by Issa Rae
Taz was generally extremely closed off, more so than I was, which drew me to him. An heir to his father’s prosperous textile business, he attended school in Pittsburgh and held a 4.0 GPA, despite English being his second language. Even with his academic obligations, he managed to talk to me on the phone at three in the morning Eastern time every other night. With each conversation, he’d let me in more and more, and we grew to appreciate each other’s opposite senses of humor.
Taz and I had a strong sexual attraction to each other, one I still can’t explain. But to that end, our relationship was often volatile. He could make me irate in a way that I didn’t know I could be and vice versa. Though we were never officially an item, he was insanely jealous of my time, and I, too, wasn’t unaffected by his love for women. When we were great, we were amazing. When we weren’t, it was severe. All these factors, despite his dedication to seeing me as often as he could, made me decide internally never to pursue a serious relationship with him. Though we remained in touch throughout the school year, we would each pursue other love interests, much to his dismay.
By the time summer rolled around, I decided not to go home to Los Angeles. I had an apartment and freedom, so why would I? I took a temporary volunteer gig in Menlo Park as an after-school workshop instructor in the arts for kids aged twelve to seventeen. The only thing I remember about those kids was that not one of them knew who Michael Jackson was, which made me wonder what kind of sad kids Menlo Park was raising.
I met Oladife at the grocery store during the summer where my best girlfriends, Megan and Akilah, and I took a vow to be open-minded to everything that came our way. We made this decision specifically to add peer pressure to the youngest member of our trio, Akilah, whose standards for men were ridiculously high, undoubtedly based on her virginal status. So we made a pact to resist the inclination to say “no.” Every time one of us would consider backing out, we’d simultaneously guilt trip one another by trailing off the refrain, “I mean we did say . . .”
So that summer afternoon, when he approached me in the aisle of Safeway, nearly two inches shorter than me, with a colonial English and South African hybrid accent, I shrugged and said, “I mean we did say . . .”
But Oladife was just too much. He wanted to be romantic far too quickly (and not even in the sexual sense, which would have made me have a bit more respect for him, but in an emotional way that absolutely grossed me out). After going out on one date with him, I realized that he took himself and his feelings far too seriously; this was evidenced by the verses of poetry he texted me the same day we met. Ew.
I don’t even remember what we did on our first date, honestly. My memory is quick to efface and shield me from the irrelevant. Before I’m subject to harsh judgment, I’d like to assert that my callousness can’t be attributed to “nice guy” unappreciation. He wasn’t a nice guy in the sweet, gentlemanly sense; he was overbearing in his attempts to suck me into his fog of emotions. I’ve dated and politely turned down nice guys before and felt super bad about it; this was not one of those times.
I do remember that we hung out close to Stanford’s campus and at the end of the night, we found ourselves near the posh plaza adjacent to Embarcadero Road, one of Palo Alto’s main streets. I recall this part of the date only because it was then that he kept trying to hold my hand. Listen, I’ll let you stick your tongue in my mouth before I let you hold my hand. It’s mostly because of my own insecurities. The condensation that can brew between the heated concave part of hands that touch is enough to drive me insane. Also, I have big hands with long, skinny fingers, and whenever I have to hold hands with people (in prayer or to help them safely cross the street), I’m worried that they will a) comment on the size of my hands, à la “Damn! You got some big-ass hands for a woman!” or b) remark how disgustingly sweaty my palms are as they pull theirs away. Or worse, not say anything at all and just endure my sweaty hands hoping I don’t notice them abruptly wipe their own hands immediately after we disengage. But in this particular instance, because my empathy gland is oversized and it pains me to be the cause of hurt feelings and rejection, I briefly obliged his third attempt to lock my hand to his. If only I had the visual defense mechanism that porcupines do. If only my hands were equipped with quills to defend me from the fingertip rubs he inflicted on the lines of my palms. Are you trying to predict my future mid-stroll, mother$#@%?&! I thought, furious with myself for my genetic failings.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I made up a reason I needed to go home and, fortunately, he obliged and drove me back to my apartment. No later than two minutes after I had barricaded my door behind me, heaving with the relief of freedom, I received a phone call. Worried that he would come back if I didn’t answer, I picked up.
