Black Beauty

There are so few African-Americans here in Australia it's absolutely striking. African natives, however, are everywhere. They look at me with a mixture of curiosity and familiarity and I feel like mixed up fragments of the future gazing at the beauty of the past. I also feel like an outsider, being both African and American makes me a bit too multicultural to fully fit in with either group, a feeling I've grown accustomed to. People look at me trying to figure out what land I'm native to. Just two days ago, a lovely African couple approached me and asked, "Where are your people from?" Well... My roots are the same as yours but somewhere along the lines, things got mixed up and the branches became caramel skinned with curly hair and hazel-brown eyes. I don't like hearing Black people say, "I'm part this and part that and one-fifth this... with a little bit of (insert random Native-American tribe here)..." but faced with this question, I was stumped. We barely look African-Anything, I wear my hair natural and people still can't figure out what my heritage is. For some reason, I felt my being African-American was a cop-out, like I'm not really Black at all. In the States, you can be as Black and Afro-centric as you want to be but once you see a group of Nigerians who just left the Mother Land two weeks ago, you will definitely feel like the odd man out. I told the couple that I'm African-American and they nodded, smiled, and told me I'm beautiful. Thank you, you two are gorgeous.

I feel obliged to preface the following by saying that for the last few months I've been experiencing a slight obsession to date a darkly skinned African man. I feel silly writing this but I really want to see an African man's dark chocolate-y skin against mine. To see this tall dark being walk around my girly apartment and kneel to look at himself in the full-length mirror or have to bow his head slightly as he passes through the door-frames. I want to admire him up close: high cheekbones and angular features, full lips and dark eyes, it excites me. There are tall, beautiful, athletic-looking African men all over this city but none have ever approached me. This brings me to Charlie.

Charlie is a tall, slim, handsome man from Congo. His skin is as dark and smooth as black coffee. He is employed by a crowd-control agency that sends its employees to all the high-profile bars in Perth city. I see him every Friday and Saturday night while I'm at work. Drunk women stumble and fall against his statuesque frame, he just smiles and helps them steady themselves. As he stands there, his presences alone keeps rowdy party-goers in check while his tall, erect posture dwarfs everyone in the venue. He sees me carrying trays of cocktails and coffee cups, laughing and chatting with customers but because we're both working, we've never had the opportunity to speak to one another; I had never heard his voice before Sunday night.

I was having my dinner break outside in the staff courtyard when I heard two men talking nearby. He and a fellow bouncer entered the courtyard deep in a conversation about various troublesome customers who'd been causing problems in the restaurant. While listening, Charlie's eyes glanced around the area and met mine. I smiled, a bit embarrassed sitting at a table while hunched over a caesar salad and the day's newspaper. I knew he'd linger once his coworker left and we'd have our first opportunity for conversation. The idea of finally being able to talk to him after eight months of watching him out of the corner of my eye made me nervous. I never thought about what I might say to him if we ever talked. "I like the way you look" seems a little blunt, doesn't it?

Sure enough, his company left and we were alone. I looked up from the paper and smiled, "Hi."
"Hi," he said and came closer.

Then, with the silence between us broken we began to ask each other the questions fuelled by the need to satisfy the curiosity we both felt every time we saw each other.

"What's your name?" he started.

"Porscha, what's yours?"

"Charlie."

"Where are you from?" I asked, noting his rich accent from the way he pronounce his name "Chah-lee".

"I'm from Congo. What about you?"

"The U.S., California."

"Oh," he nodded. "Are you just working and traveling or do you live here now?"

"I'm studying here, what about you?"

"I'm studying as well."

"Really? What are you studying?"

"Mechanical engineering."

"Oh? Wow."

"What are you studying?"

"I'm getting my master's in public relations. Do you like your job?" I don't know why I asked that. I guess I just wanted to get away from each other's stats and learn more about him as a person.

"No," he chuckled, white teeth gleaming. "I hate it. I just do it to cover my expenses."

For some reason the way he said, "cover my expenses" captured my intrigue. I think it's because it's an intelligent way to say, "I work cuz I need to pay for stuff." I feel like my degree in journalism makes communication skills of the utmost importance for me upon meeting someone. This makes me way too easy to impress and an all around fool for a man who can turn a phrase.

"Did you come here alone or do you have family here?" I continued with our friendly interrogation.

"No, I came here alone. What about you?"

"Same. How long have you been here?"

"About a year and a half. You?"

"A little over a year."

We nodded at our similar situations.

His coworker's voice buzzed the walkie-talkie Charlie was holding.

"I gotta go back in. It was nice talking to you. See you in there," he said.

"Yeah, see you."

And that was all.

Just for clarification, I must say that yes, I am currently dating someone that I care about very much. He is a wonderful person and I am very happy to be in a relationship with him. But, as a writer, I feel it's my duty to express my thoughts, feelings and experiences and I refuse to censor myself. Thank goodness my guy understands and loves this about me... right?