Quebec Women And Haitian Guys

Big booty Lisa. That's my nickname for my darling wife Lisa Tremblay Saint-Germain. The gorgeous Quebec woman who literally saved me from myself. My name is Maurice Saint-Germain. A big and tall Black man of Haitian descent living in the City of Ottawa, Province of Ontario. I moved here five years ago, just a cocky young Black guy from Boston, Massachusetts, who found himself in Canada. I felt like the Confederation of Canada was a prison. I didn't understand these people or this nation. Little did I know that both would come to be dear to my heart.

That was a long time ago. Before I graduated from Carleton University with my bachelor's degree in business administration. Before I became a permanent resident of Canada. Before I got married. Back when I was the living personification of Angry Black Man Syndrome. I was mad at the world, man. Seriously. You see, I didn't move to Canada happily. I had lived in America for fifteen years. And I wasn't a citizen of the U.S. or even a permanent resident. Why? Long story. It involved my parents fleeing from political persecution from our native land, the Republic of Haiti. They left me at my uncle Louis Bernard's house in Boston. I was real young in those days. I didn't understand what was going on. My uncle took me in, and although I led a relatively normal life ( I went to school and church), things were far from perfect.

Fast forward fifteen years. I'm twenty four years old. I had just graduated from Bunker Hill Community College in Boston with my Associate's degree in Criminal Justice. How did I pay for school? I worked under the table. Doing odd jobs here and there. I had no work permit and no social security number, side effect of being technically an illegal immigrant in America. I was done with college but couldn't get a job because of my uniquely sad situation. I was despairing until I heard of a program through which refugees living in America could safely cross into Canada in search of better lives. I took my chance, and that's how I ended up in Ottawa, Ontario.

The City of Ottawa was a really different world, folks. I grew up in lively Boston. Home of Massachusetts first African-American Governor, the wise and wonderful Deval Patrick. Man, I left Boston a year after Barack Obama got elected President of the United States of America. I didn't want to leave. I felt like Boston was my home. I had many friends there, from my high school and collegiate days. I graduated from Hyde Park High School and Bunker Hill Community College, both of which are well-known Boston schools. I considered myself a Boston man, albeit one without a driver's licence, a steady job or a social security number. I was the Invisible Man. I missed Boston sorely my first few months in the City of Ottawa. I didn't understand Canadians. I found them cold, fake and bigoted. All of them without exception. Understand that it had nothing to do with color. I just found these people really weird. Anyhow, my attitude didn't endear me to them. They thought of me as a typical American asshole with my swagger and my thick Boston accent.

Yet, it's Canada which offered me the possibility of a normal life. A few months after I moved to Ottawa, I received a work permit. With this work permit I got a job working as a security guard for a small shopping center in the town of Nepean, near Ottawa. Finally, I had a legitimate job. Even though it only paid twelve bucks an hour, it enabled me to feel independent. Unlike so many Canadians of all hues who were content to live on welfare, I yearned to be self-sufficient. I had a work permit and a social insurance number. Thanks to these priceless documents, I was able to obtain a health card. The health card had my photo on it and I used it as a piece of identification. My security licence also had my photo on it. I was thrilled to have these things in my wallet. You've got to understand that for the past fifteen years in the U.S. the only form of identification I had was my school I.D. Try going through life with that!

I slowly began to adjust to my new existence in the City of Ottawa. It wasn't half as boring as I thought. The City had a little over a million people. Twenty five percent of its population was considered Visible Minorities, which is a Canadian term for people who aren't White. There were lots of Africans, Chinese, Indians, Arabs and Native Americans in the City of Ottawa. I was fascinated by the Africans. Back in Boston, the Black folks I knew were either from the Caribbean or they'd been in America for centuries. The majority of the Black people I saw in Ottawa came straight from Africa. They hailed from nations like Djibouti, Somaliland, Ethiopia, Nigeria, Zimbabwe, South Africa, Kenya and Rwanda. Wow. They fascinated me, and I tried to make friends with them. Most of them were friendly. A few were into cliques. As in Kenyans who only hung out with Kenyans and Somalians who only hung out with other Somalians. I saw a lot of Africans who dated outside their race. At first it was mostly the Black guys with the White chicks. Then I began to see a lot of Black chicks with White guys. Imagine that. Africans in Canada are more into dating White people than African-Americans in America.

At this point in time, I considered Black women to be my standards of beauty. I loved Black women something fierce, folks. My apartment walls were littered with pictures of Black female celebrities like Serena Williams, Lisa Leslie, Candace Parker, Lisaraye McCoy, Stacey Dash, Nia Long, Wendy Williams, Mo'Nique, Queen Latifah and many others. I loved and respected the Black woman. I considered her to be akin to a goddess. I began venturing into the dating pool of Ottawa. Unfortunately, I quickly discovered that Black women in Ottawa put White men on a pedestal and thought of Black men as dirt bags. Hey, I hate to say it but it's true. I swear to high heaven.

