Bangladesh Lady For Black Stud

Nice South Asian girls don't do certain things, that's what conventional wisdom tells us. My name is Samreen Chaudhury and my friends call me Sammy for short. If someone told you that I'm a nice South Asian gal, I guess someone blatantly lied to you. I was born in the City of Calgary, province of Alberta, to Bangladeshi immigrant parents. My folks, Washim and Meghbalika Chaudhury moved to Canada with my older sister Rana and my brother Salman from their hometown of Chittagong, southeastern Bangladesh, in the summer of 1990. I was born a year later. Canada has been our home as a family ever since.

Although a Canadian citizen by birth, I am the daughter of two worlds, and not a day goes by that someone doesn't remind me of it. After much soul-searching, I've come to feel proud of both sides of me. If you're not proud of who you are, you don't stand a chance against those who hate you for being different from them. That's why I decided to embrace all that I am. I have much love for Bangladesh, the land of my ancestors, a country I've only visited once ( and only for ten days ) and for Canada, the country of my birth. I am a young woman of Bangladeshi-Canadian descent and damn proud to be!

I stand five-foot-nine, which is kind of tall for a South Asian woman. Ladies from my part of the world are supposed to be petite and curvaceous. I'm tall and skinny, which marks me as different with a capital D. Yeah, I hear that stuff every day. I have light bronze skin, almond-shaped golden brown eyes and long, straight Black hair. I've been mistaken for everything from Indian to Pakistani and even Saudi Arabian while walking on the streets of metropolitan Calgary. I proudly tell people that I'm from Bangladesh, where you get more bang for your buck. Okay, I made up that last part but it sounds funny, doesn't it?

When you're young, female and a minority in the Prairies of Canada, you're forced to constantly navigate different currents. People see your color and your gender before they see your humanity, and that makes for some interesting interactions. Alberta isn't the most minority-friendly piece of real estate in Canada, though some progress has been made. I never thought I'd see a Muslim guy get elected Mayor of Calgary, that's for sure. Not with the Wild Rose political party trying to get the Albertan electorate to rise up against non-Whites living in the province. They were defeated in the last round of elections but like many minorities in Calgary, I worry that next time they rear up their ugly heads they might actually win. I shudder to think what that would mean for people like me.

I have a foreign-sounding name, which hasn't made my life easy, not one bit. In Canada, your odds of getting a good job go up significantly if your name is John, Alexandra or Cynthia instead of Mohammed, Abdul, Chang, or Yamamoto. I know this implicitly, that's why I shortened my name to Sam. It's a method of survival, I guess. Plus I was just tired of people butchering my name by mispronouncing it. How hard is it for the rednecks of Alberta to pronounce S-A-M-R-E-E-N? Geez!

I am in the MBA program at the University of Calgary, and I'm almost done with the program. Once I have my MBA I'll get out of Calgary for good. I always wanted to live in the U.S. When I was in the tenth grade my parents took me on a trip to San Francisco, California. I saw so many people who looked like me it wasn't even funny. Lots of people from places like China, Japan, India, Bangladesh and Indonesia have made that part of California their home.

Nobody bugged me about my funny sounding name or asked me where I came from while I was on the U.S. side. In Canada, if you're not White, someone is going to ask you where you're from at least once a week. A White guy from Australia or Britain or Ireland could visit Canada without ever been bothered about where he's from or where he's going. It's those of us who are called visible minorities who endure the hassles. Not frigging fair, dammit!

I heard so many negative things about America from the mouths of White Canadians that I had many preconceived notions about the Land of the Free when I first set foot in it. I thought everyone was extremely arrogant and had a gun over there, for starters! That is absolutely not true! Americans are among the nicest people I've ever met. Over there, they don't just say they're progressive on racial and social issues, they actually practice what they preach. How else could you explain how a Black man with a name like Barack Hussein Obama got elected President of the United States? That would never happen in Canada, trust me. Canadians are the most polite racists in the world but they're still racist.

I find it interesting that the person I consider to be the love of my life is an American. I met Jeremiah Whitaker Jr. last year while organizing a social event for "team diversity", the moniker by which the various associations for international students of color are collectively known as on campus. Jeremiah Whitaker took my breath away the moment I laid eyes on him. He's six-foot-two, lean and athletic, with light brown skin, curly Black hair and lime-green eyes. I could tell that he was at least part Black, and once I saw his parents, a tall, blond-haired older White guy in a cowboy hat and dark business suit holding hands with a plump Black woman in a summer dress, it was confirmed. The biracial stud was easy on the eyes, and his eyes seemed to bore right into mine.

