I’m continually reminded that a time before mine wasn’t that long ago. The clock has ticked forward faster than the progress it might represent. This is what I thought about today when I thought about Matt.
I resist recounting these events because I hate playing into the social construct of race that was created to divide and categorize us based on something as inconsequential as skin tone. But the story is the story. And this one isn’t that one.
Thoughts of Matt send me on the same mental journey with every arousal.
Had the environment or interval of our improbable encounter been different, our lives might’ve followed. My eyes water with gratitude at the notion and unsettled nostalgia at its transience. It’s a “what if” that can never be answered.
Matt was a white man a couple of years older than me after I’d just graduated high school. An 18-year-old black woman, I was legally an adult but limited and immature in my view of the world. I rarely saw, let alone spent time with anyone who looked like him.
Short blonde hair and sweet blue eyes complemented Matt’s six-foot frame. I dare say he was handsome with a scruffy, close-shaven beard outlining a smile that made him appear innocent. From his demeanor, I could tell that Matt had accumulated significant life experience. The smile only made me forget.
Creased khakis and plaid button-down shirts were staples of Matt’s wardrobe. He wore variations of this outfit to work every single day. He never switched it up by adding a tie or swapping the button-down for a polo. His style was ordinary. Simple but neat.
Matt and I were both hired as telemarketers in a call center.
Through a couple of weeks of training, I noticed the confidence that carried his voice when he spoke. He was never shy about answering or asking questions and articulated with a certain knowledge of how things worked.
We were in a structured classroom setting complete with desks and a chalkboard. Cheesy videos on things like workplace harassment and safety ran on a loop. Just keeping your eyes open was a challenge.
I came in every morning and found my typical seat near the back of the room, where I could go unnoticed. But Matt saw me through the cracks of people between us. Every now and then, he’d glance my way and smile. I’d raise my eyebrows in response, thinking.
“Why does this white dude keep looking at me?”
After we were released from training and onto the call center floor, Matt finagled his way into the cubicle next to mine. Once situated, he introduced himself.
Every morning Matt would be there next to my cubicle, waiting and grinning when I arrived to work. Sometimes he’d have coffee and a doughnut waiting on my desk. We’d chatted enough for him to know that I never woke up with enough time to eat breakfast.
As telemarketers, we contacted consumers in an attempt to convince them to purchase credit card insurance. The insurance would cover their balances in the event of job loss or other faultless financial difficulties. It was, of course, a smoking deal.
Every day we were hung up on, yelled at, and cursed out!
Matt made this routine humorous instead of exasperating. He spoke in different, random voices when making calls. Sometimes he was a cowboy living in Tennessee with a thick country accent. Other times, he’d hold his nose and be a nasal college nerd.
If a prospect told Matt to “go f**k himself,” he’d respond, “thank you so much, ma’am, I will!” He was sharp enough and savvy enough to be good at selling insurance but squandered many opportunities in exchange for my amusement.
We took our lunches and breaks together. Matt would tell me about his life and ask about mine. I’d deviate from my reserved persona and divulge everything. Answering every question, I soon began volunteering information unprompted. He made me want to tell my stories. So, we’d talk and laugh and be free.
Matt and I reached across a substantial cultural and economic divide to find common ground.
We were able to relate to each other with odd ease. He didn’t marvel at my tales of growing up impoverished in the “hood.” And I didn’t scoff when he recounted the spoils of a suburban upbringing.
I spoke to Matt about living in Gary, Indiana with matter-of-fact cadence. Like — this is the high school I graduated from; these are my friends, this is where we hang out. I didn’t talk to him as though any of my personal details were particularly interesting, and he never reacted that way. Matt never demonstrated pity or condescension. He focused and listened, as though he was trying to absorb who I was through my words.
In a small town not far from Gary in terms of minutes or miles, but on the other side of the planet in terms of infrastructure and affluence was Matt’s home. The call center was in his neck of the woods.
Matt was outside the circle of fiscal elites in his community, however. His parents didn’t have a ton of money. He was working this job to help pitch in on household expenses. Still, there are levels to hardship, and he was positioned well below mine.
After about a month of harmless attention and thoughtfulness, Matt professed his romantic intent. He smirked and said, “We should go on a date.” It took me a second to realize he was serious.
