From Haiti to Japan

"Samuel, I'm sorry but I'm just not interested, besides, I'm with someone else," Esther Voltaire said to me, after I confessed my feelings to her. Esther, the queen of the Haitian Adventist church of Ottawa, and the gal I've worshipped since High School. One bright Saturday morning I decided to tell her how I feel, and as you can see, the results were less than spectacular. Me and my awesome sense of timing, I swear.

"Um, sorry," was all I managed to squeak out before Esther walked away. Later, as I sat at my usual spot in church, I noticed that quite a few of the young ladies at church were looking at me funny. It's weird, I've grown up at this predominantly Haitian church, which I've attended with my parents, Romain and Geraldine Joseph ever since we moved to Ottawa from the town of Leogane, Republic of Haiti, where I was born.

This church is a place that always felt like a second home, a welcome refuge to the passive-aggressive racist bullshit that I have to put up with as a young Black man in the City of Ottawa. I was baptized in this church and when I think of the people I've met there, I feel nothing but love for them. Sure, churches have their dramas but name one place that doesn't? At the end of the day, my church folks are like family. Well, not today.

"Brother, are you alright?" This whisper came from my buddy Franklin Dupont, a tall, mahogany-hued brother with a smooth bald head in a dapper gray suit. Franklin is my best buddy and we've always been tight. When I applied for the Deacon position at our church, and didn't get it because Pastor Robitaille doesn't like me all that much, and gave the position to his nephew Etienne, Franklin was the only one who even tried to console me.

"Nah, man, I guess you were right, I told Esther and, um, yeah, it went the way you said," I said quietly, and Franklin shook his head, then gently laid his hand on my shoulder. I looked at Franklin and forced a brave smile, then I focused on the ceremony. Today, Pastor Robitaille, a chubby, chocolate-hued and thickly bearded brother in his late fifties, clad in a tacky blue suit, really thundered from the pulpit. Pastor talked about fornication and how it leads to the gates of Hell, usual Adventist fanfare if you ask me.

I took a look around the church, which was filled with my people, the sons and daughters of the Haitian diaspora in Canada. I should feel at home here. The church service is conducted in French and Haitian Creole, two languages I am quite fluent in. I know most of these people. I know their stories, their struggles and their little dramas. I should feel at home here. So why did I feel trapped all of a sudden? I tried not to look at Esther, but failed miserably.

Esther, the tall, caramel-hued Haitian diva whom I once called "Ma Deesse Africaine" sat next to Santino Marcello, a tall, well-dressed dude whom pretty much everyone calls the prince of the church. Santino is originally from the Dominican Republic, where he was born to a Haitian immigrant mother and a Latino father. I don't consider him to be a true Haitian but the way I figure it, the church is open to all. We really don't discriminate. I just wish Santino didn't treat it like his own personal playground.

The dude is tall, handsome and mixed, and all the ladies at our church go crazy for his supposedly exotic looks. I don't have anything against Team Light Skin, hell, Steph Curry is my favorite NBA player, but Santino really thinks he's all that. Which irks me big-time. Clad in a Brooks Brothers suit that would cost me a month's salary, Santino is holding hands with Esther, who smiles as she leans on his shoulder.

Ladies and gentlemen, if you haven't guessed it by now, I hate this fucker more than I can say. I apologize for the language, but this guy just bugs me. Santino rests his hand on Esther's thigh, a move which is totally inappropriate for this churchly setting, and it makes my blood boil. All of a sudden I feel hot, even though, outside, the Ontario winter rages on. I need some air, seriously.

"Got to go, dude, duty calls," I whisper to Franklin after I check my cellphone as if I just got some dire news. Franklin looks at me with concern, but I won't be deterred. I exit our pew, and people look at me funny. I go downstairs and walk into the men's washroom, which is blessedly empty. Even in the basement, I can hear the ladies of the church choir singing. I look in the mirror and notice that my eyes are a bit misty. I wash my face, and it doesn't help. Shaking my head, I grab my coat and exit the church.

The church is located just a few blocks from the busiest shopping center in Ottawa, the Rideau Mall. I decide to head there, just to chill. As I walk past a local beer store, some commotion attracts my attention. There's always a bunch of homeless people hanging out in front of the beer stores. I sometimes give them money, which I think of as my Christian duty. Today, one of these guys, a tall middle-aged white dude with a beard, is uttering racial epithets at a most unlikely person.

