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Which is totally fine, honestly. There's always going to be a power imbalance. It comes from dating someone who matches up with society's beauty standard- white, with 'good' hair and light eyes.

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Someone who comes from a different cultural background, Whihe who is seen as the default person. That's is A Lot. The agony, the ecstasy, the boat shoes. It's just a joke! Doesn't fucking matter, actually! Could even be worse!

One woman, Bria, told babe about a White guys dating black girls her ex suggested they play, in which they'd list all the things they would change about each other. She didn't want to play, because… duh. But he went first, and told her he wished her hair was "longer White guys dating black girls straighter. After we were seated I asked him how many black girls he'd dated. We continued dating, and soon we were exclusive. This didn't come without challenges. Whenever we went somewhere with a lot of black people in attendance, I got the side eye from some of them.

My dating outside the race was seen as a betrayal. Their thought bubble hovered, clear as day: Another time, my boyfriend got a call from his ex-girlfriend. Word had spread through the Caucasian grapevine. I was working on a sitcom at the time. When I told the writers on the show I was dating a white guy from the South who drove a pickup truck, I could tell they were skeptical. The kicker was when we went to the wedding of one of his friends in Cape Girardeau, Mo. I'm not exaggerating when I say white people stared at us as we walked down the street. Race is a thing. The more serious the relationship got, the more I started thinking about kids.

If we had them, they would be "multiethnic" or "biracial" or "mixed heritage. But I was getting ahead of myself, right? Was I in this or not? Was I ready to be committed to a guy whose family owned shotguns and went to the Waffle House? My parents were both college professors. His parents hadn't gone to college. My parents were Baha'is who didn't celebrate Christmas. His dad played Santa Claus in various malls below the Mason-Dixon line during the yuletide season. My boyfriend listened to emo rock, for God's sake! This was bound to be a disaster. But I didn't break up with him. I grew to love him more.

I loved that he shared a house off Sunset with a gay, Pakistani performance artist. I loved that he'd had the same Rottweiler for a pet since high school. I loved that he was a plaintiff's attorney, helping clients who'd been discriminated against in the workplace. I didn't love his pickup truck — it was cramped and always had dog hair on the seat. But no relationship's perfect.