Matt joked here and there and smiled through most of our conversations. Yet, as he unveiled the depths of his affinity, he was straight-faced. Staring into my eyes, his voice was soft but firm, as though he had no choice but to say what he was saying.
“I think you’re beautiful and funny and smart,” was the gist of Matt’s speech. He told me he’d never felt this type of connection — one that he believed to be destined for more than friendship.
If only I’d let myself feel it too.
I turned away from the vulnerable reception of Matt’s gaze and thanked him for the compliments. It was my turn to smile and diffuse the gravity of our space. So, I chuckled and changed the subject in an attempt to not embarrass Matt with my disinterest. Though in the pocket of that moment, he seemed far too sure of his path for regrets.
Matt accepted my nonresponse. He mentioned the idea of dating again occasionally, casually. Ever the gentleman, he didn’t stop bringing me coffee and doughnuts despite my not entertaining his romantic advance.
In my naiveté, until Matt asked me out, I thought he was just nice, and we were friends. Both those things were true. I just never envisioned anything more. I did feel a connection to Matt but tucked it away in a platonic box before it even had a chance to grow into one more complex.
Matt was everything — intelligent, respectful, and considerate. We fit. He didn’t ask me to be his wife or even his girlfriend, only his date. Yet, my brain couldn’t fathom the idea of our relationship going further for one reason, his race.
My older, more evolved self cringes at the authenticity of a revelation that now feels ignorant. Because it’s one thing to have a type or a preference. Quite another to have bias as the foundation of decision-making.
I wasn’t raised in a family that explicitly degraded white people or forbade me from dating anyone of different ethnicity. I knew enough to understand that there was tension between our demographics. But no one spoke ill of other races in my presence. My surroundings simply told me that such a union was strange and uncomfortable. I didn’t want to be either of those things.
Until Matt, I never had any type of relationship with or even consistent proximity to anyone who wasn’t black. Certainly not in my inner-city schools and neighborhoods. None of my friends and close family members had white friends or romantic partners. I wasn’t confident or brave enough yet to disregard what people might say or think and be the first.
I never told Matt I didn’t want to date him because he was white. I never said to him that I just wanted to be “normal.” I think he knew though, and that’s why he didn’t push. He was aware of the unfortunate walls between our worlds. Only he cared little about tearing them down.
. . .
Working in a call center, you can burn out pretty quickly. My cubicle neighbor helped soften the experience, but I grew weary of callous rejection. A few months into the job, I’d had enough and decided to pursue another opportunity.
I informed Matt that I was moving on.
He dropped his head for a second. Not like you do when you’re sad. But how your head kind of falls forward when you’re tired. Then he looked up and said he understood. He planned to leave soon too.
On my final day of work, Matt scribbled his home phone number on a piece of paper and asked me to keep in touch, especially if I changed my mind about going on a date.
I never called.
Matt rarely entered my thoughts again until well into adulthood. Decades later and living in a different state, I wouldn’t recognize him if our paths ever did cross again. But I recognize the feeling he gave me of being seen. I’ll forever remember the warmth of his genuine care. His energy I can spot in an instant.
Marriage and having children as absolute indicators of love is an idea to which I don’t subscribe. But I feel it’s worth noting that I’ve never engaged in either. Never even been close. I’m as happy and content with my life as the next person. Though on occasion, my mind drifts to that place. To Matthew.
I realize now the rarity of connection and hold greater reverence for those well-intentioned. I understand now that love is worth standing out and standing up. I’ve learned enough about the world and myself to know that pure love is beautiful and powerful, and precious. You have to catch it when it comes your way, for you never know when it may come again.
I appreciate now, the importance of diversity in one’s environment. I comprehend the urgency of refusing the confines of the social construct that is race, for reasons far more pivotal than romantic pursuit. Though one purpose is, so love that crosses color lines doesn’t have to bear the weight of a revolutionary act.
When we met, Matt and I were only recently removed from childhood. There’s no way to know that our potential union wouldn’t have gone the fleeting way of most youthful infatuations. I may have still found myself here. That there’s no way to know is the root of my reflection.
I wonder how much different my life would be if I’d been open to love that didn’t look like I thought it should.
—
This post was previously published on Hello, Love.
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