It all started innocently enough, with a random comment on my profile on my page on a social media site.
My name is Jefferson Waite, though most people know me by my nickname Jason. I am mostly Scottish American, with a touch of Seneca that is most evident in my high cheekbones. I stand about 5-10, have a slim build weighing about 140. I have expressive eyes that change colors with my mood. Mostly they are blue or gray, occasionally green. I wear my long brown hair pulled back in a tail, partly in homage to my heritage.
I have an avid interest in the outdoors, especially mountains, and I had customized my profile by using one of my photographs as a background. Under the "about me" section I had included a rather long description on my philosophy on life. It all boiled down to, turn off the TV and get out and have your own adventures. Life is too short for it to be boring.
I get comments a lot on my page. Most of them, the ones that are not spambots anyway, tell me how much they liked either the background photo or the about me section. Usually, if they have mentioned something specifically on my profile I will respond with a "thank you, I'm glad you liked it" message, after checking out their profile to get a feel for who they are.
This message was from a Mz Shavonda. She told me how much she liked the background photo and wanted to know where it was taken. She also asked how I could personalize my page like that. I was about to send her the standard "thank you" message, but when I pulled up her profile, I was impressed. Her photos showed a rather nice looking ebony lady with straight hair, with an obvious flair for the artistic and an enjoyment of the outdoors. There were photos of her riding bicycle on a trail in the woods, art she'd evidently produced (it was very good if you ask me) and a whole host of personal details found intriguing.
So, I messaged her back, commenting that her profile was not bad either, and that we apparently had some common interests. I also offered to send her detailed instructions on how I added my background photo, which was of Nickajack Lake in Tennessee, if she'd send me her email address.
A few minutes later, I got a message on my messenger from her. So we chatted for a while, while I directed her step-by-step through updating her profile. When we were done, she invited me to take a look at the updated profile. That's when I noticed she lived not far from me. It was getting late by that time, and my job has a predawn start time so I bid her goodnight.
I was intrigued enough by her profile that I messaged her a couple days later, asking her if she was getting any comments on the new profile (she was) and soon we were chatting about other things. I found her easy to chat with, and we had a lot in common. Soon, we were chatting almost every night. We discussed music and I found her taste to be as eclectic as mine. We started recommending music for the other to listen to, and giving each other feedback on those artists.
We also discussed our shared love of reading. I told her of my favorites including Kim Stanley Robinson's Mars trilogy. She told me of her favorites as well, and I soon found myself reading Toni Morrison.
But what floored me was one evening when she asked out of the blue what I thought of Huckleberry Finn. My take on the book was that once you got past the racial epithets, the story itself was an inspiring tale of racial harmony, in that Finn was helping the runaway slave Jim to freedom. They obviously loved and respected one another, in an era where slaves were considered inferior Finn treated Jim as equal.
"Finally," she wrote back, "somebody else GETS that."
I told her that my people, I am part Seneca, were considered inferior as well, and that my Scottish ancestors were also second class citizens in merry olde England.
A couple of months in, the letter came in the mail. My ex-wife was begging me to come back to her. I was somewhat confused because of what had transpired during the divorce. Shavonda sensed my unease when I mentioned it to her, and messaged back "I am here if you want to talk about it." She also gave me her phone number. Feeling somewhat down and confused I called her to get her input on my situation.
She seemed happy I called, and after some small talk, I laid out the background situation and my dilemma. Rose and I had married young, right after I had moved to Pittsburgh from the mountains where I was raised. I had worked as a printer while she went to school for a Degree in Computer Science. After 4 years and a bachelor's degree, she went to work while I went to school for Civil Engineering. After another 2 years, I had to quit school when she became pregnant. Needing a decent paying job, I got my CDL, and began working as an over the road trucker. It was a lonely job, but it kept us afloat while she stayed home with our daughter, Brittany. The next year, she was pregnant again with our son Ethan. So much for getting off the road anytime soon.
Eight months later, a couple of weeks before Ethan's birth, Rose told me not to bother coming home, that she'd moved back in with her mother, and that if I was going to be away from home all the time to just stay away. Welfare was a better provider for her.