I mean, I'd see Black women with Black men in restaurants in Ottawa and they were always yelling at the Black men or giving them an attitude. Yet when they were out with White men, they were always on their best behaviour. I was stunned, man. Black women in Ottawa seemed genetically designed to worship White males and treat Black men like crap. Wow. I had never seen anything like it. In America, you can say what you will about the Black woman, at the end of the day she loves the Black man. Black women in America love Black men and support us through thick and thin. Black women in Canada can't wait to step on a brother. What in hell was going on here? I felt like I was going nuts. Now, I'm not against interracial dating. I'm not into dating outside my race but I got nothing against brothers and sisters who like to date White folks. However, I was fiercely opposed to brothers and sisters who worshiped White folks and treated Blacks like dirt. I considered them to be traitors.

Now, I could never see myself with a White woman. Ice Cube and I feel the same way about them. A lot of times, White women appear to be into Black men but they're always getting us into trouble. Look at what happened to Mike Tyson, Kobe Bryant and Tiger Woods. All a White woman has to do is say a Black man did her wrong, and then he's doomed. Sad but true. Not much has changed since the days of Emmett Till. I found myself confused and lonely in Ottawa. A young Black man stuck in a City where Black women hated Black men with a fiery passion and eagerly joined forces with White guys and Black men alone faced the racist system seemed hell-bent on keeping us down. Of course, other Black men seemed oblivious to this. They chased White women like their lives depended on it. I found that foolish and dangerous. Seriously. They were one false accusation away from a nightmare. And they didn't even seem to care.

I decided to stay alone. What was I to do? Black women didn't want me, and White women seemed strange, dangerous and unapproachable to me. I kept to myself. I focused on improving my life. As a refugee claimant in Canada, I had to face a judge who would make a decision in my case. The judge I faced, an old White guy, didn't seem to care about all the twists my life had taken. He denied me refugee status in Canada. I got a lawyer and appealed. And you know what? I won on appeal. I then applied for permanent resident status in Canada. A year later it was granted to me. Talk about a load off my shoulders! At last, I could lead a normal life!

I decided to fulfill my dream of being an educated, successful brother. I applied to Carleton University, and got accepted. I had my transcripts from Bunker Hill Community College forwarded to them. Yep, I was back at University at the age of twenty five. I focused on my studies. I only wanted to do well. I have reconnected with my parents after the quake in Haiti. We talk regularly now. I understand why they left me at my uncle's place in Boston nearly two decades ago. They wanted to keep me safe. They didn't abandon me. I still love my parents. I send them money via western union regularly. Family is family, you know? Yep. I was doing okay. As a permanent resident of Canada, I obtained a visa to travel to America. I went back to Boston legally, if only for about a month. I saw my old friends. I saw my old digs. It all made me nostalgic for the old days. However, Ottawa was home. Not Boston. I returned to Ottawa, thankful for all the good turns my life had taken.

Still, something was missing. I was quite lonely. Stuck in a town where every Black woman seemed genetically designed to denigrate Black men and worship White men. Surrounded by brothers who seemed brainwashed into worshipping White women. What's a brother who still believes in Black love to do? I kept to myself. Yeah, I didn't want to join the swirl. Then along came Lisa Tremblay. Five feet eleven inches tall. Thick, wide-hipped and big-bottomed. Full lips. Curvy body. Big butt. Cute face. Everything I liked in a woman. Only she had bone-White skin, blue eyes and blonde hair. I ran into her in my African Studies Class at Carleton University. Lisa Tremblay hailed from the City of Montreal, Province of Quebec. And she had a thing for Haitian men. Man, I ain't gonna lie. I took one look at her and I almost forgot my name. She smiled at me and came over to introduce herself. Yeah, I was hooked. I fell for her. Hook, line and sinker. A gorgeous, wealthy and educated young French-Canadian woman who loved Black men. What can I say? Life takes some funny turns.

Lisa Tremblay and I began dating. She was cute, funny and simply amazing. Oh, I forgot to tell you that she spoke Haitian Creole. Yeah, Lisa surprised me when she addressed me in Haitian Creole during our first date. Yep. Apparently she lived in the City of Cap-Haitien, Haiti, for three years when she was younger. Her father Leonard Tremblay used to teach mathematics at Colelge Notre Dame, a Catholic school in Cap-Haitien. Wow. Man, I think it was fate that we met. Exactly eighteen months after we met, I popped the question. And she said yes. Fast forward five years and three brats later, we're still together. I'm finally happy. And I thank God for His blessings. Peace out, folks.