I must admit, I’m a terrible street fighter. Which is probably why, in my early twenties, someone used their fist as a meat tenderizer on my face.

The setup had been executed beautifully–probably because at the time, I was terribly naive and had even worse taste in friends. I was ambushed, unawares, by an angry baby mama who was none-to-happy about her man’s interest in me. Never mind that said man (let’s call him (Tyrone) had never told me about said woman (I hereby anoint her Boom Qui Qui). Details, schmetails.

Of course, Tyrone was quite clever in keeping up with this duplicity, but Boom Qui Qui proved more wily. So with the help of Tyrone’s sister (of all people!), Boom Qui Qui took all her frustrations over Tyrone out on my face. I’ll never forget how pretty the sky looked on that Pasadena afternoon just before Boom Qui Qui shoved her fist in my eye. Last thing I remember her saying was something like…”Bitch. (punch!) If. (smack!), You. (whack!), Ever…” I blacked out after that last thing.

As I gather information and research for The Black Woman’s Guide to Interracial & Intercultural Relationships, looking back, I can sort of understand why Boom-Q-Q was so desperate to hang on to Tyrone. We outnumber black men by two million! Ninety-five percent of us are engaged in a knock down, drag out fight for the five percent of eligible black men. That means that woman who beat me senseless must have felt so desperate to hang on to her man, and powerless and unwilling to loose him, she lashed out at me. Think about that for a moment–she attacked me, not him. The lopsided ratio favoring black men put them in a powerful position, and leaves the field wide open for us women to be played like fiddles at a country fair.

Oh! And in case you’re wondering, and I happily let Boom Qui Qui have that sorry sack of shite.