Blac Men/white Women: in Ottawa

I'm in love with you, my sweet Rachel Mays. The first time I saw you inside the campus library, I felt irresistibly drawn to you. So I gathered my courage and approached you with the first excuse I could think of. The six-foot-tall, beautiful and curvaceous blonde goddess with the icy blue eyes. The one who intimidated the hell out of everyone at Carleton University. I still remember every word we spoke to each other. A Toronto gal in Ottawa. Hmmm. What are you doing in a small town like this? Never mind. I'm so happy circumstances actually brought us together.

When I first set foot in Ottawa, Ontario, I didn't see a new beginning. Rather, I saw it as the end of my existence. The proud son of Haitian-American immigrants from Massachusetts, I reluctantly left my hometown of Boston after making a major mistake during my freshman year at Emerson College. Needless to say, I wasn't exactly an angel during my rebellious first year away from my strict, conservative parents, Leon and Marie LeLac. And somehow, my mistakes got me sent to Canada, to pursue higher education at Carleton University and a quieter life in Ontario under the watchful eye of my maternal uncle George. I didn't feel like I fit in at Carleton. I'm a six-foot-four, dark-skinned Black man. Even in racially diverse Ottawa, I often stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. I felt trapped here, and I hated this city and this school. I missed Boston, and my old cronies. Guys from the Mexican and Cape Verdean communities of New England, whom I used to hang out with.

Lord, I miss my buddies. I miss running through Boston Common with them, throwing the football and admiring sexy chicks in miniskirts heading into the theater district. I miss drinking coffee at the Starbucks near Tremont street, and ducking into the nearby porno shop on Thursdays to see the new titles. I miss sneaking into Loews movie theater, which we often did even when our pockets were full of cash. I miss flirting with high-class, society-type chicks none of us bad boys had any chances with inside Copley Mall's food court. Oh, yeah. I miss my old life, the life of a Boston boy. However, that was then and this is now. You're in my life now. For you, I found myself changing my ways. And you never even asked me to. What's up with that? Hmmm. Must be some kind of Canadian chick magic or something. Gals back home could never get me into a suit, unless it was for somebody's funeral, a church event, or prom shit back in high school. Yeah, I'm bad. Nowadays I wear suits all the time, and although I won't admit it aloud, I do feel comfortable in them. Like when I accompanied you to the National Arts Center in downtown Ottawa for that music recital thingy. Oh, shoot. Woman, see what you've done? You've got me saying thingy. That's it. I'm done. I can never go home now. Guys in Boston are going to line up to kick my butt for talking like that. I'm stuck in Canada with you. And, um, I don't mind.

I remember our first date, and how I ended up being ten minutes late thanks to OC Transpo. Those bus drivers must get paid extra to be rude to folks and get us late to our destinations. We met at the Saint Laurent Mall, and grabbed dinner inside this quaint little Italian restaurant where everybody knows you. I felt awkward sitting across from you in my bright red T-shirt featuring Haitian artist T-Vice and my blue jeans. You looked amazing in your white top and low-cut red dress. Oh, and those heels. Um, wait up. Did I just say that? Rewind. You looked great, period. I have always found women of all hues extremely beautiful. The walls of my residence on Colonel By are adorned with pictures of female celebrities ranging from Serena Williams to Hope Solo, Salma Hayek and Lucy Liu. I like all kinds of ladies. However, you're the first Caucasian lady I've ever dated.

As we sat down and dined, talking about life at Carleton University, our basketball team's chances against the bozos of Ottawa University and our particularly mild winter of 2012, I found myself mesmerized by you. Seriously, the way your eyes lit up when you thought of something interesting. I can't help but smile every time that happens. Oh, and let's not forget the way you lick your lips. I find it kind of distracting. It always sends a little wave of...something, deep inside me. Of course, I tell you nothing of all that. Wasn't raised to reveal weakness in front of a female. It's not my way.

Sometimes I wonder if you know what you do to me without realizing it, or what you mean to me. I'm not Mister Romantic, alright? I'm not that dude who's going to stand underneath your window with a guitar, in the dead of night, pouring his heart out while trying to serenade you. I'm the guy who's making fun of that guy. And yet, I found myself breaking some of my own rules when I fell for you. And the funny and scary thing is that I was happy too. How about that? I'm the guy who used to say that love is for suckers, and sex with no strings attached is the best thing a man can hope for at the end of the day. I'm glad you didn't know me when I went around preaching this dark gospel to all who would listen. You wouldn't recognize me anymore. What can I say? People change. I thought I was the only exception to the rule. I now realize that I was wrong.

I remember how proud I felt the first time we walked through campus as a couple. Hand in hand we walked from the bus stop near the Minto Center to the University Center. Among the throngs of students, some people stared but most didn't have do squat but keep walking. Just like I thought they would. On that bright Monday morning, I took your hand in mine and kissed it. You smiled at me. That special, totally Rachel smile that has the power to make my heart melt. When you look at me that way, I can refuse you nothing. Gently, you kissed me. And then we made our way to Southam for our Criminal Psychology class. I'm proud to be with you, as I know you're proud to be with me. And I hope we'll always be together.