"Alright, Shazia, sign up some more clients for Mastercards, then we can talk about getting you more hours," said my manager, Rod Carling, as we stood in front of the Super Center. Dude had gone outside for a cigarette break, and I apparently caught him in a bad mood. Actually, that's not accurate. Rod is honestly kind of a dick. A lot of the minority women at work seem enamored of his so-called good looks, but I can see the wickedness in his frosty blue eyes. Thanks but no thanks.
"Okay," I replied as nonchalantly as I could, and I walked away. My name is Shazia Shakhawat, Shay to my friends, and I'm a cashier at a certain Super Center in the Nepean suburb of Ottawa, Ontario. I hold a bachelor's degree in Commerce from the University of Ottawa, and speak English, French and Urdu fluently, but this lousy job is the best that I can do. It's a tough economy, what can I say?
Before you accuse me of lacking ambition, or whatever, please consider my circumstances. I am twenty seven years old, divorced and estranged from my parents, who live in Vancouver, B.C. I owe the Canadian government a small fortune in student loans, and they've started garnishing my wages. I always thought that a degree in commerce would open doors for me after graduation, but I was dead wrong. In Ottawa, it's not what you know but who you know.
How else would you explain my roommate, Chelsea MacLeod? I've known Chelsea ever since I moved to the City of Ottawa for school. This short, pretty, blonde-haired white chick is like my polar opposite. She has a diploma in accounting from Algonquin College and somehow landed a job with the Canada Revenue Agency. I can't even land an entry-level position in my field and this chick gets a cushy government job. Sweet. Real sweet.
"Shay, he had absolutely no right to speak to you that way," said a deep masculine voice. I turned around and found myself looking at a tall, broad-shouldered and muscular young man with chocolate skin and a smooth shaved head. Clad in a sky-blue shirt and black cargo pants, the dude looked like he meant business. Ibrahim Abrefa, our store security guard is one fine brother, if you ask me. Back off, he's all mine.
"Oh, I don't take it personal anymore, welcome to my life, Ibrahim," I replied, and I patted the big guy on the shoulder before returning to work. I'm at the express line, close to the door. This means that the customer service managers are a heartbeat away from me, and these bitches can see my every move. This is just peachy. I don't like scrutiny. Not one bit. Still, I've got bills to pay so I have to grin and bear it.
"Sir, the item was on sale yesterday, the price has been changed, sorry," I said to a tall, chubby white dude in a trucker hat who stood there sweating buckets in a Hawaiian shirt, flanked by his girlfriend or wife, a tiny Filipina woman. The two of them glared at me the way a wolf pack glares at that poor deer that's limping while the rest of the herd scampers away. This is definitely not going to go well.
"We'll see about that, young lady, can I speak to your manager?" Mr. Sweaty Old Dude says, his voice almost a hiss. Oh yeah, I can see where this is going. I nod and call the manager. Moments later, Rod arrives, and doesn't look pleased. He smiles at the old white dude, who smiles back, and then a few words are exchanged, for the two of them are apparently old buddies.
A few moments later, Rod glares at me and I am told to let the matter drop. The T-shirt that Mr. Sweaty Old Dude wanted to buy cost eleven dollars yesterday, and seventeen bucks today, according to my scanner, but on my manager's say-so, I let him pay yesterday's price. Like I said before, in Ottawa, it's not what you know but who you know.
"Sorry about that, Mitchell, she's new," Rod says, and he and Mitchell exchange dap, as though they are cool and upbeat young black men instead of a pair of middle-aged white guys. I barely stop myself from rolling my eyes as I hand Mr. Sweaty Old Dude/Mitchell his receipt. Across the room, Ibrahim the security guard is watching the exchange, and shakes his head. I smile at him and shrug. I appreciate his concern, but I can handle myself.
"Sir, can I see a receipt for this item?" Ibrahim asks Mr. Sweaty Old Dude, and Mitchell looks at him as though he's got two heads. Ibrahim doesn't back down. The tall, dark-skinned young guy from West Africa isn't intimidated by portly middle-aged white dudes, or anyone, really. I smile as an uncomfortable-looking Mitchell searches for the receipt, and finally produces it. Ibrahim looks at it slowly, and I smile, for I know exactly what he's doing.
I smile at Ibrahim, who winks at me. The time is eleven forty eight and I decide to take my lunch early. I say loudly that I'm punching out, and then notice Ibrahim looking at me. I nod in gratitude, and after clocking out, I pull my dark coat over my blue work-shirt and head for the exit. I stop right in front of Ibrahim, who tries to look casual and fails miserably. The brother is happy to see me, and I can tell. What he doesn't know is that the feeling is mutual.
"See you at Shawarma," I whisper, and Ibrahim smiles, and I head out. I wait near the front of the store for a few moments, and overhear Ibrahim talk to Ravi, the old Indian greeter, and he informs him that he's going to lunch early. Moments later, Ibrahim emerges from the store, his dark blue security jacket unzipped, and a baseball cap on backwards. Not a bad look if you ask me.
"What's up?" Ibrahim says casually, and I smile and link my arm with his as we make our way through the Super Center parking lot. We walk past a bunch of little stores, and finally reach the Shawarma restaurant, sandwiched between a real estate office, and a dry cleaning business. As we walk together, I notice people staring at Ibrahim and I, and I don't care.
Alright, you don't see a lot of South Asian ladies stepping out when it comes to dating and whatnot, because, well, they're brainwashed. In places like India, Pakistan and Bangladesh, the men are free to marry whoever they want, while the women are not. Even here in the City of Nepean, I've seen South Asian men with white wives, and even black wives. Yet whenever I walk around with Ibrahim, people from my part of the world stare hostilely at us.
Alright, I won't sugar-coat anything. There is a strong bias against people of African descent among South Asians. There, I said it. I was born in the City of Bogra, Bangladesh, and moved to Vancouver, Canada, with my parents, almost twenty years ago. Growing up in Vancouver, I saw how a lot of Indians, Bangladeshis and Pakistanis treated the black Canadians in our lovely town. Their racism and bigotry disgusted me. Many of my people are close-minded and it sucks.