“Hello?”
“Look at the moon.”
I paused. “What?”
“Look at the mooooon,” he whispered tenderly.
“What about it?” I asked, tapping my fingers with impatience.
“Are you looking at it?” he prodded.
“I am.” I was not.
“I’m looking at it, too . . . I just wanted you to know that. So you’ll think of me and know that I’m thinking of you whenever you look at the night sky.”
I felt my vagina dry and shrivel up, like a raisin in the sun.
“Unh-huh,” I managed, incredulous.
“Good night,” he cooed, then he slowly and softly traced every button on his phone before he hung up. Probably.
After days of curt responses to his texts and avoiding his phone calls, I wrote him a carefully crafted text, telling him I wasn’t looking for a serious relationship. He called me and told me it was my loss. Oladife made me realize how much I hate overly sentimental gestures—especially if they’re from the wrong guy.
The final month of summer, my friends and I got into work mode, making sure we’d be set up financially for the impending school year. Megan was working at a law firm, making connections to secure an opportunity the following year. Akilah, who worked at a tutoring program, was helping middle school kids get ready for their upcoming school year. I had gotten another job—my dream job, a position I’ve wanted since I was nine years old. Ever since my little brother, Lamine, and I simulated owning a fast-food restaurant called Hamburgers Everywhere! I’ve had ambitions of owning a restaurant or being a waitress. Nine-year-old me clearly thought the two were interchangeable. When I got a job as a waitress at the new Counter burger restaurant in Palo Alto, I got to see a restaurant built and managed from the ground up and learned that my stress levels would be more fit for waitressing. Aside from some shitty managers and a couple of horrible co-workers, I loved waitressing. Even today, I maintain that if nothing works out in my life, I would be content working as a waitress.
I met Martin while serving tables during one of our busy lunch shifts. He wasn’t in my section, but I kept passing by his table, making sure he had everything he needed. He smiled politely and shook his head. After the third attempt with no words exchanged between us, I shrugged. Well, I tried. And just as he was getting up to leave, he spoke. In a heavy French accent, he asked me my name.
“Tu parles Français?” I tried.
He told me he was from France by way of Martinique and was in the country for a stage, or a paid internship, working for a food service/supply company. Yup, he could get it. We exchanged numbers and I marveled at my luck. What were the odds of my meeting another cute French guy? At the very least, I’d have a new opportunity to practice the language.
Martin and I kept it casual, going on a couple of dates here and there. I was still talking to Taz, from Pittsburgh by way of France, every night, when he decided to make another trip to see me in Palo Alto. By this time, we had switched to our third manager at The Counter, a man who started off nice enough but then transformed into a merciless tyrant, in an attempt to assert his power. Taz’s visit meant I had to ask for time off durin
g the weekend, our busiest time. Because I knew the manager would never approve of me taking days off because “a friend was in town,” I decided to lie about my circumstances. In a prophetic lie I’d come to regret for the rest of my life, I told him I had to go help my aunt in Oakland, who was sick. In any case, it worked, and Taz and I spent the entire weekend together, acting like a couple and . . . fighting like one. While we had a great, fiery chemistry, that weekend only solidified for me that I could not be in a relationship with him. Consequently, I never allowed my feelings for Taz to develop simply because when I pictured our future, I saw a vulnerable me. Call me a coward, but that just wouldn’t do. Taz made me realize what I don’t want in a relationship. I don’t ever want to be at the mercy of my emotions—that’s fun and adventurous for some people, but not me.
