Being single, being myself - African American woman discusses being single - Column

If another person asks me "Why isn't a smart, attractive woman like you married?" I am going to scream. The question has become particularly annoying since my recent fortieth birthday. Even children have eyed me suspiciously and asked, "Ain't you got no kids?" I guess it might seem odd to them or even sad that a 40-year-old Black woman has never married and never had children. People stare incredulously. I know what they are thinking: Good job, a house, a car, attractive, a pleasant personality. There must be something wrong--with her.

For years I have searched my soul to find and remove the big flaw. Recently I discovered that my singleness is not a statement about me personally, but a commentary on the meanings we attach to being women and men. As I rummaged through memories seeking the origins of my despair, I realized that I learned very early that every woman needs a man to be, to exist, to feel whole.

My first Halloween costume was a wedding dress. There were two weddings: a real one where I was a flower girl, and a play wedding where I married Davy, the boy down the street. Everywhere I turned, the messages were clear: I was to grow up meet Mr. Right and live happily ever after. I'm not certain when it was I discovered that the Cinderella fairy tale is a lie, or if I've ever really given up hope. On my birthday, my grandmother still reads my horoscope to me, predicting that I am going to meet him soon.

Certainly I was socialized to believe that I must have male validation. The first man in my life was my father. When I proudly brought home report cards with nearly all A's, my father would ask, "What is this B doing on your report card?" When prom time arrived, it wasn't my mom's comments about looking attractive I yearned for; it was Dad's. On the day I received my Ph.D., my father asked, "Now that you have your P-H-D and your J-0-B, when are you going to get an M-A-N?" Struggling through a rigorous graduate program was not proof that I was enough. I had to "catch" a husband. I tried hard to find a man to marry so I could fit in and not be stigmatized.

As I look around at the Black professional men in my academic circles, few are still unmarried, but most are married to White women. Then there are the Black men married to nonprofessional Black women or former professional Black women who now manage their husband's careers. Of the White men I encounter, I feel most of them do not see me but instead are curious about "Black women."

Many men may find extremely intelligent and successful women attractive, but they do not want to marry them. In relationships, many men are uncomfortable with, need I say intimidated by, my intellectual acumen. The intimidation factor is unrelated to a man's personal or material success. Successful professional and nonprofessional men have directly or indirectly indicated their discomfort with my unbridled intelligence.

I've always said I wanted a man who would allow me to be myself, yet I find that "myself" (the one I've been perfecting for Mr. Right) especially scares men who subscribe to the I-must-be-better-than-a-woman definition of maleness. Ironically, when in a relationship I often set aside this self for fear that it will drive men away. But then I start to feel lost, as if some part of me is in exile.

Now, at 40, I see no alternative to being myself. That is what keeps me alive and brings me peace. I prefer that to the tension I frequently encounter with men who are not secure enough to allow me to blossom. I cannot be less than myself so my man can feel good about himself. Then we both sink to lower levels of being in the world. I must be my real self so that he can be his real self.

I now understand, however, that the process of being that self also means relinquishing many of those beliefs we have both learned about his place in the world and mine. I also understand that for the present I have chosen to be single, and in doing so I have redefined what it means to be me.

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