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How to Love a Strong Black Woman

The first time I ran into my cousin Sammy Charles, I didn't recognize her. I was visiting my family members in Orleans, Ontario, but I lived in the town of Nepean at the time. The slim, dark-skinned young Black woman with the braids came to the door and gazed at me curiously. I stood there, big and tall and Black. The name is Thomas Jean. My friends and family members call me T.J. I flashed a friendly grin and asked her if Aunt Shawna was there. The Black girl looked me up and down, and asked me to wait. I had no idea who she was, and found her more than a little bit cold. Truth be told, I just about had my fill of Black women with an attitude problem. I ran into them at church, on the bus, at school and everywhere else. They seemed mad as hell when they saw a brother with a white female but always treated brothers like dirt. What the fuck? Anyhow, the chick came back with my aunt.

Aunt Shawna Desmond is a tall, light-skinned Black woman with glasses and a butch haircut. She works as an accountant in downtown Ottawa. Aunt Shawna kissed me on both cheeks in the Haitian manner, and introduced me to my cousin Sammy from the City of Atlanta, Georgia. I looked Sammy up and down, and we shook hands. For the rest of the afternoon, she looked at me strangely. I sat in the living room with Aunt Shawna and my other relatives, telling them about my plans. I moved to Ontario from Massachusetts recently. My credits from Brockton Community College in Brockton, Massachusetts transferred nicely to Nepean University in the City of Ottawa, Province of Ontario. I intended to study Law at Nepean University because I studied Criminal Justice back in the States. My aunt Shawna was really proud of me. She's got two sons, Henry and Eddie, both of whom were in their early twenties and both of which were born and raised in Canada. Like the majority of Black Canadian males, they have zero aspiration when it comes to higher education. My cousins Eddie and Henry preferred going clubbing every weekend, chasing fat white women and working at the mall as clerks or whatever. To say my hard-working aunt Shawna was disappointed in her sons would be an understatement.

From my experience, Black men born in America or Canada lack ambition and drive. Black men born and raised in the Republic of Haiti have both ambition and drive, but lack opportunity. When we move to places like Canada or America, we tend to do really well if we have access to higher education and decent employment. Most of the Haitian men I knew in Massachusetts were hard-working, law-abiding, God-fearing family men. My father Franklin Jean moved to Massachusetts from Cap-Haitien in Northern Haiti in the 1980s. He worked as a gas station attendant while studying at Bunker Hill Community College in Boston. Later, he went to study business administration at Boston State College, which would later become the University of Massachusetts in Boston. As soon as he became a United States citizen, my father sent for my mother Helene Cote Jean and myself. We moved to America to be with him. My father paid for my mother's college education and she became a nurse. As for me, I became a naturalized U.S. citizen but I was raised with conservative Haitian family values. I wasn't one of those foolish Black American men walking around with their pants hanging low, aspiring to be NBA or NFL players, rappers or gang bangers. I think my parents would have killed me rather than let me follow that path. They made sure I focused on school and church. I wasn't allowed to associate with Black American guys and gals at school, or racist White brats. My parents thought of Black Americans as thugs and White Americans as two-faced, fake-smiling racists. The only friends I was allowed to have were the sons and daughters of hard-working and church-going Haitian families living in my town. I grew up with a firm sense of my identity as a Haitian man living in America. I was American on paper, Haitian at heart. I knew Haitian history as well as United States history. My loyalty was with my family and the Haitian community of America. To hell with everyone who wasn't one of us.

Yeah, all those things I went through helped shape me into the man I am today. I graduated from Brockton Community College with my Associate's Degree in Criminal Justice and earned my Bachelor's Degree from Bridgewater State College in June 2009. I was twenty two years old at the time. That summer, there was a rash of shootings throughout the State of Massachusetts. White cops shooting Black American guys and Hispanic guys. Black guys and Hispanic guys shooting each other. Italian guys shooting Irish guys. Angry wives shooting cheating husbands when catching them in bed with other women...or sometimes other men. Honor killings as certain Arab-American patriarchs slew their own daughters for falling in love with non-Muslim men and embracing Christianity. Oh, yeah. The summer of 2009 was a lethal one across the State of Massachusetts. In Brockton, Avon, Boston, Raynham, Great Barrington and Newton, the blood of the innocent flowed along with the flood of the guilty. My parents panicked. It seemed to be a tough time to be a young Black man in America. Even though President Barack Obama was in the White House, and both the States of Massachusetts and New York had Black men serving as their Governors. My parents thought it would be a good idea if I got out of town for a while. They sent me to my uncle and aunt's house in Orleans, a suburb of the City of Ottawa in Ontario. Man, I got sent to Canada! And since my parents are Haitians, that means I don't get to say no!

