Arab Girls Into Blac Studs

If there is such a thing as fate, then I thank her for putting Rahim Victor on my path. I know that if it weren't for him, I wouldn't be alive to write these words and share my story with you. My name is Saabira Bassil, and I'm a young woman living in the City of Boston, Massachusetts. I moved there six months ago to be with the man I love. I'm originally from the City of Ottawa, Ontario. It's where I met the love of my life, the man who pulled me out of the darkness and into the light. The one that I endeavor to someday marry, if God permits.

On the first day of February 1989, I saw the light of day at Ottawa's Civil Hospital. Long before I was born, the seeds of confusion and neglect were sown in my parents relationship. Simply put, they came from different worlds. My father Yousef Bassil was Arab, originally from the Republic of Lebanon. My mother, Isabelle Villeneuve was half black and half white, born in the City of Montreal, Quebec, to a French Canadian father and Haitian immigrant mother. I guess I'm a veritable blend of ethnicities, Lebanese, Haitian and French Canadian, along with who knows what else.

I think I was about seven or eight when they divorced, and my father moved back to Baalbek, Lebanon, the realm of his ancestors. Simply put, he wasn't cut out for the western world and his family back in Lebanon wasn't exactly thrilled that he chose to marry a woman who was half black and half white. Most people know I'm some type of minority by looking at me but they can't make up their minds. I have light bronze skin, lime-green eyes and kinky hair. I get that from my Afro-Canadian mother. Oh, and I've got freckles. I definitely I get them from my white grandfather Francois Villeneuve. I think I get my curves and big butt from my mother because the women on my father's side of the family were all skinny Arab bitches, from what I can tell by glimpsing at aged family photos.

I have my father to thank for my height, I think. The Arabs are usually middle of the road when it comes to height, and my mom was fairly short, only five-foot-four. As for my father, he was six-foot-three, which is fairly unusual in the Middle East. Somehow, I grew to be six feet tall. As a tall, exotic-looking woman in lily-white Canada, I'm forever the target of curious, sometimes anxious gazes. My mother raised me to be proud of my heritage. I learned to speak Quebecois French, along with Haitian Creole and Arabic. In spite of the fact that my father ran out on us, my mom never bore him any ill will. At least, not out loud.

A lot of people routinely ask me about my ethnicity and religion because it's hard for them to guess it. I get mistaken for Persian or Hispanic all the time. Saabira is a Muslim name, but I am always quick to let people know that I am not a Muslim. My mother raised me Christian after my father's departure. As for my ethnicity, I always tell people that I am mixed, simple as that. Why in hell does race matter so much in this world? Black or white, we're all going to die someday. The sooner people realize that, the better.

Regardless of our color or ethnicity, we all have issues. It doesn't take a psychology degree to realize that I've got issues with men due to my father's absence. I resented him for leaving me, a brown-skinned little darling, in a hostile white world. He was supposed to be my protector, and shield me from harm. Instead he went back to Lebanon, and forgot all about me. Or so I assumed. Years later, I found out that my mom hadn't exactly been truthful, and that my father had made numerous attempts at finding us but she did her best to keep us apart.

Parental Alienation Syndrome is what they call it these days, I guess. Considering the bullshit I went through with my parents, I honestly think I could have turned out worse. I went straight to college after graduating from Saint William Academy in Ottawa's South End in 2006. Algonquin College appealed to me, and I spent three years there, in the police foundations program. Then I went to Carleton University to earn a Criminology degree. Luckily I qualified for a scholarship thanks to my good grades. Since they credited me two years of university after evaluating my academic record from Algonquin College, I completed my criminology degree ahead of my so-called peers. Thus I found myself holding a bachelor's degree in 2012, and not knowing what to do with it.

For a while I drifted in and out of jobs and relationships. I dated this white guy named Derek and he was charming at first, but turned out to be a douche. I caught him bed with my Jamaican roommate Angelique. After ditching the both of them, I knew I needed a change of scenery. My former professors, some of whom I kept in touch with, encouraged me to attend law school. I thought about it, but decided I needed a break from school. Education is very important, but you've got to balance it with real-world experience otherwise what's the point?

