The most sacred titles any woman can hold in this life are wife and mother, I thought as I proudly watched my daughter Catherine stand in front of a podium and deliver her valedictory speech to the hundreds of graduates at the convocation of the Sprott Business School of Carleton University. It's a bright Sunday afternoon and the City of Ottawa, Ontario, is basking in unusually warm weather. Sitting next to me, my husband Gerald Saintil squeezed my hand gently and I smiled at him. It's going to be fine, he reassures me. Our son Gino looks on and rolls his eyes. I nod, but I can't help worrying. I'm a mother. It's what we do.
The young woman standing on the podium in her dark crimson gown is the fruit of our labor. A beautiful but unlikely blend of Haitian, Hispanic and Egyptian, that's our sweetie. From her father she got her height, and frizzy hair. She's got my gray eyes and though her skin is caramel rather than bronze like mine, people always realize we're mother and daughter when we're out together. The resemblance between us is uncanny, even though at five-foot-eight I look tiny next to my tall daughter, who played basketball and rugby at the varsity level throughout high school and university.
I look around at the crowd of parents, friends, supporters and well-wishers, smiling without quite knowing why. An older Asian lady wipes her eyes with a handkerchief, and I nod at her gently. Graduation ceremonies are always an emotional affair for the whole family. My daughter is twenty three years old and already has her MBA. How cool is that? I am practically gushing with pride as I listen to her speech. Pay attention, I remind my son Gino, and he reluctantly pries his gaze from his cell phone and stares blankly at me.
Your sister is graduating, I remind him sternly. Gino nods and sighs. There's a vacant look in his eyes as he stares ahead like a zombie. He's six-foot-one, caramel-skinned, way-haired and green-eyed, and looks somewhat older than his twenty one years. My son is bright and handsome, and honestly, the sky's the limit when it comes to his potential. Unfortunately he's a bit of an underachiever. He's changed his major three times already at the University of Ottawa. For the past few years he's been studying ecology. Hope there's a career in that for him. Catherine thanks her school, professors and classmates and exhorts them to boldly meet life's challenges while having some fun along the way. All around us, the crowd nods along, since her speech is standard graduation fare.
When she's done, Catherine twirls her cap in her hand, tosses it into the air and jumps up to catch it before bowing and stepping off the podium, to thunderous applause. She gets her sense of humor from her dad, that's for sure. I exchange a knowing look with Gerald, and he smiles sheepishly. Like father like daughter, I say with a wry grin. We stand up and clap for Catherine as she makes her way back to her seat. She exchanges high-fives with a tall dark-skinned young woman with braids, her lifelong best friend Jacqueline Bouvier, the gal next door. Not best friend, girlfriend, I correct myself mentally. Three weeks ago, Catherine dropped a bomb on her father and me when she revealed to us that she's a lesbian, and her gal pal Jacqueline is more than just a friend. We were kind of taken by surprise, to tell you the truth.
Catherine is six feet tall, lovely and very feminine, and in the past she dated guys. I still remember how she looked in her prom dress. She went to prom with a charming Lebanese Christian lad, Samuel Khalid. While an undergrad at Carleton University, she introduced us to two guys she'd dated. I have a hard time imagining my daughter forsaking relationships with men and leading a lesbian lifestyle. Initially I was taken aback but Gerald warned me that we had to respect Catherine's choices or risk losing her.
If she ever changes her mind we'll be the first to know, Gerald told me confidently. Although I was all smiles and supportive hugs with Catherine, inside I felt torn. This wasn't the life I had in mind for my daughter. Even though same-sex marriage has been legal in Canada for a while, crimes against gay people persist. Last week I read something in the Ottawa Sun newspaper about a bisexual man shot to death by his gay lover when the spurned guy found out he had a wife and daughter stashed away in the suburbs. A bizarre love triangle that turned deadly, it would seem.
I just don't want by baby to suffer any pain or discrimination, I told Gerald at the end of our discussion about Catherine's shocking revelation of her sexual orientation. We raised her strong, Gerald told me, hugging me tightly and reassuring me that everything would be alright, as he always did. I am always thankful for his strength, his ability to be optimistic in the face of adversity and uncertainty. Gerald has the ability to see the silver lining on even the darkest of circumstances. It's just part of who he is. My darling hubby. He is and always will be my rock. I can always count on him, I've known this for twenty five years now.
It's on this very campus that Gerald and I met, twenty five years ago. Oh, snap. Silly me, I almost forgot to introduce myself. Forgive me. As you can imagine, today is a very emotional day for me. My name is Marianne Zaghloul and I was born in the City of Abu Kabir, Egypt, to a Coptic Christian family. I lived in Egypt for the first half of my life. In 1987, at the age of eighteen, I moved with my parents, Elias and Odessa Zaghloul to the City of Ottawa, Ontario. Tensions between the Muslim majority and the Coptic Christian minority were on the verge of exploding. My parents feared that the Muslims would once more declare war on Arab Christians. Given that the Lebanese Christians were fighting a war against the Lebanese Muslims and their Syrian allies in Lebanon, we couldn't go over there. So we opted for Canada, the one place on Earth that will always be dear to the hearts of refugees. Fortunately, they accepted our refugee claim.
In September 1988, I enrolled at Carleton University to study accounting. I've always had a head for numbers. While walking around the campus library I met the man destined to be my lover, my husband, my other half and my soul mate. A twenty-year-old Haitian immigrant named Gerald Saintil, whose parents sent him to live in Ottawa after he'd gotten in trouble with some roughnecks in Montreal. In hindsight, it's extremely unlikely that we even met. If it weren't for the Muslim/Christian clash in Egypt, my family and I never would have left, for we loved our country. If it weren't for Gerald's immaturity, he never would have come to Carleton for higher education. Not when there are so many schools in Montreal where he grew up.
Gerald intended to study at McGill University but he flunked out of Canada's most prestigious school due to his constant partying, drinking and womanizing. I was the shy bookworm whom he gravitated to. To say that we came from different worlds would be an understatement. Gerald was born on the island of Haiti to a Haitian mother and Hispanic father. His parents, Leonardo Valdez and Geraldine Saintil moved to Montreal, Quebec, when he was younger. Six-foot-three, with light brown skin, curly Black hair and light brown eyes, he was handsome, brawny and fearless.
This womanizer was used to having his way with women and he set his sights on me. Little did he know that I'm the woman destined to tame his wild ways. From the onset when he began flirting with me at school, I made it clear to him that I wasn't like his other hoochies. I'm an Arab woman. No man may approach me unless he's confident, and with serious intention. Trust me on that one. One thing all Arabs have in common, whether we're Christian, Muslim, Druze or whatever, we're protective of our women. Even though Egyptian Christian families are far more liberal than their Muslim counterparts, I couldn't leave the house wearing a short skirt or drink alcohol like the other girls I befriended at school. My parents would kill me if I did. I dressed in jeans and tight but long-sleeved T-shirts mostly, often wearing hats or tying my hair in a bun when I left the house. My way of looking hot without crossing the line into whorish.