Dear Black Men Of Louisiana.

I sure hope no black men reading this blog take offense to what I’m about to say … although, considering the crap I’ve put up with since moving back home to Louisiana, IT’S PROBABLY MY TURN TO OFFEND SOME MEN OF COLOR.

Dear Black Men of Louisiana,

May I ask you a question? Do I look pregnant? Or do I just look fat? When I look in the mirror, I see a pregnant woman. But here, judge for yourself:

I kind of hope you’re mistaking my 15-week belly for a big ol’ beer gut, because what kind of man would hit on a pregnant woman? Oh … I know. A FREAK.

This is the second week in a row that I’ve had a black man seriously hit on me. I’m not talking about a “hey, how you doin’.” I’m talking about a persistent following around and/or inquiry about taking me out. During last week’s encounter, I busted out laughing and said I have a husband and kids and “this is definitely not a tree you want to bark up, sir.”

This morning, another man in the gas station tried to talk to me — and when I ignored him, he was undeterred. He drove up next to my vehicle in his BMW, waved, and tried yet again to start up a conversation. It made me mad. I did not engage.

Maybe I should be flattered, but I’m not. I’m ANNOYED. A pregnant woman is not someone to be trifled with. I don’t even want my own husband touching me right now. Male attention of any kind is just flat-out gross. So here is your fair warning: next time, I may bring out the pregnant crazy.

Thank you,
Harmony

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