"You think you're too good to give us some spare change? You come to my country and put on airs? Go back to China, bitch!" The tall homeless dude saying these sterling words is quite large, and as I draw closer, I finally see who he's hollering at. A short, slender young Asian woman in a black leather jacket and bright green dress. This surprises me for many reasons. Let me explain my reasoning, ladies and gentlemen.

As a black man in the City of Ottawa, I pretty much consider myself to be on the receiving end of one hundred percent of the racism that this town has to dish out. As far as I'm concerned, every racial group that isn't black hates black people and is madly in love with Caucasians. To see a white man going off on an Asian person is a shocker, since I'm used to seeing white guys and Chinese guys telling racial jokes...together.

"I'm Japanese, you idiot," the young Asian woman replies, and her feistiness does nothing to quell the middle-aged white dude's anger. Seriously, the tall homeless dude steps closer to her, and I see his face getting red like a Trump supporter confronting those Black Lives Matter activists in the U.S. The dude moves his arms about in an erratic way, and I swear he's about to swing. Instinctively I react. I'm a pretty laid back kind of guy, maybe even a little too nice at times, but I won't stand by and let another man hit a lady in my presence.

"Back off, bozo," I say as loudly as I can, as I step between Mr. Angry Homeless White Dude and the young Asian lady. The old guy looks me up and down, and sneers. Grimacing, he spits on the ground, dangerously close to my foot, and then he glares at me murderously. There's a lot of racists out there, and they all have a special hatred for the black man. This much I know for sure. What in hell have I gotten myself into?

"Oh, you're going to get it, nigger," the old guy says, and he takes a swing at me. I'm six-foot-one and a bit chubby, and people always think big guys like myself move slow. That's not true. From the table tennis games at church, I learned that I have pretty good reflexes. I suddenly remember that I have on those shiny black steel-toe boots I bought at Walmart the other day. I lash out with a foot, and kick the tall homeless dude right in the shins. I hear a satisfying crack after the impact.

"Oh fuck," the dude says, and he grabs his knee and howls while hobbling. At this point, a sizeable crowd has formed as people watch the spectacle on the sidewalk. I've got to haul ass out of there. This is Ottawa. Whenever there's trouble, if your ass is black, stay out of it. I look at the young Asian woman, and notice her looking at me with a shocked expression on her face. I half expect her to scream and run from me, but then she does something unexpected.

"Thank you," the young lady says, and I nod, about to reply when I hear police sirens. I high tail it out of there because I know how stories like this end. The other day, I read a story on Yahoo news about a black off-duty cop who was shot by a white cop while chasing a thief. This story shocked and saddened me, seriously. Damn, even heroic brothers with badges aren't safe from the authorities, even while performing good deeds. I brisk walk to the bus stop, and hop onto a number four bus right as it's about to leave.

"Thank you sir," I say to the bus driver, a middle-aged Somali guy, as I flash him my U-Pass. I wasn't planning on going to Carleton University today, since it's Saturday, but you know the saying, any port in a storm. As the bus pulls away from the Rideau Shopping Center bus stop, a police car pulls up in front of the beer store a block away. Damn, I got out of there just in time, eh?

I reach Carleton, and decide to head to the library, since I've got midterm exams coming up. Normally, I spend the bulk of my Saturday at church, and go home later. I take the Sabbath pretty seriously, you know. Not today. I sit at a computer in the library, and take a few calming breaths. I take my Dollarama-bought headphones from my coat pocket, and then go to YouTube. There's a video series I'm absolutely addicted to, it's called Jurassic Fight Club. Someone uploaded the whole thing online. Yup, while other guys watch porn I watch dinosaur videos. And they say black nerds don't exist!

After an hour, I brush up on my Criminology paper, which is thirty pages long, not counting the cover page, the bibliography or the citations. I feel a bit hungry, and head to the University Center Building's cafeteria to grab a bite. I get paid next week, and I'm down to seventy five bucks on my CIBC account but fuck it, I'm not going to starve. I go to the cafeteria and tell the brother behind the counter that I want a slice of ( overpriced and stale ) cheese pizza and a fountain drink.

