Angry Black Woman Syndrome

Hey, there. My name is Guillaume Mathieu but my friends call me Guy. I am twenty five years old and hold a Master's degree in Business Administration from McGill University in the City of Montreal, Province of Quebec. I work for the Quebecor Media Corporation. I made four hundred and seventeen thousand dollars after taxes last year. I drive a Mercedes Benz. But my good fortune isn't what this tale is about. I'm a young Black man with a rather unusual story to tell. I was born in the City of Cap-Haitien, Northern Haiti, but raised in the Quebec region of Canada. I was adopted by a wealthy French-Canadian couple, Arthur and Adelaide Mathieu. I guess I have much to be thankful for. I love my parents, and I love my family. However, I am in the middle of an identity crisis. I'm starting to wonder what does being a young Black man in North America mean to me. Seriously. This is about my search for answers.

I recently visited the North side of the island of Haiti where I was born. I thought I would feel like I belonged. However, I was wrong. The island is beautiful, and the people are fascinating but I'm different from them. Must be how Superman would feel on Krypton after being raised on the planet earth if he could ever make it back to his doomed home world. There is a hole in my life. Growing up as a young Black man in a wealthy white community wasn't a bed of roses. Even though my loving parents tried to protect me from racism, they couldn't. one day, I was driving my father's bright red Mercedes through the streets of Quebec City when a policeman from the provincial police force stopped me. He asked me for my driver's licence. I gave it to him. He called me all kinds of names when I told him that the car belonged to my family. He actually booked me, and I spent the night in a prison cell because he thought I had stolen the fancy car. My parents were mad as hell. They sued the Quebec government and the police officer personally. Three months after the scandal made national headlines, officer Sylvain Tremblay was fired from the police force. He did apologize publicly to me for what he did before he got fired but that wasn't enough for my vindictive parents. They wanted his hide, and since they're wealthy and powerful, they got what they wanted.

I was only eighteen at the time of the scandal, but it marked me for life. I enrolled at McGill University. A truly beautiful school. I spent the next few years learning the ins and outs of the business world. I had professors from America and England and they were the very best in the world. While at McGill University I met a beautiful young woman named Madeleine Saint Hillaire. A six-foot-tall, blonde-haired and green-eyed gal who simply took my breath away. Her parents are recent immigrants to the Province of Quebec. They come from the region of Marseille in the South of France. Madeleine attends the University of Montreal, and she's one of the most brilliant gals in their criminology program. I was smitten with her from the moment we met, and the feeling was mutual. I've always dated white girls, and my parents approved. I had few Black friends growing up. The few Black guys I befriended while enrolled at Saint Joseph Academy in Montreal told me that they found me weird. Apparently, I talked like a white guy, and I dressed like a nerd. I am a firm believer that business casual is the best style a man can sport. Anytime. Anywhere. It's appropriate for almost every occasion. I've never once felt right in my entire life. Seriously. And I knew the fact that I was raised by a white couple had something to do with it. Somehow, I was missing a certain element of Blackness and Black folks could sense it about me the moment they met me. They knew I was different. I couldn't hide it. And I hated it. For I never really fit into the wealthy white world of my adoptive parents either.

One day, I was walking through the streets of Ottawa, Ontario, when something amazing happened. This young Black woman was walking around, talking on her cell phone. She crossed the street without looking and this car came barreling toward her. Without hesitation I leapt into action and pushed her aside. We landed harshly on the pavement, but were otherwise unhurt. I helped the young lady to her feet. She looked me up and down. I smiled and introduced myself. When she didn't respond, I figured she didn't speak French so I addressed her in English. I speak several languages, including Spanish, Portuguese, Hindi, Mandarin Chinese, German and Japanese. I grew up among the sons and daughters of the wealthiest people in the Confederation of Canada. Picking up languages was easy. None of that was helping me deal with the pretty young Black woman who stared at me, stunned. I figured she was in shock and gently shook her. She batted my hands away. I bit my lips. What the heck? The young woman told me not to touch her. I told her I was just making sure she was alright. She told me she was fine, then she stalked off. Walked away without saying thank you. Wow.

