"Racism against black Muslims, is indeed one of the dirtiest little secrets of Islam," I said to myself as I walked down Hadrian Street, on my way to Marketplace Station in the plush Barrhaven suburb of Ottawa, Ontario. Just another sunny day in the Canadian Capital, and a Hijab-wearing Arab lady just switched sidewalks when she saw me coming. Wonderful. I wonder what the rest of the day holds for me.
My name is Morris Farrell Kale, but you can call me Brother Mustafa, it's my Islamic name. I am a recent convert to Islam, and I love my religion. The behavior of my fellow Muslims sometimes irks me, but I love my faith. I was born in the City of Cornwall, Ontario, to a Jamaican immigrant father, Edwin Kale, and a white Canadian mother, Martina Beaulieu. Believe me when I say I'm no stranger to adversity.
I moved to Ottawa to study at Carleton University. These days, I live in Barrhaven with my uncle Kelvin Kale, my father's younger brother. He works for the Canadian government and has a house out here. I pay rent and help Uncle Kelvin out with stuff. It's not a bad life. Growing up in a small, lily-white town, the only son of an interracial couple, I've endured my share of racism. That's why I left Cornwall for the big city. I thought things would be better here in Ottawa. I was so frigging wrong.
Seeing people switch sidewalks when they see me coming, or spit on the ground, or suddenly cough in my direction, all these things are not new. The thing about folks from small towns is that they're brutally honest about their likes and dislikes. I'm used to dealing with them. They don't intimidate me in the least. I can handle whatever they throw at me. They're only dangerous in large numbers. One on one I can handle them because they can't fight worth a damn.
The City of Ottawa is much larger than Cornwall, the town where I was born and raised, and far more racially diverse. With so many Africans, Arabs, Latinos and Asians living in Ottawa, I thought the local whites would be friendlier and more tolerant, but I was wrong. Dead wrong. Big-city folks are just as bigoted as small-town folks, they're just more passive-aggressive and discrete about it. This makes them more dangerous if you ask me.
"Can I help you?" I said pointedly to the old white lady who glared at me as I opened up the green box containing the Metro newspapers. I grabbed one, and took a look at the headline. The local media is still going on about a certain Conservative politician, a senator who faced numerous charges of fraud and misconduct, and apparently got away with all of it. Sounds like an Ottawa politician to me.
The old white lady said nothing, and I shrugged and browsed through the newspaper. I was halfway through the sports section when the 95 Bus pulled up, and I held up my wallet, displaying my bright green U-Pass to the driver, a middle-aged plump white dude in a dark blue uniform. I sat in the middle of the bus, my favorite spot, and the old white lady from before sat across from me, her lips pursed, staring at me while pretending not to. Great.
Not that it matters, but for the record, I'll state it. I'm dressed professionally. Long-sleeved gray silk shirt, black tie and black silk pants. Black Timberland boots. I work as a manager at one of the numerous Telus stores in the City of Ottawa. It's nine o'clock in the morning and I'm taking a summer class at Carleton University. I don't work till three o'clock in the afternoon, but I don't feel like going home after my eleven o'clock class. I'd rather go straight to work.
The point I'm trying to make is that I'm a hard-working professional and a university student. Not a thug. Not that any of this matters to the bozos I seem to attract like a magnet. Or perhaps the fact that I'm a six-foot-one, burly, handsome and well-dressed person of color intimidates them. Whatever.
What those bozos don't realize is that Ottawa's demographics are changing. We who are called minorities are changing the game. Like us or hate us, we are here to say. The bus finally reaches Bayview Station and I hop off. I walk down that steep little hill on my way to the O-Train. The bright red train pulls into the station right as I reach the bottom of the hill. It's practically empty. Wonderful.
I sit in the first car, and look out the window as the train gets on its way. I try not to think of recent events. That's right, dear reader, I've got bigger problems than the closeminded bozos I encounter on a daily basis. I've got woman trouble...and man trouble. Um, sorry if it's a shocker but I am bisexual. I do it with girls and guys. Male bisexuality does exist. Get over it.
"Mustafa, I can't take this bullshit anymore, I'm leaving," those are the words that my former paramour, Henry Singh said hotly last night. I looked at the tall, barrel-chested young man with whom I shared so many passionate moments, and all I could do was shrug. Our relationship was coming to an end, and I honestly can't say that I didn't see it coming. We've had our fun, but Henry had become something of a problem lately.
