Black men make me tired. Not all Black men, however enough to at times trigger a deep and antagonising exhaustion. And that’s because while I, as a Black woman, through learning to appreciate my own Blackness, have overtime developed an ever-growing love and empathy for who the Black man is, what he’s been through and hope for where he’s going, it’s not something that I have often felt reciprocated.

My most recent fatiguing experience was a few weeks ago when I was on holiday with my cousins. I was in heavenly Mexico, basking in a pool at a beach club. The sun was shining, the melanin was glowing and the tequila was flowing. I was living my best life and minding my own business when two Black British men came to join me in the pool.

Initially I welcomed their presence, however the energy they began to emit had me quickly changing my tune. As the conversation progressed, it became clear that their idea of flirtation was to tug at me like young boys who pull on pigtails in the playground when their mouths haven’t yet learnt to speak the language of love. At first I brushed their words off, but after a while it began to visibly jar me.

“You’ve got violent energy, you know”, one of them said in a moment of unwarranted expression.

“Excuse me?” I replied, shocked at the dramatic left turn in conversation.

“You’ve got violent energy”, he repeated, “like testosterone”. I laughed in disbelief. He laughed too. He thought he was funny and we were engaging in flirtatious banter. But really, I had ceased to be an active participant in our conversation and instead, had become the canvas on which he projected his misogynoir.

“He doesn’t like Black women,” the other one whispered when his friend had turned away. Another comment that had me taken a back. At first I thought he was offering an explanation to his friend’s behaviour and trying to warn me of his ignorance, but it quickly became clear that he too had mistaken our back and forth for flirtation and seemingly sought to cock-block our interaction.

He continued: “He doesn’t date Black women, but don’t worry, because I only date Black women”. He smiled then, as if I ought to be relieved or grateful that while his friend practiced self-hatred, he endorsed positive discrimination. He thought he was shooting his shot, but in doing so failed to see that regardless of the opposing sides on which he claimed they both stood, in the eyes of both men, my attraction or lack thereof was reduced to the colour of my skin. It was an offence all round.

I could feel the air seeping from my lungs in a sigh that expelled the energy from my bones. I began to tell them about themselves, though the more I sunk into my irritation the more they both threw comments about me being an aggressive Black woman. Though of course, we were still ‘flirting’, and so along with the insults were questions of whether I was free that evening and when we should next meet up. I was baffled.

I was ready to tell them about themselves, because clearly someone had to, but I gave up because not only was their ignorance at a point of no return, but I realised that it wasn’t my job to do so. It was not my responsibility to educate these two Black men.

For far too long, Black women have been left with the responsibility to educate Black men at the expense of themselves and it’s draining.

The catch 22 however, was that choosing not to have the conversation brought on an exhaustion of its own, because if I didn’t do it, then who would? If every Black woman that they encounter chooses to protect their peace, which they should for the record, then at what point do Black men like that learn? 

It’s a responsibility that while often laid at the feet of Black women, truly ought to solely belong to other Black men. To raise your sons, brothers and friends to be kings and not jokers, because for far too long has the Black woman been the butt of the ignorant Black man’s jokes.

It’s something I feel that Black men should teach each other and indeed some are. Indeed, many are learning and growing, and for the most part that reinvigorates my being. But on days like that one, when it feels as though the Black man exists solely to tear down the Black woman, it deflates me and makes me wonder what exactly it is that I’m hopeful for.  

Black men make me tired. Again, not all Black men, but enough. Still, I have time and love for the collective. Even in that interaction, I entertained their company and fought to explain for far longer than I should have because a part of me was holding out hope for a moment of enlightenment, that very sadly never came.

I have time and love for the collective, because deep down I’m a romantic who believes that there is something uniquely beautiful about Black love. About two actualised Black minds that inherited the scars of their ancestors and yet, despite the trauma of their pasts, sought to heal themselves in the present and grow. Whom despite the learned self-hatred thrust on them by their oppressors, see only beauty in their reflection and in the eyes of their counterpart. I see hope in Black love. I also see hope in Black men. A hope that no matter how deep the exhaustion, I’m determined not to give up on.

And on that note, I do believe the time for a nap is upon us. *Sips Tea*

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