibility to operate among professional peers. That's love, baby, and it's coming to me from an African-American woman.

Another one is Condoleezza Rice, but I'd have to write a book to explain how she loves me.

The biggest love that I get from women of color is not from the lustful escapades of my youth, where multiculturalism was the valued commodity, but rather from the conquest that matters most.

Yep, ladies, I was snagged. Evidence that women of color love me? There's both a Mexican-American woman and a Japanese-American woman in Mikka Gutierrez.

- Bones

Put this in the "Only in America" category, except that it's likely happening in many countries where there is ethnic diversity.