When Martin asked me to be his girlfriend, I accepted. Taz flipped out when I told him, frustrated that I wouldn’t give us a chance. I told him I didn’t trust him enough to be in a committed relationship with him, and he stopped talking to me for over six months. In the meantime, I got to know Martin more. We spoke only in French, and he was one of the most affectionate guys I’d ever been with, which he could sense. Prior to making our relationship official, we were friends with benefits. Or so I thought.
One night he called me to ask if he could come over and hang out. I told him I was on my period. He got silent and asked, “What does that have to do with anything?” Embarrassed, I said, “Oh, I just thought you should know. But come anyway.” When he came, we sat on my bed watching movies and he asked me again, “Why did you tell me you were on your period?” Truthfully, it was because I expected our “quality time” to be centered only around sex. I told him otherwise.
“Just in case I was moody, I didn’t want you to be offended.”
He nodded, and I thought he bought it, but he didn’t. One day, a couple of weeks later, he asked me if he could come over and talk. I had no idea what he wanted to talk to me about. That evening, he walked in the door, looking more somber than I had ever seen him.
“I don’t think you like me very much,” he started.
“What? What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Oftentimes, I will call you and you won’t call me back. Or when I come over to spend time with you, you’ll just go to sleep. And then that period thing. What are we doing?”
As I listened to him go on about what he wasn’t getting from me in our “relationship,” I grew confused—what was this?
I opted for the truth. “Honestly, I thought we were just . . .” Shit—what were the French words for “friends with benefits”?
“What did you think we were ‘just’?” he insisted.
I scrambled to put words together without sounding vulgar. It was the first language-barrier issue we’d encountered. I kept repeating the words in English, hoping he’d understand what “benefits” meant, but the more and more I said it, the dumber I felt. Frustrated, he proposed a solution. “I think we should stop seeing each other, since you don’t like me.”
I was shocked. I had never been broken up with before, much less from someone with whom I didn’t even know I was in a relationship. But if this was what he wanted, then who was I to stop him? Not his girlfriend, apparently. I nodded. “If that’s what you think is best.” As I walked him to the door, I found myself starting to get emotional. It had been two months of seeing each other, after all, and the thought of not seeing him or spending any time with him actually made me sad. As I opened the door for him, he turned around to hug me but stopped when he saw tears in my eyes.
“Are you actually sad?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
This sign of emotion was apparently enough for him to reconsider his decision. He kissed me, picked me up off the floor like I weighed thirty pounds, and we made up. An hour later, Martin asked me one more time to explain what a “friend with benefits” was. When I did, he told me, “We don’t do that in France.” Then he asked me to be his girlfriend.
As our relationship progressed and Martin and I started practically living together, he introduced the topic of meeting my friends.
“Why haven’t you introduced me to your friends? Are you ashamed of me?”
I laughed. “Of course not. I hadn’t really thought about it.”
But the truth was, I had. My friends were pressing me about meeting him, calling him my “secret lover.” The problem was, Martin had this cornrow/braid combo situation going on that I hated. It was 2006, and men with braids after the age of twenty-one were either thugs or painfully out of touch. I didn’t want to tell him to cut it, because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I didn’t want to appear shallow, but I had never introduced a boyfriend to my college friends before and I wanted the presentation to be perfect.
The day he casually mentioned that he felt like cutting all his hair off, my enthusiasm was on eleven. “Yes! Absolutely! Try something new! Go for it!”
As soon as he unveiled his new look, a freshly cut fade with a neatly trimmed five-o’clock shadow, I was in love. Was I that superficial? I guess. His haircut timing happened to coincide with a Winter Comedy event, thrown by Megan’s sorority, Alpha Kappa Alpha. This would be the perfect opportunity to unveil him to my friends. I invited him out, waiting a few days so as not to seem obvious about my sudden interest in showing him off.
“Hey, do you want to go to this comedy show? You can meet my friends.”
He smiled, seeing right through me. “So, it was the hair.”
