This is modern feminism:
Yeah, I said it: I absolutely refuse to even touch my wallet while on a date with a man. This wasn’t always the case. In the past, the fact that I always tried my best to pay my way, regardless of my financial circumstance, was something I wore like a badge of honor. I was the quintessential “independent woman” – I didn’t need a man to take care of or pay for anything for me. I maintained that position for most of my college dating life and at one point was in a relationship with a man who was, well, pretty much broke. Everywhere we went, not only did I pay my way, but I often covered his expenses as well. I thought that was fair and that I should not play into gendered expectations that dictate what men or women should do. Then, I was hit with a dose of reality.
I have come to a place in my existence where I no longer feel like I have anything to prove. I am a thinking, hardworking, autonomous human being. I am also a woman, and a Black woman at that, who is constantly fighting for the right to claim an independence that has been hindered and even made secondary to that of my male peers. Why should I believe I must overcome this inequality without the assistance of a man who wants to pursue me romantically? Why is my effort to reach for the check anything more than pretense? Society has never treated me as “equal” to the man sitting across from me, yet all of a sudden the playing field is leveled? It’s not, and I will not pretend otherwise, nor will I afford a man who’s trying to date me the right to believe it is.
In my opinion, the act of paying for a date is merely acknowledgement of that fact.
If you date this woman you will pay. And pay, and pay, and pay.
Where I come from if you have to pay for a date it’s called prostitution, although in Ms. Drayton’s case I’m guessing if you even try for a goodnight kiss at the end of the “date” she will accuse you of attempted rape.
She has lots of grievances and she isn’t shy about airing them:
On the day of college graduation, I told my friends and family the news: I was leaving the country I had lived in since childhood.
“I just need a change,” I told them, but they knew there was more. Was it some romance gone awry, they wondered? Some impulsive response to a broken heart? And I was running from heartbreak. My relationship with the United States of America is the most tumultuous relationship I have ever had, and it ended with the heart-rending realization that a country I loved and believed in did not love me back.
Back in the ’90s, my mother brought me from our home in the Caribbean islands to the U.S., along with my brother and sister. I was 4 years old. She worked as a live-in nanny for two years, playing mommy for white kids whose parents had better things to do. She took trips to the Hamptons and even flew on a private jet to California as “the help.” My mom didn’t believe that nanny meant maid, but she did whatever was asked of her, because she was thirsty. She had a thirst that could only be quenched by the American dream. One day, she thought, her children would be educated. One day, they might have nannies of their own.
I was the model minority — absent, yet present. The yardstick to which other minorities were measured. If I could finish high school and college, why couldn’t so many African-American people find their way out of their hoods and pull themselves up by their bootstraps? If I could speak English without using a single ebonic slang, why do others call themselves “niggas”? If I managed to make it through 23 years without contracting an STD or getting pregnant, why do black women have the highest statistical risk of disease and teenage motherhood? Daddy America looked to me to prove that he did something right. After all, one of his children turned out all right. The others must simply be problem kids.
I survived because I was never able to make America my home. I never watched my childhood neighborhood become whitened by helicopter lights in search of criminals or hipsters in search of apartments. No state, city or town has been a mother to me, cradling generations of my family near her bosom, to then be destroyed by unemployment or poverty. No school system had the time or opportunity to relegate me to “remedial,” “rejected” or “unteachable.” I never accepted the misogynistic, drug-infested, stripper-glamorizing, hip-hop culture that is force-fed to black youths through square tubes. I am not a product of a state of greatness but a byproduct of emptiness.
In that empty, dark space I found my blackness. I stripped myself of the labels, painfully peeling them off one by one. Beneath them there is a wounded, disfigured colored woman who refuses to be faceless anymore, remain hidden any longer. My face may be repulsive to some since it bears proof that race continues to be a problem.
Still, I count myself lucky. Where my open cuts remain, eventually scars will take their place and those scars will fade with time. For many, their wounds will never heal. Gunshots bore coin-size holes into their chests that will never close. Their chained wrists and ankles will continue to bruise. Their minds have collapsed under the weight of a failed education system.
I was already back in Trinidad and Tobago when the Trayvon Martin verdict came down last week. I wasn’t surprised, but I was speechless. My hope is that it will force Americans to reexamine their “post-racial” beliefs. A friend of mine posted on my Facebook page, “You made the right choice.” I think I did, too.
I have found freedom by leaving the land of the free.
Apparently she has left her island paradise and has returned to this hellhole we call “America”. Maybe she was brought back here in chains.
If you really want to see some cray cray shit, check out the hashtag #GiveYourMoneyToWomen.
BTW: Ms. Drayton is 25 years old.
#GiveYourMoneyToWomen Tired of giving racism and sexism 101 lectures in the year 2015 when there is GOOGLE. Google gets paid. I should too.
— Tiffanie drayton (@draytontiffanie) May 30, 2015