Thanks for organizing this for us internationals Miss Chaudhury, Jeremiah said with a smile and a handshake, reading my name tag. You're very welcome, I said. He introduced himself, and nodded at his parents with a smile. I nodded graciously at them. I try to help the international students at the University of Calgary, most of whom are minorities. A lot of them come from places like South Africa, Brazil, China and the Arab world and they don't know much about North American culture. A lot of them need help adjusting, they're on their own for the first time in a strange land! I politely asked Jeremiah where he was from, and he proudly told me he was born and raised in Fort Worth, Texas. An American, eh? I thought. That's interesting.

I wished Jeremiah and his folks a good night, and politely excused myself. As one of the organizers of the event, I had a lot on my plate. So many things to do, so little time. I'm a busybody, that's for sure. Nevertheless, I couldn't forget the tall, handsome African-American stud from Texas with the movie star smile. I hate to sound like I'm little Miss Eager but I hadn't gone out with anyone since I broke up with Abdul Malik, a tall and handsome Libyan guy I met at school. Abdul and I were getting pretty serious, but he kept pressuring me to convert to Islam. I'm not the most religious person in the world. There's a Hindu Temple in Calgary but I've only been there a few times. My parents are devout Hindus and they fled Bangladesh because the Muslims over there like to persecute the religious minorities, especially the Hindus, Buddhists and Christians. My parents never approved of my relationship with Abdul mainly because of his religion and in the end, my refusal to convert drove a wedge between us. I miss Abdul sometimes. The guy was a tiger in the bedroom!

The next time I ran into Jeremiah Whitaker, I was in the University of Calgary library, stressing over my recent C mark. The lowest grade I've gotten from my high school days to the end of my undergrad studies was a B. What the hell is happening to me in business school? I'm anal about my grades, it's a South Asian thing I guess. There I was, moping, when a vision of masculine beauty walked by me. Lo and behold who it was...none other than Jeremiah Whitaker, looking gorgeous in a blue silk shirt, Black jeans and boots. He waved at me when he saw me, and I smiled. Dude walked up to me, and asked me what's up. He was carrying a cup of coffee with three sandwiches in a brown paper bag and let me have one. I was hungry and hadn't even realized it, to tell you the truth. Anyhow, that's how Jeremiah and I started talking.

An hour later, I had forgotten all about my bad grade but I had given Jeremiah my phone number and promised to add him on Facebook. He was charming and oh so friendly, speaking openly about his love for his hometown of Fort Worth, his wild nights in Dallas and his fascination with Calgary culture. Jeremiah was easy on the eyes, and seemed like fun. That night, when he called me, I was pleasantly surprised. A lot of guys wait out the ( supposedly mandatory ) three days before calling a gal but not this one. He called me right away, and we ended up spending ninety six minutes and seventeen seconds on the phone.

After that initial conversation, I found myself quite intrigued by the gorgeous American, and when he asked me to go to a football game with him the following Friday, I happily accepted. I'm not a big football fan but we did have fun in the stadium, watching the University of Calgary Dinos football crush the visiting team from the University of Laval, Quebec. French fries can't play worth a damn, Jeremiah said, mocking the Quebec team.

I'm not in love with the Quebecers either, so I happily mocked them alongside him. I visited Quebec City once, and got called "espece de pute terroriste" by a French Canadian guy. That means terrorist slut, by the way. As far as I'm concerned, the entire province of Quebec is strictly fly-over. They hate minorities over there so much that they make Albertan rednecks look progressive by comparison! After the game, we went to eat some delicious Shawarma at a Lebanese restaurant downtown. I had an absolutely wonderful time, and gave Jeremiah a quick peck on the cheek. Then I waved him goodnight, got on the bus and went back to my apartment. Jeremiah's cute but I don't kiss on the lips on the first date. I felt thrilled as I lay in my bed that night. I definitely wanted to see him again!