The comedy show was a great time, and my friends approved of him. I was so relieved to have that out of the way.
Martin and I were getting closer, but his internship deadline, which had already been extended, was rapidly approaching. This meant he’d be going back to France, relegating our closeness to long distance. While my feelings for him were strong, this fact was hovering over my heart and my head. I started wondering if I was really ready to try to make it work with him while he was so far away. I was only twenty-one, and after many awkward years, I was just starting to enjoy guys being into me.
Plus, Martin had a trait that drove me nuts: he loved to argue, in an often condescending manner. At twenty-five, he was four years older than me, though he acted as if it were more like ten. Like many people, I don’t like being told what to do, nor do I like to be made to feel inferior under any circumstances.
In one particular incident, I had just started to gear up for “StanFunk,” a show put on during homecoming weekend for alumni and undergraduates alike. I had been asked to direct the show and was honored to be a part of it. Martin had decided to drop me off at rehearsals that night, as he was planning on spending the night. We were early, so we parked in front of the rehearsal space. I had to get some paperwork ready and started filling it out in the car, but the pen I was using had no ink, so I threw it out the window. Martin turned to me from the driver’s seat.
“Go pick that up.”
Maybe it was his tone, or his stern look, or the imperative “va” in French that triggered my anger, but I snapped. My anger at all the times he’d talked down to me had accumulated and it burst forth at once. He was going to hear all of my grievances in his car that night, very loudly.
His eyes widened in surprise when I started, and when I was done, he sat silently, looking ahead. As I calmed down, my anger slowly subsiding, I started to think about his command and my response. Had he simply said, “Come on, don’t do that” in a tone that appealed to my typical environmental sensitivity, things would have been fine. But there was an edge to his demand and the way he condescended to me that I knew I could never tolerate. Despite that, I regretted my temper and my harsh words, and when I got out of the car to go to rehearsal, I picked up the pen. When I handed him the pen through his open window, he turned his face to me and said, “I would have had more respect for you if you’d just left it there.” Really, asshole?
While his words gut-punched my ego, I retorted, “I didn’t do it for you.” Still, my relationship escape route was clearly etched in my mind from that day forward. I had one for every relationship, influenced negatively by my parents’ divorce. So when my cousin Aida called me one day, out of the blue, and asked if she could give her friend Louis my number, I found myself open.
“He saw your pictures and he keeps asking me about you,” she said, with a hint of irritation.
“Really?” I was surprised. Louis was gorgeous: tall, with the athletic build of a football player and Blasian features, on account of his Senegalese and Vietnamese background. During the summer, I had seen his picture on Hi5, an international MySpace I used from time to time to keep up with my cousins and friends, before they caught on to Facebook. My cousin Amadou, Aida’s brother, was also friends with him, and so I added him, thinking nothing of it. I was pleasantly surprised, then, when Louis sent me a message: “hi there . . .” We engaged in a few two-sentence messages back and forth, but he never really asked me about myself, and so the conversation quickly died. Now, nearly four months later, he had emerged and asked for my number through my younger cousin. Why didn’t he just ask me? I shrugged. Whatever, he was fine.
Martin and I were walking around a Safeway grocery store, shopping for dinner, when Louis first called me. I ignored the call because I didn’t recognize the number. When I listened to his voicemail, my stomach churned with butterflies of excitement. I told Martin I was going to go look for some vegetables in another aisle and escaped to listen to the message again. I called Louis back and got his voice mail. I quickly left a message, saying I was happy he’d called and that I’d try him back another time. I skipped over to Martin in the pasta aisle and we resumed shopping.
The night I drove home for Christmas break, I called Louis . . . from a blocked number. He answered but I hung up. What the hell was wrong with me? I couldn’t ignore the memories of my previous dating disappointments. He had seen my pictures, he had already asked for my number; why was this an issue? I practiced my “sexy phone voice” and then dialed, with my number visible. He answered.