Celebrating Pakistani Men
Last summer, as pandemic and protests waged, I sat on my patio to read and drink coffee every afternoon. I devoted 2020 to learning about what it’s like being Black in North America.
I’m a history junkie, so listening to the NY Times “1619” podcast or reading historical fiction like Ta-Nehisi’s “The Water Dancer” was a treat, but the real reason I tuned in was because I saw a movement towards acceptance and justice for all people. I wanted to be apart of it.
One sleepy Winter afternoon, I was walking down my street, with headphones plugged in my ears. I clicked on a podcast. I sighed as the ads were read.
As I fumbled to skip the ad, I heard Malcolm X suddenly. He said, “Who taught you to hate yourself?”
It jolted me awake. I think what startled me the most was his voice. It was convinced, clear and demanded an answer.
In that moment, he felt alive to me. I had to tell myself, “Malcolm X is dead.” It was incredible to me how a dead man’s voice woke me up.
Who taught you to hate the texture of your hair? Who taught you to hate the color of your skin? To such extent you bleach, to get like the white man. Who taught you to hate the shape of your nose and the shape of your lips? Who taught you to hate yourself from the top of your head to the soles of your feet? Who taught you to hate your own kind? Who taught you to hate the race that you belong to so much so that you don’t want to be around each other? No… Before you come asking Mr. Muhammad does he teach hate, you should ask yourself who taught you to hate being what God made you. — Malcolm X
I wouldn’t say I hated my kind. Hate is a strong word. I would say I didn’t like my kind. I was sure, I would never, ever want a Pakistani boyfriend*.
I wasn’t alone either. Growing up, that was normal. My Chinese girlfriends would say they didn’t want a Chinese boyfriend. My Black girlfriends would say they didn’t want a Black boyfriend. My Afghan girlfriends would say they didn’t want a Afghan boyfriend. So on and so forth.
In the beginning, most of these conversations took place in the girls locker room. We were 13.
In my mind, I can picture us, changing in a circle, taking turns, to dismiss our men as undesirable, backwards, unattractive etc. Sometimes, I think… if only the school bell didn’t ring! Perhaps, we’d be so close to realizing! Maybe, after all of us would’ve spoken, one of us would ask, “hey, wait a minute, if we all hate our race then which race do we love?”
We were SO close. We were smart girls. I believe we would’ve realized.
So, what did we want? What did we find desirable? A white or mixed-race man. Why? I couldn’t tell you why at 13. I have some ideas now.
I chose this title on purpose. I’m confident it’s unique on Medium. As a Pakistani woman, I think “why” when I read it too. What’s to celebrate?
I had a similar reaction when I came across Black women celebrating Black relationships & Black men on Instagram.
Why?
But, also: why does it resonate with me? Why do I like to see their celebration?
I could not produce a sufficient answer.
So, I took hints. I read the comments section. What did everyone else think? In the top-voted comments, I always noticed a pattern — there would be one or two supportive comments, and then one or two “other” comments.
Now, I know images are art, and I know art is subjective. That means, no two people look at art and arrive to the same conclusion. I’m okay with that, but still, something about these comments bothered me. I felt like they were missing the point.
I didn’t know what the point was either but I disliked the “race doesn’t matter, only love matters” comments. Race obviously matters. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here, Debbie-Ann.
I shelved the thought.
I’ve always asked myself hard questions. I know when I’m lying. I know when I’m hiding from the truth. I think we all do. It just takes time to own up to it.
When I asked myself whether or not I believe internalized racism led me to never form a relationship with a Pakistani man, I felt myself both lying and hiding.
I couldn’t answer that question. It was embarrassing, shameful and hard. I asked myself another question. How would I feel if someone told me they found my brother unworthy simply because he was what he was.
I would be infuriated. I would say, how dare you?
Last week, I stopped my brother while he was taking out the garbage to say, “Hey! Has anyone told you you’re beautiful?”
He laughed and said no. Then added, “It’s a shame, huh.”
It is.
It took many questions to get to a point where I want to publicly announce: I don’t think less of Pakistani men anymore. They ARE attractive and worthy of celebration. I am proud to say I started 2021 right.
For a very long time, I believed I wouldn’t date a Pakistani men because I found them unattractive. Today, I eat my words!
I was wrong. I’ve been wrong for a long time. I want to be right now.
Today, I am celebrating Pakistani men for the same reason the Black women on Instagram celebrated Black men. For no reason, because I can and if I don’t then who will?
*I am Pakistani and Muslim. Not all Pakistani’s are. The concept of “boyfriend” in a Pakistani Muslim context means, “engaging in a relationship with a man for the purpose of marriage.” Unlike my friends who were talking about boyfriends, I was saying, I would never marry a Pakistani man. I was saying a lot more than they were.