Life went on, man. I applied to Nepean University and got in. I got myself a work permit, social insurance number and health card. I began working as a security technician at Bell Canada in downtown Ottawa for thirteen bucks an hour. I wasn't eligible for a scholarship or financial aid at Nepean University since I was neither a citizen nor a permanent resident of Canada. I was paying my own way through school, and each class at Nepean University cost me eleven hundred dollars since I was considered an international student. Canadians aren't too friendly toward American citizens living in Canada, though they hide their disdain for us quite well when in America. Yeah, when I came to my aunt's house in Orleans that day, I was dealing with a lot of crap. My cousin Sammy sat there and looked at me while I talked with my aunt, uncle and cousins. Truth be told, I discreetly asked my aunt how Sammy and I were related since I honestly didn't know anything about her. My aunt Shawna is my mother Helene's younger sister. She married a Haitian guy named Edouard, from Toronto. Aunt Shawna told me that her husband, my uncle-by-marriage Edouard had a half brother named Louis. Sammy was Louis daughter. I guess that makes Sammy and I cousins, of a sort.

I spent the rest of the afternoon with the family, and we talked about stuff. Sammy stared at me the entire time. Later, I asked her why and she told me I looked familiar. I shook my head. I had never been to the City of Atlanta, Georgia. Though I lived in America for most of my life, I'd only been to Florida, New York and Massachusetts. Sammy seemed cold to me and had that quiet attitude problem so many young Black women in the eighteen to thirty age bracket thought was cool. Later, I found out why. The gal had a thing for me. What a wonderful world we live in! Over the next couple of weeks, Sammy and I got to know each other better. We added each other on Facebook and exchanged cell phone numbers. Sammy and I became pals. We told each other everything. I even told her stuff that I couldn't tell my other family members. I'm bisexual. I don't go around telling people. I've told my mother, my sister, some friends from Brockton and a couple of my buddies from the Bell Canada security team in Ottawa.

Anyhow, I found myself growing really fond of Sammy. I finally had someone I could relate to. Even her occasional attitude was more endearing than upsetting. We hung out together in places like Place D'Orleans Shopping Center and the Saint Laurent Mall. I took her to the Cineplex near the Blair Station. We walked around hand in hand. The key was keeping our burgeoning friendship/flirtatious whatever from our family members. As best as I've been able to ascertain, Sammy isn't related to me by blood. She's the daughter of the half brother of my mother's sister's husband. We're cousins in a very loose, extended way. No blood at all. Yet I felt guilty for how I felt about her. I'm six-foot-three and weigh 250 pounds. I've always had a thing for tall, curvy women with big butts. I mostly liked light-skinned Black chicks with big butts and voluptuous Hispanic women, though I slept with the occasional white chick. Yet here I was falling for a chick who was skinny and Black, with no big boobs, no curves and a flat butt. It's amazing! Sometimes, Sammy also felt guilty for our 'thing' whatever it was. She called me once and told me to stop flirting with her, that it was inappropriate. And then the next day she asked me how my dick was doing. See how confusing women can be?

Eventually, I decided that what Sammy and I had was totally inappropriate. Seriously. I was twenty four and she was nineteen. Sammy was just starting her higher education journey at Spelman College in Atlanta, Georgia, while I was in Law school at Nepean University in Ottawa, Ontario. Besides, our two families were too close. What would people say? It's not like the movies where secret relationships are passionate and often end happily. For weeks, Sammy and I didn't talk. I continued my sexual adventures with guys, girls and occasionally transsexuals in Ottawa. Sometimes I browsed the back of the Ottawa Sun newspaper for nice-looking female escorts of all hues, as well as the odd sexy tranny. I only occasionally slept with guys. To be honest, I preferred regular women and the occasional tranny to a guy. To me, sleeping with a guy was gay. Doing it with a woman or a totally beautiful tranny was alright. I didn't feel weird about doing it with a hot chick or a gorgeous tranny. I always felt weird after doing it with a guy. Naturally, I used condoms with everyone but I was actually worried about my health and crap. I went to a clinic for sexually transmitted diseases testing and waited patiently for my results. One day, I heard in the news that a certain healthcare clinic had possibly exposed as many as seven thousand clients to STDs ranging from hepatitis to possibly HIV or AIDs. To say that I hit the panic button would be an understatement. I had slept with girls, guys and transsexuals. And I'd recently gone to a clinic to get tested. Would I show up positive? Did I have AIDs? Was my life over? I called Sammy, and amazingly she remained calm through the whole thing. She told me she would support me no matter what, and told me not to worry.

