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Something like a Fairytale

Light. Bright. Damn near White. Those are the only befitting words when I recall peering out into the audience from the stage, there he sat nestled in the center amongst a shaded variety of black and brown faces; including his russet colored date who instantly caught a side-eye.

Bitter! Void of sweetness. The flavor of something that imprints a mental residue of yuck-ness. Those were the lenses I’d welcomely prescribed to my view of the world, a world that gifted me the mic!

“Oooh, you real cute! What are you, mixed? Oh, you Asian, Huh?”

“Damn girl, where you get him from?” I ignorantly aggressed his date in sour disbelief.

“The beauty supply store?” I continued. Smirkingly proud of my insult.

The crowd roared. I was the host. Possessor of the microphone. Dictator of the space and all of it’s encompassing energy.

This was back in my high-heel wearing days, infused with an insecure eagerness be seen and desired. Always succeeding via two coexisting schemes; wear tight clothes with heels, while acting like one of the homies. Boom! Worked every time. Or, maybe I was fooling myself; had it worked? Cause there I was mic in hand, flaunting a sexy pair of tight, blue jeans with an all black 4 inch above-the-knee boot, and a blousy black top loosely curtained across my belly. A belly that housed a man's child that did not want me…or should I say, did not want us.

They laughed, him louder than she. He had an infectious laugh, authentic, as though his joy came from the depths of his being. I moved on with the show. It was never fun insulting a pair unless one got offended.

Afterwards, while selling my DVD, they stopped by to thank me. He bought one, still laughing, face blushingly red and puffy at the eyes—commonly referred to as the Asian flush—from his alcohol intake that evening. As he turned to follow his already exiting date, he said, “Thanks again for making our night. We had a ball!”

Making your night? I irritably reflected for a millisecond, That was not my intention.

I spent the majority of my pregnancy wishing I had a supportive loving partner while blowing through my late evenings trying to dismantle the couples in my audiences. I was a

H-A-T-E-R to say the least.

Two weeks later, Light and Bright was back, beaming through the darkened audience again...with a different black woman.

“Wait, so you're like an Asian pimp?” I yelled to him with a contextually heavy snare.

The audience laughed for reasons not pertinent to the question.

It was the summer time. His skin kissed gently with a hue of the Sun's affection. The amber tinted complexion added a socialized assumption to his race, black father, Asian mother, maybe? Or potentially notched in a sea of melanin-infused peers, I couldn't bring myself to see him any other way.

But wait...was he a pimp?

“Oh so you're a player.” I said. The audience now curious to our past dealings, no longer amused. Decidedly moving on, as if I were telling him no to a question he hadn’t even asked, I attacked a different couple. “You know he's probably cheating, right?” Calling out a guy looking down at his cellphone. Laughter crawled weakly through the stale air.

Though I’d only acknowledged Light and Bright the one time at the start of the show, he still felt compelled to stop by my DVD booth on his way out; introducing the mother of his child. “Oh so you got black baby mamas.” I said. We all laughed.

He then say’s, he attempted to friend me on Facebook but I had too many friends.

That I am too important for him.

I know it was just a joke but it was flirty enough for me to lay in the stillness of that moment. His baby mama suddenly shrinking in my mind into a mere decoy. When I got home, I deleted some inactive friends on Facebook and sought out his request. Accepted.

Light. Bright. Damn near white name is Mike. After becoming friends on Facebook I spent a stalker-ish amount of time looking through all his pictures.

He appeared to be either a really involved father or a single one. I'd soon come to find out it was the latter. He had an uncomfortable amount of female friends that he proudly displayed on his page along with his delicious orgasmic photos of food he cooked himself.

We occasionally liked a picture or “LOL’d” a post of each other, but not much more.

One day in late summer of 2010, I posted a bitter Facebook status belittling and shaming all men. Mike commented stating “Some men pretend to be interested in a woman when in fact they only have one goal in mind; which is unfair to the woman. These men should be honest upfront.”

...WHAT? Upfront honesty? Who is this martian of a man?

Wallowing in my pregnancy induced hormones, I went to reply to his comment; he’d deleted it.

Over on his page I wrote a post asking, “Did you just delete a comment off my page?” And he replied, “I did, I felt it was steering the conversation in a direction you didn’t intent.”

...WHAT? Who is that considerate on a Facebook post?

I replied, "Well, I saw it before you deleted it so...when I'm done doing me and you're done doing you, let's say June 2013? Does that work?"

He then types, "I'll grab my Tux this week."

We LOL'd it off and wouldn't exchange words or see each other for five months.


The baby was born.

I was chilling by her bedside eating some astonishingly tasty hospital salmon; browsing through Facebook on my computer when I scrolled across a picture of some Food Network worthy spaghetti. It was Mike, he'd posted the photo with the title, 'Real Men Cook'.

And I, without hesitation commented, 'Real Women Eat!'

About ten minutes passed, and I receive a FB message from him, stating this is in fact his signature spaghetti and If I'd like him to bring some to the comedy club the next time I work?

I went on to explain how Heaven (my newborn) was ill and they were transferring us in two days to a specialty hospital 3 hours away in Indianapolis. I had no idea when I'd be hosting again. However, I was in school and would be here until Saturday to finish all my finals.

We decided to meet at Cracker Barrel for breakfast the day I was leaving for Indy. He drove to the one right off of the highway just passed the Indiana/Illinois border, as to not make my trip any longer than need be.

Walking to the door, I could feel the crisp December wind grazing my cheeks; it was bearably chilly with the fading freshness of the morning dew. This brought a calming sense to my entire body.

We ate. I had pancakes. The conversation, effortless and easy. Laughter entangled between our self-imposed uncertainties and assumed impossibilities.

Dude, you're Asian; I just had a baby; this could never work.

Before leaving he handed me a recyclable Trader Joes bag with individually packaged food storage containers each brimmed with spaghetti. And these were the good storage containers. The ones you will drive back to a party to grab if you forget, kind of storage containers. The sauce was separate as to not wilt the noddles. There was garlic bread wrapped in foil with napkins and even utensils.

"There's a week full of food in there, let me know how you like it." He says in his unforced, gliding ease of a tone. He was clean, fresh, I found myself wanting to absorb him; standing there two inches my junior yet so tall in this energy between us, sporting a calf length wool coat, matching scarf and what I would later tease about constantly--church shoes.

I grabbed the bag; I liked his hands, veiny and soft to the touch. The way his watch laid connectedly on his yellowish wrist.

Okay...You must got like an incurable disease or you secretly beat women, or your penis is the size of a pencil eraser; which one dude? I was darting thoughts like a pinball machine.

Surprisingly, none of the above.

We became closer and closer over the coming months and somehow my physical and emotional distance formed a mutual magnetic craving for one another.

I could cry with him. Be silly. Outrageous. Loud. And Angry! Or I could just do nothing and sit. No expectations. I felt free with him. Unapologetic. Honest!

I'd fallen in real love. How? When?...

and this DEEP!...Something like a Fairytale, I suppose.

Mike and Kellye

Wedding Date: June 14th 2013!

FUN FACT: Black women and Asian men are considered the LESS DESIRABLE mates in the world.

I guess lucky for us! ¯\_(ツ)_/¯


How did you meet your mate?

Would you be open to dating outside of your race if the opportunity presented itself?

Do you believe in destiny?...I do :)

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