Never Talk to Strangers

Dear BFDiary,

Last summer I got paid to find sexy black guys on the street (sometimes single, sometimes not) and suck their real ideas on sex and relationships straight from the gut in less than 10 minutes (and no that's not all I did during my internship, I also got to work on some awesome but scary breast cancer profiles among other things). You can imagine that I didn't get paid a lot, but the responses I got, or didn't get for that matter, were priceless. Many of my afternoon adventures around Bryant Park and 125th street in Harlem have been fabulous conversation starters in some awful how-did-I-end-up-here-talking-to-you situations, not to mention, I learned that there is no shortage of attractive and "eligible" black bachelors.

In order to be successful at my job, starting from day one, I had to get over that whole don't talk to strangers thing with a quickness. In fact, journalism, I think, is about doing the opposite. Not only do you have to be comfortable with chatting with people you don't know, you have to engage them to the point where they feel more comfortable with you than the people they talk to everyday.

Now that my inner nerd has sucked me into the world of academia (I'm talking research and theory with the big dogs) I've found that I've lost a bit of my flare for talking to random black men. Thursday evening I was on my crowded bus ride home and the man dressed in tan from head to toe decided to sit next to me. Looking at the heavy black 80's frames on his face and the bare ring finger, my initial reaction was to tune him out after he pointed out a funny article on the front of his New York Times. Once I saw that his questions and quest for conversation weren't going to stop, I found myself annoyingly wondering, ok, so what does this guy want from me, he's old enough to be my grandad. Getting over myself enough to actually listen to the stranger next to me, I realized he wasn't that much of a stranger at all--he was a professor in the Classics department who'd taught at UCLA before he was recruited to Michigan. He was a fellow scholar who wanted to share a moment on the bus with me, since when was that a crime? Was I judging the man for just wanting to talk to me? Did all the rude street-encounters gone wrong make me weary of any decent man I might come across?

Have you ever had one of those "aha" moments when you realized you were on the defense for no reason?