I went home that night, not believing what just happened. The young Black woman's ingratitude puzzled me. Would it have killed her to say thank you? I don't know. I was staying in Ottawa for a three-day conference. I stayed at the Comfort Inn hotel. It was alright, I guess. I missed my darling Madeleine but she assured me I would be fine without her for a couple of days. I went to the Rideau Shopping Center for a quick bite after some really boring meetings with Japanese businessmen, and guess who I ran into? The young Black woman from the other day. She sat there with three other young Black women. They were having an animated discussion. I sat near them, gently eating the Manchu Wok plate I had just bought. The young Black women's discussions were really loud and kind of fascinating. They were going on and on about Black men, about how lousy Black men were. They dismissed all Black men as simple brutes and thugs. Also, they complained that Black men had zero interest in higher education. A tall Black guy in a business suit walked by with a red-haired white lady also clad in business attire. I recognized the red-haired white lady as Kristen, a classmate of mine at McGill University. I had no idea she worked in Ottawa. Interesting. I waved at Kristen but she didn't see me. I continued listening to the young Black women's conversations. Upon seeing Kristen with the Black businessman, they scoffed and rolled their eyes. They called that Black guy every name in the book...behind his back of course. The words 'sell-out' along with 'white bitch' and 'colour-struck fool' kept coming out of their mouths. I shook my head. Wow.

The young Black woman whose life I saved the other day seemed the loudest of them all. She really seemed to hate Black men in general, particularly the ones with white girlfriends. To me, Kristen and the Black guy she walked with seemed like co-workers rather than boyfriend and girlfriend. I seemed to remember Kristen passing out flyers for the GLBT club at McGill University so I was reasonably sure she wasn't totally heterosexual. Maybe she was a gay white woman having dinner with a Black male co-worker. Of course, those thoughts would never occur to the angry young Black women at the Rideau Shopping Center food court. When a and homeless-looking chubby white guy in his sixties walked by with a Black woman half his age, the young Black women at the table cheered her on. They hooted and hollered, congratulating the sister for 'moving on up' and getting herself a white man. I sighed, and decided that I had enough.

I rose, and approached the loud young Black women's table. The one whose life I saved blinked when she saw me. She looked at me and asked me if we knew each other. I could feel her girlfriends eyes on me, assessing me. I knew how I looked. A six-foot-three, well-built young Black man in a twelve-hundred-dollar business suit. I had a McGill University class ring. And my black leather briefcase costs more than the average Ottawa government worker's weekly salary. I introduced myself as the Black gentleman who saved her from the speeding car in whose path she foolishly walked the other day. Her girlfriends gasped in surprise, and I knew that she'd told them about me. I told her that I heard every word of her conversation with her angry Black girlfriends.

I shook my head in disgust, then continued. I think I understand the game now. When a Black man walks around with a white woman, Black women seethe with anger and curse them. When a Black woman walks around with the most crusty-looking white man, other Black women cheer her on. The white man's character, his income, his level of education, his views on racial issues, his way of treating women of any color, his health status, his parental status, none of these things ever came into play in the minds of Black women. All the saw was his white skin color, which made him a god in their eyes. Not even white women viewed white men as pure and perfect deities. Black women were really living in a world of illusion. The young Black women at the table stared at me angrily, but they knew I was right. Besides, I was definitely on a roll, and there was no stopping me now. I told them that I worked for the Human Resources Department of the largest media company in all of Canada. My job was to tell insecure WHITE MEN the magic words 'you're hired' and the doomsday words 'you're fired'. Myself I couldn't get fired even if I wanted to because my wealthy WHITE parents, multi-millionaires that they are, own large shares of the company stocks. Also, they're good friends with the owners.

And now for the coup de grace, I showed them a necklace with a picture of me kissing my darling BLONDE fiancée Madeleine. The young Black women's eyes narrowed. They pursed their lips. I smiled and shrugged. If white women want these eternally, absolutely hateful, totally dreadful witches...they can have them. All I know is that a woman who hates the men of her race probably has something against all men. And she will eventually turn against the man who lets her get too close to him. No matter what color he is. His skin color and all the 'positive mythologies' about him won't shield him from her wrath. Hate begets hate, not love. Anyone who can readily turn against their own can't be trusted. Especially not by those for whom they betrayed their own. Having said those words, I casually walked away. I took a flight from Ottawa International Airport to Montreal that same afternoon. I couldn't wait to see my darling Madeleine. My future wife. The mother of my future sons and daughters. My white goddess. I am thankful to God that I was raised by a white family. It enables me to compete successfully against angry Black women and racist white men...just like my idol Obama. I think I understand my so-called brothers and sisters now, and I understand the white world inside and out. Nothing and no one will stand in my way. Against the forces of hatred, I am simply who I am...invincible.