Dear, Black men...Why don't you love your fellow black, female counterparts?

Dear Black women...So we're still acting like y'all don't date outside of our race too?

Dear Black men...Buy why must you insult us in the process?

Dear Black women...Why do you care so much if we date outside of our race? We can't have a preference?

Dear Black men...Does having a preference have to come with down talking black women?

Dear Black women...Why must you be so sensitive? Everything isn't a personal attack on you.

Dear Black men...Why must you perpetuate your own self-hate on us women?

Dear Black women...Why must you aim your bitterness at us men?

Dear Black men...Why must we be considered bitter? The mad, black woman narrative is old & tired.

Dear Black women...Why the stank ass attitude all the time?

Dear Black men...Why so arrogant?

Dear Black women...What's with the fake hair?

Dear Black men...So y'all just gon act like white women don't wear 'extensions'?

Dear Black women...Why the fake body parts?

Dear Black men...Why do you only like black features on non-black women?

Dear Black women...Why does a nigga have to be ballin' with the freshest fit to catch your attention?

Dear Black men...Why do you only like dark skin girls if they come with bigger ass..ets?

Dear Black women...Why must you push us away? You might as well tell them to have us.

Why?

The argument just kept getting pettier and pettier. It wasn't until he blurted out the words, "Not everyone is going to like your black ass. Not everyone likes me." Black ass? Hm..Okay, I gotta fat one. Strike 1.

"You Black hoes take everything to heart. And that's exactly why-" Who cares what else he said. Hoe? I mean, I've had my moments, quite a few actually. Why I gotta be a black hoe though? Strike 2.

"You dark skin bit-" And the last 4 letters didn't need to be uttered because I was done. Strike mutha fuckin' 3!

See I work for the school newspaper at Howard University where I'm also a student. When they asked me to conduct an interview with D'Anthony Carlos about the condition of dating in the black community, I accepted it without a hesitation. I've seen him around campus and I've heard the things people say...in particular all the black girls and all the guys from the same place as him. It seemed nobody liked him except his little clique of friends, but then again they're just like him. I'm not one to judge. I give everyone a fair shot.

At least I tried to...5 minutes into the interview we were arguing like an old, married couple and I stormed out. I had to stop myself from smacking the fire out of him. It was tit for tat and we were getting nowhere. I was actually excited to pick his brain...But I found out he's just another Scarecrow from Wizard of Oz; he doesn't have one.

See, with a last name like Carlos you're probably assuming he's Latin or some shit. Nope, he's as black as they come with a considerable amount of melanin too. Black with a color complex.

Now I understand I came at him very aggressive, but I just wanted answers. Answers as to why he is the way he is. Why he thinks the way he thinks. My tone and approach could've been better. I'll admit I poked the bear then ran when it stood on two feet and growled at me. I hit a soft spot by repeatedly asking the same question and throwing insults. He hit a nerve when he decided to group all black women in the same category.

Then I remembered the family he came from. His family had one of the biggest drug cartels in the DMV for years. After they got money every last one of his uncles left the black chicks they had children with for something a little lighter. And by little, I mean as white as the coke they were selling. If they weren't mixed or just light skin with "good hair" they were as they say nowadays, "foreign." Foreign in ya bio, but you're from Park Heights born and raised? Stop! Foreign means from a country other than one's own. You're as American as Apple pie. Shit, I'm really foreign. It amazes me how black women are good enough to bare your children and raise them, but not good enough to be your wife.

But that's not the end of his superiority. Oh, no! He thinks he's better than everybody too. For what? You got your head held high because your family single handedly destroyed a community? And I'm not talking about the drugs because we all know the government brought the drugs and guns and our people took the bait. That's a different story for a different day. They destroyed the community with his hitman of an uncle and terrorized the streets. And he has the nerve to think he's better than somebody?

He's going to school on old drug dealing money and I'm here on scholarship. So who's really better?

I tap my pen staring at my notepad that was supposed to be filled with the notes I took during the interview...It wasn't enough because I let my anger get the best of me. It was just the nonsense he spewed out of his plump, big lips that undoubtedly came from his African ancestors that hurt my soul to the core.

I honestly didn't know why because I've always been secure in myself and even my skin tone. People could talk shit about dark skin in a negative way, but it didn't phase me. Why? Because I knew when I stood in the heat of my country back in Africa that the sun that was shining down on me was my ancestors smiling rays of light to make me this way. I was meant to be this way.

I wasn't angry that black men didn't accept us, I just wanted to know why. And I didn't want some stupid Twitter answer because all those men Tweeting their hate and opinion weren't shit. I just wanted to talk some sense into a guy, but once again I got idiotic answers.

What the hell am I going to tell my boss? Is all I could think until I heard, "Zipporah!" A hand was waved in my face and that's when I looked up. It was my best friend, Sahara. We've been best friends since 7th grade. We were both new to the states and were the only two African girls in our ESL class. Both from Senegal to be exact. We've been close ever since. We even made the decision to come to this school together. She's an English and African studies double major.

"Hey," I say dryly as she sits in the chair next to me.

"What's up with you?" She asks with concern.

"I went to go interview D'Anthony and let's just say I cussed him out then left. I didn't even finish the interview."

"I told you it wouldn't go well and to give it to someone else," she says shaking her head.

"I know, but the next time I see him I need to apologize so I can finish the interview. If I don't, Matt will get in my ass."

"Apologize? For what?! I have classes with D'Anthony and he's a straight up fuckboy! Just make up the rest of the interview," she says waving me off.

"I can't do that. I have a level of integrity working for the school newspaper."

Sahara rolls her eyes saying, "He walks around here like he's God or somethin'! Like he's untouchable. He's gon' get touched one day and when he does...because it'll happen, that God complex will be wiped right away. He ain't nothin', but a low life like the rest of these niggas."

"God complex?" I ask confused.

"You ain't heard of that? Any nigga with a narcissistic personality that believes everyone should bow down to them. Well, I'm not bowin'. He ain't my King or Jehovah-Jireh. Fuck him, Zi!" Sahara says with attitude, neck roll and all.

"God complex," I mumble to myself before opening my MacBook that's sitting on the table. I pull up a new word document typing that in to give myself a mental note of what I'm going to title this piece...

The God Complex
By: Zipporah Diop

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