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      July 26, 2019How to Date a White BoyAmy Alvarez

      1.
      Never be the first. You are no one’s
      enigma or experiment. Find evidence:
      an old photo online, in a dusty shoebox
      under his bed. Do not be his melanated
      test drive. Do not feel flattered.
       
      2.
      If you meet his parents, prepare
      for disappointment. You will want
      them to be pleased with your philosophy
      thesis/your grandma’s pearls. You will
      hope they are immediately rude so you
      do not waste another fertile year on their
      son. They will invite you to a cookout (they
      will call it a barbeque, but it will be a cookout).
      Don’t get too upset when you overhear
      the grandmother say you are darker/smarter/
      prettier/more or less articulate than expected.
      She will be dead before the wedding if there is one.
       
      3.
      So, you’ve fallen in love. Remind him
      before you create a joint Instagram
      account, before you adopt a shelter
      dog, remind him that you wear the same
      MAC foundation number as Sandra Bland.
      That your brother looked like Tamir when
      he was little. Before you argue names for
      imagined children, remind him of what
      could happen to a boy with your face.
       
      4.
      So, your white boy thinks you should move
      in together. Take him to un-gentrified Bronx
      neighborhoods where old men play dominoes
      on the sidewalk and children have no bedtimes
      in summer. Take him to your favorite auntie’s
      house. Let him get a tongue lashing from your
      Hotep cousin while you “help” in the kitchen
      by taste-testing arroz con pollo/collards/quinoa salad.
       
      5.
      So, your white boy has fallen in love with you.
      He has told off Johnnie Come Woke-ly friends.
      He is asking whether you have ever thought it
      would be easier with someone browner than him,
      whether your parents, best friend, your abuelita
      would be happier. Hold his hands in yours. Notice
      his red face, tear-filled eyes. Tell him the truth.

      from #64 - Summer 2019

      Amy Alvarez

      “I am the daughter and granddaughter of Caribbean immigrants and a native New Yorker. I decided to become a poet at fifteen after a poetry class at my public high school in Queens, New York, helped me realize the immense power that comes from putting one’s ‘best words in their best order.’ I became an educator so that more young people might realize how poetry can set them free. I taught in New York City and Boston public high schools and now teach in the Department of English at West Virginia University.”