On the movie “Get Out”, and my experience of inter-racial dating.

I watched Get Out last night. It’s only recently reached cinemas here in Berlin, the benefit of which is that it has allowed much of the surrounding hype to die down. I was thus able to assess it on its own terms. And haha, my God. It’s outstanding.

 

I’m not going to do a review here or recount the facts in any great detail, because – quite frankly – that’s been done countless times already. What I will do is set out my reaction to the film; I’m not sure how long or how structured these reflections will be, since I am trying to type them as freely as they come. Put it this way, though – this film really affected me, so much so that I was up until 2:30am this morning discussing it with a friend. It’s the kind of art that makes you want to discuss it with everyone.

 

I am very public about many aspects of my life, but the one area where I am furiously private (till now, haha) is that of dating. I think that’s because, since I spent much of my working life in in a state of some visibility, I like to keep some part of my life secret and sacred. That desire for privacy means that there are some setbacks that I just don’t discuss. But, wow, Get Out brought so many of those back to the surface.

 

We often talk about black people suffering the adverse effects of severe immigration policies, but, of late, I have been thinking a great deal about the supreme version of border control: that is to say, whether you are welcomed into your partner’s family. It’s one thing to allow a black person into your country; it’s quite another to let one of them marry into your bloodline. I have been very fortunate in most of my longer relationships. The first woman I ever loved was a black woman, so no problem there (if you read this on your occasional visits to Facebook, then thank you, thank you, for being such an amazing introduction to the turbulent world of love. I am still so grateful). I went out with a wonderful white British woman whose family were lovely to me; her grandmother had never met a black person before and was an absolute joy to be around. I dated a white German woman who had two very right-wing brothers but I was lucky enough not to have met them before that romance came to a close (with a spectacular abruptness, but that’s a story for another time, if never).

 

There is the bad stuff, though. There’s the women who you’re on dates with who, out of nowhere, come out with comments that make you realise that you’re little more than a black cock inconveniently attached to an extra few feet of flesh. You’re having a great chat, and then a couple of drinks in you’re suddenly *that* glance to the crotch, you’re chocolate. There’s the white men who want nothing more than to be overwhelmed by a black man, any black man – the stereotype that Keith, in Six Feet Under, described as “Big Black Sex Cop”. There’s the woman I went on a date with who spent much of the evening describing the types of black men she had dated – African, British, African-American – sorting us into behavioural groups like Herman Melville explaining the different types of whale in that chapter in Moby Dick.

 

Ha, my God. It’s all coming back. There’s the woman I dated who was really nice but not nice enough for me to be comfortable with her revelation that, if her parents knew she was dating a black man, they’d be horrified. There’s the woman who walked across the dancefloor in one club to inform me that she wanted to dance with me – only dancing, nothing more – because black men were good at dancing. “Only dancing! Nothing more!” she ordered. (It’s okay, I have dignity, she didn’t get any dancing.) There’s the woman I was dating who was very pleasant but who said of her best friends that “they really like black guys…they’re just not sure how to go about it.” Go about what, I asked, we’re just regular guys. We’re no different to white guys. What are people afraid of?

 

Well, the black penis, for one thing. Time and again I have been reminded that the black penis is a thing that some white people talk about or think about much more than I ever thought possible. Some of you won’t believe me – if not, please ask yourselves why that is, it’s not like I enjoy talking about this stuff – but here we are. They really talk about it. I dated one woman who said that white men, having heard she’d dated black men, couldn’t stop asking about their penises – our penises. “How big were they?” they asked her. “What were they like?” (To which, come to think of it, she probably should have replied: “Get one of your own.”) The black penis is a curiosity. A land beyond maps. An object of terror and desire, often both at the same time.

 

I don’t want to stray too far from the original point here, which is how Get Out made me feel – but maybe that is the genius of the movie, in that it has brought so much of this to the surface. I was talking to a very handsome black friend of mine – the type of man who women stop and openly gawp at in the street, I’ve seen it – and he talked about how so many non-black women seemed to crave him but never dated him. They would express interest but ultimately never follow up on anything – it was as if they wanted to be with him, to try him out, but the taboo of doing so was just too great. For all his brilliance as a human being, for all his physical beauty, he was an object, an oddly unfuckable monolith. 

 

In Get Out, I could identify so much with Chris, the protagonist. So often it feels as though, as a black man, you are expected to prove that you are human – superhuman, even – just to be accepted.  Of course, I am long past the point where I want to be “accepted” – because even if I pass all those invisible and absurdly harsh tests – if I have the right education and the right background and the right demeanour – then it means that the people who have accepted me are still judging all those black men who don’t pass them. Basically, life is too short to date racists. Thank you, Get Out, for reminding me of that; and, if I ever go into the countryside with a partner whose relatives are suspect, then you can bet I’ll be packing a spare phone.

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