The New Band Director

Everyone’s been abuzz about the new band director at school. Everyone’s been coming up to me, telling me how I “have to meet him.”

“Have you met the new band director yet? Well, you really need to.”

“Oh, he’s so nice . . . he’s adorable.”

“Oh, you’d just love him.”

I’m like, why do I have to meet the new band director? Teachers (all female, of course) have been literally stopping me in the hallway and peeping into my room during my breaks to tell me about the new band director.

Okay, I’m a young single girl, and I guess my older co-workers have this motherly instinct to try to set me up. I suppose this elusive new band director (I still haven’t met him. Right now, he’s like the ghost of Hamlet’s father—rarely seen, but driving all the action of the play) and I have a few things in common. Both young, both fresh out of college, and both . . .

“He's very highly qualified. Great guy. He’s African-American, and . . .”

Ding ding ding ding ding! I knew it. I knew it.

As soon as someone mentioned him to me, deep down inside, I just knew that was the reason I had to meet him. He’s a young black guy. I’m a young black girl. With so much in common, something’s bound to happen, right? Clunk. That was the sound of me stepping up onto my hollow, wooden soapbox.

This is not the first time I’ve been “destined” to be with someone in the eyes of others because of a simple, if not superficial, commonality. This little phenomenon has proven itself to be especially true among my dear brothers and sisters in the Lord. Black guy with the Holy Ghost = Chantell’s soul mate. Forget about the fact that we have little in common outside of our race. Forget about the fact that he's 15 years older than I am. Forget about the fact that I’m just plain not attracted to him. (And if there are local folks reading this, please believe me when I say that I promise I am not referring to anyone in particular—it’s a combination of instances.)

Okay, let me backtrack. I know that people who try to match me up with another single of the opposite sex have good intentions. I know they mean well, really. Perhaps the new band director is a great guy who I'd "just love." And perhaps my soul mate (even though I don’t really buy the whole soul mate idea, but that’s for another day) will be whatever guy people have in mind for me by default—I wouldn’t care, then, because I’d be crazy about him and whatever people thought (on that wise) would be of no import to me. But on the other hand, the seeming idea that two people of similar genetic make-up are somehow automatically compatible is ludicrous. Imagine this: “Hey, I really think you ought to talk to that guy. You both have clefts in your chins!” or “Ooh, girl, you see that guy giving you the eye? I heard he’s got a birthmark on his upper arm too—you should really get to know him” or “Looks like the new guy has curly red hair just like you do—you guys are perfect for one another!” Come on.

My examples are a bit silly, I know, but you get my point. I wish more people realized the superficiality of how we group ourselves together—and how we set ourselves apart.