"Seven dollars please," the brother says, and I wince as I pay. I grab my food and head to a spot near the TV where I watch some reality TV crap. Nothing else on, I guess. As I down my drink, I get up for a refill and leave some brown paper on top of my half-eaten pizza since there's a lot of bozos at Carleton who like to passive-aggressively sneeze whenever they see a brother. Can't have those fuckers sneeze on my grub, pardon my Haitian.

"Excuse me, oh wow, it is really you," says a female voice, and I turn around with my refilled cup, and find myself looking at a very pretty young Asian lady clad in black and green. My heart skips a beat as I recognize the young woman from the, ahem, incident at the beer store. What the fuck is she doing here? I know Ottawa is small but damn, this is...weird.

"Um, yeah, what are you doing here?" I ask awkwardly, not knowing what to say. The young woman looks at me and smiles, and although she has a lovely smile, it makes me nervous. Seriously, this gal is looking at me like I'm the Pope or President Obama. I'm just a guy, I swear. I attend church on a weekly basis, study at Carleton University, and work part-time as a backroom dude at Walmart. That's it.

"Oh, I didn't get a chance to thank you earlier, since you left so abruptly, I'm Shari Kanemaru," the young woman says, smiling as she extends her small, delicate hand toward me. I shake it without hesitation and nod graciously, my old-fashioned Haitian home training kicking in automatically. Shari's grip is surprisingly strong, and it dawns on me that this delicate little flower is no one to mess with.

"Good to meet you, Shari, I'm Samuel Joseph," I say gravely, and Shari looks me up and down, notices the cup in my other hand, and asks me if she can join me for a bite. I'm kind of a solitary creature, to tell you the truth, but dammit, certain occasions don't come along too often. My inner recluse wars with my inner extrovert, and the latter wins for a change.

"Great, I'll have a pizza and a drink," Shari says to the brother at the counter, who smiles at me. I smile back and shrug, not knowing what else to do. Shari pulls out an RBC credit card from her purse and pays with it, then she walks with me to the cafeteria, and we sit at my table near the TV. The other people in the room look at us, but Shari doesn't seem bothered by it. As we dine together, I take advantage of the occasion to get to know her a bit better.

"International student from Japan, eh? How do you like Ottawa?" I ask Shari, and she smiles coyly, leans in and tells me that Ottawa is the most boring place she's ever seen. Upon hearing that, I laugh heartily because, well, this is the truest statement that I've ever heard. I am twenty three years old and have lived in Ottawa for well over a decade. I'm a Canadian citizen via naturalization. I still think Ottawa sucks. Sue me.

"Ottawa really sucks, at least in Osaka, my hometown, we have a night life," Shari says, laughing as she takes a sip of her coke. I look at Shari and she looks at me. This gal is lovely and cocksure, so different from the ladies whom I typically meet. I have to say that usually, I stick to folks from my own culture or similar backgrounds. Look where it's gotten me. Perhaps it's time to expand my horizons.

"Ottawa does suck, but there are some cool spots, spots only locals know," I hear myself say, and Shari leans in, way too close, and looks at as though puzzled. I flash her my most enticing grin, and briefly wonder what in hell am I doing, but since it appears to be working, I decide to go with the flow, as it were. Hey, like I said, this isn't my average, ordinary day, you know?

"You'll just have to show me, Mr. Samuel," Shari says, and the lady takes out her iPhone, which is stylish and protected by a fancy-looking leather case, so unlike the Huawei phone I got a year ago at the Wind Mobile store. I smile and take Shari's number, then send her a ping, and she smiles and winks at me. Man, what did I get myself into?

"Well, Shari, I'm glad we met," I say in a casual, friendly manner, as I get up and shake her hand, then exit. I've finished my meal, and Shari has hinted at having stuff to take care of in her on-campus residence. When dealing with the ladies, it's all about timing. A lesson I'm painstakingly learning these days. Shari smiles and waves me off, and I manage to play it cool until I make it to the Atrium, then my nerdy side takes over.

"Damn, dude, you should never do the victory dance in public," says a familiar voice, and I turn around to see my buddy Franklin, clad in a red silk and blue jeans, with his girlfriend Sophia in tow. Sophia Adewale is a tall, slender and quite lovely young Nigerian woman whom Franklin and I met at a student party last year. You don't see a lot of West African women with Haitian men, but Sophia and Franklin really hit it off. They're both civil engineering students at Carleton University, which probably helps.

