Brockton Man In Winnipeg

The City of Winnipeg, Manitoba, is hands down one of the worst place I've ever been to. Seriously. Sorry, but the town is crap and someone's got to say it. Everyone in Winnipeg is either White or Aboriginal, and the two groups have a strong dislike of each other. I'm half Black, so they don't know what to make of me. Whoopee for me, right? The name is Damon Fleurimond, and I'm a brother with a story to share with you.

I was born in the City of Brockton, Massachusetts, to a Haitian immigrant father and a White American mother. My folks came from different worlds. My father, Anthony Fleurimond, divorced my mother Juliette London, when I was real young and moved to Ontario, Canada, where he worked as a civil engineer. I used to spend every summer with my father in the City of Toronto. Our way of staying connected, I guess. During those summers, I grew a certain love for urban Canada.

Nice change of scenery from Massachusetts, let me tell you. At the age of eighteen, after graduating from the local high school, I got struck with wanderlust. I just got in my beat-up red pickup truck and began driving around. I wanted to get the hell away from the small town where I grew up. Brockton is an okay place but there's really nothing too special about it. I guess you could say that I was tired of small town life. I wanted to see the world.

I left Massachusetts and drove around New England for a while, and then I headed to Fort Lauderdale, Florida. After spending a week in Houston, I crossed over into Mexico. I returned to the U.S. after a few weeks in Mexico, and then I decided to head to the City of Toronto, Ontario, to see my father. Dad married a Native woman named Marlene, from the Ojibwe tribe. Lovely lady. My father is happy with her and that's all that matters to me.

My pops invited me to join him and his wife on a trip to Winnipeg, and since I had never been to anyplace other than Ontario while in Canada, I let myself get talked into visiting Manitoba. Someone forgot to tell me that it's like no place on Earth, with people caught in an ongoing feud. I'm not saying we don't have racial conflict in the States. I'm not that naïve, ladies and gentlemen.

Hell, look into Yahoo news online or your Facebook news feed, and you'll see a plethora of stories about unarmed Black folks getting killed by racist White cops. In Canada, though, people pretend there's no such thing as racism. Yet the way White Canadians treat all minorities, especially Natives, is appalling. Americans are honest and upfront about their racism. Look at what happened in Missouri, a year after Mike Brown's murder by that racist cop Darren Wilson. The local White cops hassled peaceful Black protesters while ignoring gun-toting White militiamen. Blatant racism at its best. You always know where you stand in America. Canadians will smile to your face and stab you in the back. That's why I don't trust any of these bastards. No offense, folks.

Prior to coming to Canada, I had never met an Aboriginal or Native person, even though there's sizeable number of Native folks, mostly the Wampanoag tribe, in the State of Massachusetts where I grew up. I saw lots and lots of Natives in the City of Winnipeg, where they're the fastest-growing ethnic group. I met some of Marlene's relatives, and they were polite but lukewarm in their interactions with my father and I.

Of course, my father and Marlene didn't talk about it. Me? I'm an American. To hell with the polite bullshit. I do my own thing and if you don't like it, fuck you. Interracial relationships seem to cause a lot of tension wherever one goes. I've dated a few White chicks while in Brockton and I've seen the way White guys looked at us while we were out in public. Bunch of insecure bozos if you ask me.

White guys are jealous as fuck, seriously. One time, I was at the Copley Mall with Emily Connors, this Irish chick I was dating, and some old White dude who was holding hands with a Chinese lady looked at us with a murderous rage in his eyes. To me, that was kind of funny. Any White guy who dates Chinese chicks clearly isn't into White chicks, so why should this old creep care if I'm a brother with a White girlfriend? White dudes think they own the world, and in the Age of Obama, all of these insecure racist bozos are crawling out of the woodwork.

Still, in a place like Winnipeg, I clearly learned that there were other types of racism. The way Native guys looked at my father as he and his wife Marlene walked around the Aboriginal Cultural Center in downtown Winnipeg was an eye-opener for me. I don't speak any language other than English, though I know a few words in the Haitian Creole language. Yet I couldn't help but detect hostility in the Native men who looked at my father and his Ojibwe bride, pointed and laughed while speaking in their Native tongue.

As a young Black guy from the United States of America, racism meant hostile White male with a gun trying to exterminate me simply because my skin is dark brown. Trigger-happy former cop Darren Wilson of Missouri, the fucker who shot Mike Brown, and George Zimmerman of Sanford, Florida, the fucker who shot Trayvon Martin, that's what racism looked like to me. I guess I had a lot to learn, folks. Native men don't like seeing their women with men of other races.

Dad and Marlene rented a three-bedroom apartment in the south side of Winnipeg, and their accommodations were paid by Thorne Builds Incorporated, the corporation my father works for. I stayed in the spare room, chilling like a villain. I went walking about Winnipeg, and mainly saw White folks and Natives, along with some Chinese people and Filipinos. I did not see a single Black person. At all. Everywhere I went, everyone stared. I felt like a Martian. What the fuck?

