Beauty is how you feel inside, and it reflects in your eyes. It is not something physical. – Sophia Loren
I like black women way more than white women. For a long time – like till last Saturday – I thought it was because they have better bodies. They do, in general, but more important than that are their eyes. At least among American women.
Sometimes when I look into the eyes of a black woman and she looks back something inside me melts. It is an experience that I have had with black women over and over again, like just this morning. I wound up marrying one, one of those black women with the eyes that make me melt.
These days, now that I am married, I look away: no good can come of it. But even when I look away her face is burned into my mind. I cannot stop thinking about her. If she is sitting across from me on the subway train, it takes everything in me not to look back at her again. I try to read my book but I keep reading the same words over and over because they no longer make sense. My mind becomes a thousand knots.
But with white American women this sort of thing is rare – even with those who seem to like me. I can only remember one time, though there may be others that I forget. It is nowhere near as common as with black women.
With black women it is like their eyes go all the way down to their souls, down to their hearts. Not all of them, but some of them, enough of them. I know that may surprise those who think black women are hard as nails, the Sapphire stereotype.
With white women their eyes do not seem to go so deep, it seems to stop somewhere just behind their eyes. Sometimes their eyes even look empty, soulless.
I do not think it was always like that with white women, not at least if you go by Hollywood films. Elizabeth Taylor, Sophia Loren and Audrey Hepburn in the 1950s all had beautiful, amazing eyes. I could look at them forever.
But these days most white actresses in Hollywood either have this empty look in their eyes, like Lindsay Lohan, or this brightness to them that does not seem to run very deep, like the Olsen twins – they have beautiful eyes but there does not seem to be much behind them. Almost like doll eyes.
The eyes of white women have grown cold of any true feeling – not all of them, of course, but too many of them. That is how it seems. Like their smiles, the look in their eyes does not seem to be in touch with their hearts.
In old books you read about white men falling in love with white women when their eyes meet: time stands still and all that. That is the sort of thing I am talking about. Do white men still fall in love that way? Or, for that matter, does anyone?