The next time we saw each other, we went to see the movie 42 in theaters. That one proved to be tough for me to watch, and I can only imagine what Jeremiah must have felt as he listened to the slurs being hurled at the stalwart Black sportsman onscreen. Afterwards we had a heartfelt if awkward talk about the movie. That's part of the African-American experience in the States and as a Black man I get it, Jeremiah said with a sad shrug. Things are better over there now, I said with a conviction I didn't feel. Jeremiah shook his head, and reminded me of Trayvon Martin getting killed by that racist creep George Zimmerman. I just know a White jury will let him off, Jeremiah said bitterly.

Jeremiah and I sat inside Pizza restaurant, and as I looked into his eyes, I didn't see the tall, handsome and confident son of a wealthy American couple who walked through western Canada like he owned the place. I saw a young man with issues and insecurities, a human being with fears and problems, not unlike me. Gently I touched his hand. I've got a few Black friends on campus and from my experience, race is a sensitive issue with them. As a South Asian woman I've endured my share of racism in Canada but it's nothing compared to what Blacks endure, both from White society and other people of color. I'm here for you Jeremiah, I said, gently touching his hand.

Jeremiah took a sip on his Pepsi, smiled and then shared something with me. It wasn't easy growing up as the son of an interracial couple in Texas, he said. He told me about how his parents, Jeremiah Whitaker Sr. and Marie-Jeanne Lemieux, met at the University of Houston campus in the 1980s. His father was from old money, Texas oilman born and bred, and his mother came from the island of Haiti. Texas had always been a hotbed of racial tension, and a couple like Jeremiah's parents definitely irked the local bigots. They stuck it out and made it but someone did plant a burning cross on our lawn the night of my first Communion, Jeremiah said, tugging at the crucifix hanging on a lanyard round his neck.

I am so sorry, I said, gently rubbing Jeremiah's arm. He looked so vulnerable that I just wanted to hold him right then and there. Instead I told him about my parents leaving Bangladesh after the Islamists burned down several Hindu Temples. For my family it was either leave Bangladesh or die, I said. Though I wasn't born yet, I could imagine all too well the terror my parents and other Bangladeshi Hindus felt as the Muslims rose against them. Thank God you made it to Canada, Jeremiah said, and he gave my hand a squeeze. I slowly let out my breath and nodded, then looked at his hand entwined with mine. We're a couple of suckers with sad stories, eh? I said. Jeremiah smiled and nodded, then he looked at me in such a way...before I knew it, our faces were inches apart and we were kissing passionately.

When we came up for air, Jeremiah and I looked at each other and just sat there for a moment, giggling like idiots. Let's ditch this place, he said with a grin, and I couldn't agree more. And just like that, we walked out of the Pizza place, my arm linked with his. How's that for a second date? Jeremiah and I began officially seeing each other that night, and I must say, I've never been happier. We'd been seeing each other for three months when things started to go wrong. Jeremiah, or Jay as I called him, insisted on meeting my parents. I'd already met his so it's only fair, he reasoned. I forced a brave smile and told him that I would introduce him to my folks, in time.

This definitely complicates things for our budding romance, that's for sure. How to explain to the young African-American man I was falling in love with that my conservative Bangladeshi Hindu parents would never approve of our relationship? In South Asian communities, whether Buddhist, Muslim or Hindu, things like culture, family honor and tradition are everything. I've seldom seen South Asian women with men of other races. I've seen a Hindu guy married to a White lady at a mall with their son and I once saw a Chinese gal with a guy who was either Arab or Italian, that's about it.

South Asian men might marry women of other races if they so choose, but when it comes to South Asian women, it's simply not permitted. I've always been the rebel in the family. My sister Rana married Paul Claremont, a white Buddhist guy she met while studying civil engineering at Carleton University in Ontario, and my brother Salman lives in Edmonton with his Lebanese-Canadian Christian wife Alexandra Khalid. My folks didn't make a fuss when my brother married an Arab Christian gal but they didn't want me to date Abdul because he's Arab and Muslim. If I brought home an African-American Christian male all hell would break loose. There's no other way to say it, my parents are racist. I'm falling for Jeremiah. What's a gal to do?

The resolution to my dilemma came rather unexpectedly. How that happened is a rather funny story. After a fight, the best way for a couple to get over any lingering bad feelings is to make love. Jeremiah and I had a big fight over meeting my parents, and afterwards, I used my feminine wiles on him to get him to shut up about it. See? Told you I'm not that nice. Not that I need excuses to make love to Jeremiah. The handsome chocolate stud from Texas is built for sex! There we were, watching a rerun of Highlander The Series on basic cable while cuddling my couch. That's when I put the moves on him.

