I am 10 the first time I remember being asked this question, Do you have a boyfriend? We are sitting at a church table for religious education on a Saturday morning. It is our first session and we are getting to know each other. The teacher tells us to write a secret about ourselves on a slip of paper and fold it up. I cannot remember what mine said, perhaps that I played the violin, or some such. She collects the slips and opens one at random: I HAVE A BOYFRIEND, she reads, and asks us to guess who wrote it.
There are only two girls in the class: me and Kisha. Everyone turns to me. Do you have a boyfriend? they ask. I say no; they are surprised. I should have one, I am told, because I am pretty. I look at Kisha, who giggles into her palm. She has not come clean yet, and I realize they do not believe me. She has a nice smile, round cheeks that squeeze her eyes shut when she laughs. I wonder whether I am prettier than her. Is that why they all guessed it was me? No matter how much I deny it, my cheeks flushing red, the others do not stop peppering me with questions. Finally Kisha confesses. She asks me why I don't have a boyfriend, says I'm supposed to.
It is the first time I remember feeling there must be something wrong with me because I do not have a boyfriend.
More than 20 years later, I still do not have one. At times it is a badge I wear--single black female, like a rallying cry. I have a Bachelor's and (almost) Master's degrees, attended an Ivy League(ish) school and am well on my way to a brilliant career. For women like me, I am told, eligible men are an endangered species.
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