As a six-foot-three, lean and athletic biracial male with medium brown skin, lime-green eyes and a small Afro, I am used to getting stared at. My father is Haitian and my mother is Irish-American. I am the living definition of change, folks. For this reason, I attract my share of haters. I'm not just talking about old White guys with a die-hard hatred of interracial couples but also other minorities, including Black folks, who don't like us, members of the "swirl" brood. In Winnipeg, I was out of my element, and up against a system I didn't know how to deal with.

I went to the local YMCA to work out, and inquired about a membership. We were in June 2015, and I decided that I might stick around till mid-August 2015. In September 2015, I would be starting my freshman at the University of Massachusetts campus in Boston. The woman behind the counter at the YMCA was a middle-aged White broad with mousy brown hair who acted like she'd never seen a Black man before. Seriously, the woman gawked at me like I was T-Rex or something. Fortunately, her co-worker, a cute, dark-haired and bronze-skinned gal whose name tag read "Chumani" proved to be friendlier.

Smiling, Chumani asked me for two pieces of ID, and I handed her my Massachusetts driver's licence, and my U.S. passport. Chumani made photocopies of them, and handed them back to me, along with a membership form. I used my Bank of America credit card to pay for the membership fee, and then went to work out right away. About an hour later, I was working up a good sweat on the exercise bike when I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I looked up and there was Chumani, the young woman from the front office.

I smiled nervously at Chumani, thinking that maybe my card had been declined or that these uptight Canadians didn't consider my American documents sufficient. Nope, it was nothing of the sort. Chumani smiled at me and told me she was sorry about her boss, Kari, and her uptight behavior. I looked Chumani up and down. Five-foot-seven, curvy and fit, with Black hair, light bronze skin and dark eyes. I couldn't tell you what ethnicity she was, and I am usually a pretty good guesser.

As if reading my mind, Chumani introduced herself to me as Chumani Wematin, of the Birdtail Sioux First Nation people of Manitoba. I smiled and shook Chumani's hand, and proudly told her that I was a son of America. Smiling, Chumani gave me her card, in case I needed anything. I looked at the card and noticed that it had both her work number and extension, and her cell number. I wished Chumani a good day. I would definitely keep in touch. I finished my workout, and then headed to the showers.

The next day, I called Chumani, and invited her to grab coffee with me at the Starbucks located near City Hall in downtown Winnipeg. Chumani arrived looking all hot and stuff, clad in a red tank top, blue jeans and sneakers. Well, this Native cutie looked pretty good to me. I looked alright in a blue silk shirt, Black silk pants and Black timberland shoes. Hey, I'm an urban brother from Brockton and where I come from, we dress fly. Sitting across from Chumani, I found myself mystified by this cutie and her enchanting smile.

Chumani and I chatted, and I learned a bit about her. Chumani was born and raised in Winnipeg, to Scott Wematin, a Native father from the Sioux tribe, and Richa Vasquez, a Filipina immigrant mother. This exotic cutie is studying mathematics at the University of Manitoba, and she's fluent in English, French, a couple of Native dialects, and Spanish. Hot damn, I was impressed. I told Chumani a bit about me, namely my old life back in Brockton, and the lack of enthusiasm I felt about starting school at UMass-Boston in the fall.

I always wanted to study in someplace fancy and far away from Brockton like Hartford University or Howard University but I couldn't afford those places. Out of state education is expensive. My mom and I are broke. I've got to play the cards I was dealt, folks. I did win a scholarship to UMass-Boston due to my MCAS test scores, though. As I spoke, Chumani listened attentively, and I found myself mesmerized by her lovely, gentle face and her fierce, attentive eyes. This gal was truly beautiful. The fact that Chumani was twenty and I was only eighteen years old bugged me, but I didn't let it show.

Chumani and I began seeing each other regularly, and I must say that I really enjoyed her company. I told my father about her and Dad had a good laugh about how "liking Native women must be in my genes". Whatever. I like Chumani because she's smart, and cute, and she's got the biggest ass I've ever seen on a non-Black female! I asked Chumani to go see Jurassic World with me at the local movie theater and she happily accepted. Thus, we went on our first official date.

Ladies and gentlemen, that's how it all began. The romance that changed my life. When I first came to Winnipeg, I hated the place. I still think it's a crappy town, but with the lovely Sioux goddess known as Chumani in my life, I've decided it doesn't matter. After all, it doesn't matter where you are, just who you're with. The right people make all the difference, folks.

I like Chumani and I am getting to know and appreciate her for the amazing person that she is. I have learned much about Aboriginal Canadian culture since I moved to Winnipeg from Brockton, Massachusetts. Chumani is teaching me her people's language. Isn't that awesome? I am also growing more tolerant toward Winnipeg as an entity. I even got myself a job clerking at a bookstore. Sometimes I almost miss Brockton. Almost. Life is alright, though. I'll take things any way they come.