Jeremiah cannot resist me when I wear my black tank top and sky-blue booty shorts, and that's exactly what I had on. Come here sexy, he said, palming my ass. I sat on his lap, and wrapped my arms around him. Gently we kissed, then began making love. Off came my tank top and shorts, followed by my panties which I hastily pulled down. I made Jeremiah stand against the wall, and went straight for his Johnson. Gently I stroked his cock, which was uncircumcised, and took it into my mouth. Jeremiah slowly let out a sigh and closed his eyes. I sucked his dick and stroked his balls gently, and soon I had him moaning and groaning.

I love going down on Jeremiah, the smell and taste of his junk is intoxicating in a most wonderful way. I sucked him off until he came, and I drank his masculine seed. I finished sucking him off, then smiled at him. You rock babe, Jeremiah said with a grin. Don't go soft on me I need this dick in my pussy, I said. Laughing, Jeremiah picked me up and laid me on the couch, forcing my legs open. I love the rough stuff Mr. Texas, I grinned. Jeremiah laughed and slid his dick into me. I welcomed him inside of me, loving the feel of his hard dick in my sweet spot. Give it to me Big Baba, I said. Which is just about when my folks walked in.

Western folk reading this might be surprised that my mama and Baba would simply drop by unannounced but among us South Asian immigrants, that's completely normal. My folks even have a key to my place. Indeed, the only secret I've ever kept from them happened to be balls deep inside of me as they walked in and warmly greeted me in Bengali. The look of shock on my folks faces is one that I shall never forget. Jeremiah and I simply froze. Talk about awkward. Jeremiah pulled out of me, and I hastily grabbed my clothes and began putting them on. Jeremiah just stood there, mumbling something I couldn't hear. I got up, and waved at my parents, awkwardly.

My mother's hands went to her face in horror, and my father glared at Jeremiah and I, his face twisted in rage. He spat on the floor, and uttered the words Apani ekati besya haya. Basically, he called me a whore in Bengali. With that being said, my father grabbed my mother and left the apartment. As they bolted for the door, I ran after my folks. I tripped over my panties, which were still around my damn ankles, and I fell on my face. Jeremiah came over to help me and pulled me to my feet. Let go of me, I sobbed. Jeremiah pulled me into his arms, and held me. I was dead to my parents and I knew it. What in hell was I going to do?

I didn't know it at the time, but my life had changed irrevocably that evening. I tried to rally my siblings for support but I to no avail. The sheer hypocrisy of having my brother and sister, both of whom are married to people of other races, vilify and denigrate me for my romantic choices is astounding. I told them to go fuck themselves. I waited a few days then called my parents to explain, to talk, but they didn't want to speak to me. When I went to their house on a rainy night, desperate to be heard, I got a chill reception.

My own father spat on my face and my father told me that had we still been in Bangladesh, he would have ended my existence. It's not just Muslims who kill their women in the name of family honor. Hindus and other religions do it too. I'm sorry for hiding it from you Baba but I love Jeremiah, I sobbed, looking my father in the eye. The kind man who brought me into this world and once bounced me on his knee told me I was dead to him. Heartbroken, I walked out of the house I had lived my whole life in, the two-story, four-bedroom house in east Calgary I once called home. I was crying, and yes, corny as it may sounds, it was still raining. When I went to my car, I saw Jeremiah waiting for me. He hugged me, and then we drove away.

That was pretty much how the summer of 2013 went for me. When fall came, Jeremiah and I moved into a two-bedroom apartment in the south side of Calgary together. In those early days he was there for me, supporting me in every way. I wasn't always fun to be around. Sometimes I blamed him for the loss of my family. It was unfair, I know, but that's how a part of me felt. Another part of me truly loved Jeremiah. I don't think I've ever cared for anyone like I care for him. We come from different worlds but he gets me, you know?

Living together while going to the same university provided us with some fresh challenges but we worked things out. When December vacation came, Jeremiah flew me to Fort Worth, Texas, to spend Christmas with his parents. They were very kind and friendly, and absolutely supportive of our relationship. When I told Jeremiah's Haitian-American mother Marie-Jeanne about my family's very South Asian brand of racism, she told me that some of her relatives still bugged her for marrying a white guy. And now her son, who was half black and half white, was in love with a woman from another race. Love is all that matters, she told me, then gave me a hug. Jerry is lucky to have a mom like you, I told her.