"Frankie, babe, leave the brother alone," Sophia says, chiding Franklin as she shakes my hand. I smile at my best buddy and his lady and as we walk to the library together, I fill them in on the events of this afternoon. I give them the run-down about the incident at the beer store, my get-the-heck-out-of-dodge moment with the Ottawa police, and my second, decidedly fateful meeting with the feisty and lovely Shari.

"Damn, brother, you got it like that, I'm so proud of you," Franklin says as we exchange dap. We cut through the tunnels which link all of Carleton University as we make our way to the campus library. People walking through the tunnels look at the three of us, but my friends and I ignore them. That's the thing about Ottawa, you meet lots of white people and other minorities who seem to love black culture, especially music and food, but they also glare at us weirdly when they see us. Go figure.

"So, how soon should I call Shari?" I ask Franklin as we reach the front of the library. Franklin strokes his goateed chin, and smiles, then tells me that only a thirsty brother calls a lady the same day he got the digits. Makes sense to me, I guess. Women can usually smell it when a dude is too eager or too into them, and that's when they pull away.

"Samuel, don't listen to Frankie, I'm a lady, and I know how women think, call Shari tonight," Sophia says, and she slaps Franklin's shoulder when he rolls his eyes. I laugh and nod at Sophia. Franklin is my dude and we've been tight since high school but like me, he's a man, and no man knows how women think. Women on the other hand...

"Frankie, you're my bro, but I got to go with Sophia on this one," I reply smugly, and I high-five Sophia, who smirks while Frankie rolls his eyes and calls me a traitor. The three of us are laughing our heads off as we climb the steps and enter the library. I head to the silent floor, where I'm going to listen to music while proofreading papers for the next few hours.

"Catch you guys later, happy Sabbath," I say to Frankie and Sophia, and then the two of them catch the elevator to the fifth floor. I return to my cubicle-like spot with a big smile on my face. What can I say, ladies and gentlemen, things are definitely looking up. I sit there for a moment, and think of the day I've had, and smile to myself. To many more days like this one...Ladies and gentlemen, that's how it all began.

That night, as I got home, I worked up the nerve to call Shari, and we ended up spending the next two hours on the phone. In this age of text messaging, that's a rarity. Most people, girls especially, prefer texting to actually talking on the phone. The art of conversation has taken a serious dive, because, well, people bring their cell phones to social functions and don't talk anymore. It's something that makes me sad. Shari was different, like me.

"Damn, you're easy to talk to," Shari says, laughing, and I laughed as well, agreeing with her. We'd been at it for three hours, as I said before, and we'd discussed everything from Carleton University's outrageous habit of overcharging international students, to the Ottawa nightlife, local politics, and so much. Seriously, this gal is funny, lively and engaging. I can't recall the last time I spent three hours on the phone with a lady...or anyone.

"Right back at you," I said to Shari, and then I fell silent. Look, there's a certain way of going about things when talking to a lady on the phone. You need to close strongly, lie a lawyer in a courtroom. I just met Shari, but I got a good feeling about her. Should I ask her out? Was she single? Am I moving too fast? Damn it, these things are so complicated, I swear.

"Say, Samuel, my friends and I are booking a room to study for our political science midterms, you're welcome to join us in the library tomorrow, you seem like the studious type," Shari says, and my heart skips a beat. Seriously, I was totally looking for any excuse to see her, and this one just landed on my lap. Like, seriously, how awesome is that?

"Sounds good to me, I'll text you and we'll link up," I said, trying to sound cool and confident when I really wanted to tap dance and, um, squeal. Um, ladies and gentlemen, forget that last part. I'm a red-blooded Haitian man and we don't squeal, like, ever. Ladies and gentlemen, I am a nerd through and true. If you don't like it, sue me.

"Cool, have yourself a good night, Samuel, I'm glad we met," Shari said warmly into the phone before hanging up. I lay on my bed, a big smile on my face. Sure, my cheap-ass phone is down to about ten percent of its power and I have no idea where I put my charger, but this is the best damn Saturday night I've had in a while. Judging by how the day started, who would have thought?

"Thank you God," I said as I lay there, smiling. Seriously, so much happened to me today it's not even funny. I could have been injured, or arrested, or both, and instead, I defeated a bad guy, rescued a gorgeous lady and got them digits. Oh, and I'm seeing her tomorrow. Seriously, my heroes Blade and Spiderman got nothing on me, I swear. Goodnight, folks.