I went to the States, with about five thousand dollars on my Scotia Bank debit card. The place that appealed to me the most wasn't the major urban areas like New York City or Los Angeles. No, I was drawn to Boston, Massachusetts. A place my mother visited once in her younger days and still spoke fondly of. Mom went there in the early 1980s, to watch a showdown between the Montreal Canadiens and the Boston Bruins. The Habs lost that day, but mom still couldn't shut up about Boston, even years later. I found myself down there, and fell in love with the beautiful, classy and diverse metropolis.

When I found out that the Governor of Massachusetts, Mr. Deval Patrick, is a black man, I was even more enamored of the place. In Canada, for all of our talk of diversity and multiculturalism, we're still too much of a racist nation to allow people of color to truly advance. In the streets of Boston, I saw African-American men and women walking around confidently among throngs of whites, Hispanics and Asians, along with some races and ethnicities I couldn't even guess at. Truly I was in an amazing place. So amazing that one night, while coming out of the Loew's movie theater on Boston Common, I fell for the oldest trick in the book and got attacked by some creeps.

I saw an old guy in a dark alley near the theater, and he was moaning in pain. Maybe it's the Canadian in me or my own naïve mindset but I felt bad for him. I went to him, and asked him if he was okay. That's when the old man stopped moaning, and sneered at me. Sensing something was amiss, I took a step back, and found myself caught from behind by some strong arms. I am not exactly a dainty gal so I put up a fight. I swung my fist, and smashed the nose of some large, red-haired fool. Yelling in pain, he doubled over as I brought up my knee and smashed him in the balls. Unfortunately, he wasn't alone, his buddy jumped in and there was still the bait guy for me to contend with.

Thus I found myself subdued, and the old guy with the sneer pulled a switchblade out of his pocket. I'm going to carve your pretty face big lady, he said in a thick Boston accent. Fuck you asshole, I replied defiantly, squirming and struggling as his buddies restrained me. I thought I was done for, but fortunately fate had other plans. God sent me an angel to save me, and he manifested himself in the form of a six-foot-five, 260-pound black man. That's right, the proverbial big black man, the guy everyone fears, came to my rescue.

Like a raging lion he waded into my attackers, and made short work of them. Once they let me go to deal with him, I made them regret turning their backs on me. Pulling my long-handled comb out of my purse, I thrust it into the buttocks of Mr. Sneer. Yelping, he whirled around and I brought my fist into his face with every ounce of my strength. Dude went down like a sack of potatoes. The other two guys took off. I stood there, still a bit frazzled, and looked at my 'savior' with more suspicion than I should have. Sorry, but women walking around at night know to be weary of men. Are you alright ma'am? the brother asked.

I looked into his dark, handsome face, considered his dark clothing and the oversized crucifix he wore, and saw in his eyes an openness that surprised me. Judging by how fiercely he fought I expected him to have a mean face. Slowly I nodded, still weary of him. I am Rahim Victor, he said with a grin, extending his big hand. I'm Saabira Bassil, I said after a brief hesitation as I shook his hand. Thus I met the man destined to change my life forever. Rahim Victor, a law student at Northeastern University. Born and raised in Boston, Massachusetts, by Jamaican immigrant parents. A tall, dark and handsome, educated American gentleman. My hero.

This chivalrous stud walked me to the train station, and I rode it to my hotel in Brighton. I went back to my hotel room, and thanked my lucky stars that I was safe. As I lay in bed that night, I thought about the handsome young black man who saved me, and decided to look him up online. Lo and behold, I found him on Facebook in ten seconds. I browsed through his profile, and liked what I saw. So I sent him a friend request. Imagine my surprise when he added me ten minutes later. We talked online, and agreed to meet at the Copley Mall food court for coffee the next day. I didn't know it then but this was our first 'date', in a manner of speaking.

The next day, I left the hotel dolled up to the nines, and met with the handsome man who saved me. Rahim looked really good in a black silk shirt, gray silk pants and dress shoes. He was so charming, friendly and confident. So unlike the guys I was used to in Ottawa. Black men in America differ from the ones in Canada. Rahim is confident, cool and relaxed in a way the anxious immigrant guys I was used to dealing with can never be. And he has ambition to spare. I was smitten with him and he with me. What can I say? When it feels right, you just know it. I ended up staying in Boston a lot longer than I planned, that's for sure. All for a good cause, though. True love, is there anything more important?