My results came back from the Ottawa-based health care clinic. I was totally healthy. No hepatitis or gonorrhea. No chlamydia and definitely no HIV or AIDs. Man, I was so happy I cried. I went to my aunt's house in Orleans, and blessedly she wasn't there. I found Sammy instead. There she was, sitting on the couch while watching the movie Not Easily Broken on BET. Clad in a pink T-shirt featuring the words BLACK GIRLS ROCK! And blue shorts, Sammy looked simply lovely. She stood up when she saw me. Nervously she smiled. I went to her and fell to my knees. Gently she hugged me. With tears in my eyes I looked at her. Sammy asked me if everything was okay. There was panic in her voice. She thought I was falling apart because I told her I was going to get my test results that day. I proudly showed her the paper with the test results. I've never been happy to see so many negative signs in my life. Sammy laughed and told me I was alright! I nodded. Gently, I kissed her hand and thanked her for being there for me in my time of need. Sammy smiled and asked me to join her on the couch. We watched the rest of the movie together, hand in hand. I looked away from the screen. Sammy was looking at me, grinning. I smiled, and we shared our first kiss. Which is right about when Aunt Shawna walked in along with her hubby, my uncle Edouard and their sons Henry and Eddie. I was shocked, but Sammy held my hand. We stared the whole family in the eyes. I proclaimed my love for her. Sammy smiled at me, and then told me she loved me too. Aunt Shawna sighed, and said we needed to talk.

What happened next? The whole family had a lot to say about my burgeoning relationship with Sammy. Even though we weren't blood relations, we were still technically cousins and apparently there was something icky about the whole thing, which made our relatives nervous. I told them about my actions for the past few months. My nonstop sexual escapades with women and men across Ottawa. College women, housewives and female escorts. Hustlers, thugs and wannabe thugs. I fucked them all. I told them about the recently healthcare clinic crisis/infection boom which terrorized all of Ottawa. Thousands of men and women across racial, financial and socio-political backgrounds would be receiving letters in the mail from the director of health services for the city of Ottawa. Apparently, they might have been infected due to unseemly and unhygienic practices by one of the city's most trusted female physicians. Even though I didn't use the clinic later revealed in the news, I panicked right alongside my fellow Ottawa residents. I saw my life flash before my eyes as I contemplated a grim fate filled with deadly disease and untimely death. I realized that I didn't want to sleep with random women or men for the rest of my life. I wanted to find someone to love, marry her and settle down. Yes, I am a bisexual Black man of Haitian descent. However, I've always preferred women. And I'm done playing around. I just want to live my life with the woman I love. Why can't my own family understand?

Everybody seemed to be mulling this over. I got a lot of "you're sick" and "how could you" from a lot of people. I also got some unsolicited advice that I needed a shrink. Fed up with the bullshit, Sammy and I walked out of the house. We went to my apartment in Nepean. Right next to Baseline Station. There, we slept together. No sex. Just a lot of kissing, fondling, groping and heavy petting. Sammy wanted to jump my bones big-time. She was big with the stroking and dirty talking. I really wanted to have sex with her. However, my mistake in my nearly twenty five years on this planet has been to have too much sex. I've shoved my dick into the willing mouths, pussies and assholes of black women, white women, Asian women and Hispanic women. I've had men's dicks in my ass while sliding my own cock into a woman's tight pussy. Yeah, I've hooked up with swingers where the man was bisexual and the woman liked watching man on man sex. I do women and men of all races, though I find Black and Hispanic hotter than most. I haven't been too successful with Arabic women because they're way too conservative, and I'm also uncircumcised. Sammy didn't mind that I was uncut. She called me her 'man with the hood who's not from the hood'. Corny, but I liked it. I love this young Black woman. Shyly she admitted to me that she had never had sex before. And she couldn't wait to get done by me. I told her that I loved her and wanted to do things right this time. I wanted to put a ring on it. Sammy smiled tenderly and gave me a hug. We continued talking sweetly and dirtily throughout the afternoon. My darling wife-to-be told me all the things she wanted to do with me, and some of them surprised me. I've never been fucked by a lady with a strap-on dildo before but I was willing to try it just for Sammy!

The following Sunday, we went to church together, hand in hand. Of course we ran into the family there. By now my parents in Boston knew what was going on. I was floored, but with Sammy by my side my resolve strengthened. We went to my aunt's house in Orleans after church. Sammy had to get her belongings. That's when another discussion with the whole family ensued. Aunt Shawna asked Sammy point-blank if she was pregnant. Sammy vigorously shook her head and said that she was saving herself for her future husband. Me. I told our assembled family members that I would gladly die for my darling little Sammy any day of the week. They could see the sincerity in my eyes, for a few of them actually had tears in theirs. Finally, someone who had kept silent throughout the proceedings spoke. It was Grandma Mercy. Mother to my aunt Shawna and my mother Helene. The woman I still called Granny. She walked up to me and asked me if it was my will to forever join my fate to that of Sammy Charles. I nodded without hesitation. She asked Sammy if she was sure she wanted to spend her life with me. In response, Sammy kissed me and uttered a resounding YES. Granny smiled, and joined our hands together. Then she fixed our family members with her icy Haitian matriarchal stare. The one that could scare Satan himself. Sammy and I smiled at each other. We had won. With Granny's blessing, no one in the family could oppose our union! We shared our first kiss as future husband and wife that same moment. Granny smiled at us beatifically. It's all in the family!

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