femmesploitation

Photo by cottonbro VIA PEXELS

In a world where white men are the winners, being liked by a white man almost feels like you’ve won the lottery. 

My initial excitement of FaceTiming a boy shifted into a panic. Upon seeing him, my eyes were suddenly too small and my nose too broad. I bore through the pain and awkwardness (and his shameful misuse of African-American Vernacular English) and enjoyed myself to the best of my ability. I ended the call with feelings of hope — finally, I had found a guy who hearted my messages, who (I thought) I had a spark with, who was so goddamn intelligent he went to Harvard. I thought it went well. Indeed, it would get better after we called a few more times. He ghosted me that same night of the call, and my texts remain on delivered. 

See, talking to a guy is my form of “runner’s high.” It’s complicated and uncomfortable, but it propels you into a world colored with possibilities when things go well. You wear makeup more, opt for slacks instead of sweats and eat a little healthier. Then the guy disappoints you, and you stop waking up early for your runs. He asks if your friend is single, types “haha” or worse, ghosts you. Harvard boy is yet another name in my sad, pathetic, black book. It’s a book I can’t glance at twice in one sitting. I am too pained by the times I’ve been ghosted or confused friendliness for flirtiness. But I’m always on the hunt for a passing gaze that lasts a little too long. I don’t even want to date yet. So why am I so obsessed with someone liking me even if I don’t like them? Why are the majority of these men white? 

My fifth-grade diary is loaded with angsty scribbles regarding my craving for a white man to pick me. As I grew older, my attraction to white men didn’t overpower my interest in men of my race. I grew out of my “I want blue eyes and blonde hair” phase, and with that, my attraction to nonwhite men increased. In fact, given the cultural nuances and annoyance with explaining why I wear a bonnet or apply tiger’s balm over a bruise, it would be easier to date men from my background. Finally, in my senior year of high school, my senior thesis was focused on racial preferences within the dating realm. It was eye-opening. I left my presentation feeling elated — perhaps I could make people question their racial preferences and how ingrained they are in beauty standards and racist propaganda. It didn’t fix my problem, though. Something much deeper followed me to university — the craving for white validation for no other reason than to feel attractive. 

I am embarrassed to admit this part of myself. When I talk about it with my friends, the only ones who seem to understand are Black women (it’s worth noting that I am not recognizably Asian, so my experiences rarely align with the typical Southeast Asian-American girl). My non-Black female friends jokingly mention how Black women must be freed from the clutches of white men — revealing how little they know about the cultural nuances of Black female dating experiences and our personal social existence in the world outside of TikTok. No one needs to monitor who Black women like and why. 

It’s already frustrating to desire this acceptance, so things get old fast when white men prey on this sensitivity. That’s why the storm of distasteful videos of non-Black men proclaiming their love for Black women surfacing on social media astonished me. Often, they play on stereotypes of Black women, saying they love us for our body shapes, sassiness or, my personal favorite, they, “just need a chocolate fix.” These compliments are self-serving. You don’t get a pat on the back for liking Black women. This overplayed trend of white men thinking their validation builds the self-esteem of Black women is degrading. This narrative assumes ownership over Black women’s bodies. Why is praise over Black women only allowed if it plays on common tropes or unwillingly places us in competition with non-Black women? Fetishization is the act of fixating, novelizing, and making it the only part of their identity considered. It’s not a compliment. 

This isn’t to say interracial relationships between Black women and white men are always birthed out of white acceptance or fetishization. That is demeaning and insulting to genuine relationships. However, this is a prevalent issue for women of color, especially Black women, some of whom are also affected by colorism and its counterparts, featurism, and texturism. Notably, it hurts the self-esteem of young Black girls. Black girls shouldn’t grow up feeling undesirable or in competition for affection or attention, especially from men. 

My roommate and I have a routine. When we have a shitty week, we dress up and scream, “I want to be objectified tonight!” It’s a joke, of course, but we know the reasoning behind it. This is similar to feelings of validation from catcalling. Catcalling, the birth of men’s entitlement, causes me to feel like I am covered in slime afterward. There’s a rush from it, though. Oh, the bland, 54-year-old construction worker from across the street thinks I’m gorgeous, and he’d do a number on me? That’s totally awful. But also … I’ll be thinking about that tonight when I’m looking in the mirror and feeling ugly. At least he wants me. This isn’t to say that catcalling or other forms of unwanted attention from men is warranted. It’s dehumanizing. But it speaks to the warped self-perception young women have, all because we are told our makeup and bodies are for men. 

Our worth’s dependence on men’s preferences is even cemented in the invalidity of women-loving women relationships. I embrace my identity as a queer woman, but male validation has clouded my ability to view queer relationships as legitimate because there is no male counterpart in them. 

Male validation is a sort of poison that lays dormant in your system until you crave it. And once it starts running, it can become an obsessive catalyst that derails your whole week and shatters your self-image. Why wasn’t I catcalled? How much thinner and whiter do I have to be to receive attention? As disheartening as it is, I don’t have the cure. My roommate and I’s routine is couched in a joke, but we know the dark reasoning behind it. This craving for white validation is embedded in a system outside myself, and it’s one I’m willing to unlearn. It will be a tiresome journey. Ultimately, reclaiming my Black and Asian womanhood is a gig neither the bland construction worker nor Harvard boy can ever help with. So I say it’s about time we give the male gaze the middle finger and do this one alone.