I had been devastated. This was the woman I had vowed to spend the rest of my life with. I found a job driving regional runs, home every night, and attempted to get her to come back to me. Instead, I got "I'll think about it." Eventually, the divorce papers arrived. She had filed an indigent divorce, in which she gave up all rights to alimony or division of property in exchange for a divorce decree. The state paid all costs. Except for child support for two children I was a free man. Saving my money, I was able to buy a modest house in a quiet neighborhood, and I slowly got my life back together. Now, after 3 years, I was finally in a good place in my life.
Shavonda asked, "Jason do you love her?"
"Not really, not anymore. More importantly, I don't trust her," I replied.
"Why do you think she wants you back? Why now?" she asked.
I told her that I thought maybe Rose realized she had left with nothing, and now that she was working intended to get me to marry her again so that this time she could get the house and alimony in another divorce settlement.
"Do you want to go back with Rose?" Shavonda asked in that sweet voice of hers. I loved the way she stressed certain words and syllables in a way different than me.
"I don't trust her, the only reason I'd take her back would be for the kids."
"That's admirable, Jason, but you do see them, now don't you?" Shavonda asked. "I mean you do have a strong fatherly relationship with them, right?"
"Yes. Shavonda," I replied, loving the way her name sounded when I said it. "They mean the world to me. At 4 and 3 they don't understand what's going on, and I don't want them hurt."
"Well, don't you think that your current situation, and eventually finding a woman who will love and cherish them as her own, is better than going back to a failed marriage to a woman you don't love or trust?"
I had to admit she had a point. Feeling a lot better, I thanked her for her insight. "I'm just glad I could help a good friend. Let me know what you decide. Now get some sleep, you have to work in the morning," she said. "Remember I am here for you anytime you want to talk. You are a sweet man, and you have such a sweet accent and sexy voice."
"Goodnight and thank you, Shavonda. I really do feel better. And you have a sweet voice as well."
After that night, something had fundamentally changed in our friendship. With each other's phone numbers, our messaging all but stopped in favor of phone calls. We would talk almost every day, with her calling me on the days I didn't call her first. Our conversations became more personal. We were discussing things like our frustration with the dating scene. I had had a few hookups since my divorce, but they were little more than one night stands. I had yet to meet anybody I was interested in for more than a quick lay, and had no interest in them afterwards. It was somewhat painful trying to extricate myself from somebody's bed afterward, but it would have been worse to lay there feeling bored and empty, leading them on.
Shavonda was different. Even though we had never met in person, I could relate to her in a way I couldn't with anybody else, and she was slowly filling that empty space in my life. This was something more than friendship developing. But I was sure I was not her type.
About a month after, the elephant in the room finally came up when Shavonda asked straight out, "Jason, do you like black women?"
I told her of my first crush in high school, a girl named Tamika Pritchard. Tamika was one of the few black students in my school, and the only one in my class. I remember wondering if there was something wrong with me. In our rural part of West Virginia, interracial relationships were frowned upon. You'd see them in some of the larger towns, a white woman with a mixed child, or with a black man. These women were ostracized, called nigger lover or whore, or worse. I always felt bad for them, that they couldn't be with who they loved without being harassed. I was not taught to hate other people, and was never a part of that harassment. But I witnessed it firsthand several times. But the one thing I never saw, until I moved to the city, was a black woman with a white man. And so, I never pursued my crush on Tamika, content to gaze at her from afar.
"So why have you never asked a black woman out if you like them?" she asked. These questions were starting to get uncomfortable. But Shavonda had a way of asking things that forced you to confront your fears, and work out your solution for yourself. She got you thinking, which was one of the things I loved and respected about her.
The truth is, I'd never actually considered an interracial relationship as a possibility. I just didn't think anybody would be interested in me.
"I don't think they'd be interested in a white boy like me," I replied.
She answered, "You know, Jefferson, it would be a shame if you lost your queen because you didn't think she was interested in having you as her king." She'd never called me by my given name before, and it surprised me because I'd forgotten that I had told her about it.
"Are you trying to tell me something, Shavonda?"
"Maybe."
Really? Do I have a chance? Does she want me as more than just a friend? Throwing caution to the wind, I asked her, "Would you like to go out with me on Friday after work? Dinner at least?"
"I thought you'd never ask," she replied in that sexy voice. "What took you so long?"
