"Edgar, You don't know what it's been like, trying to take care of our son and running things without you," my wife Chiyoko "Chi-Chi" Tanaka-Magloire said to me, tossing aside her briefcase full of legal documents. With a sad little shrug of her shoulders, she sat me down and talked to me. I've been gone for quite some time. One of the perks and drawbacks of being an executive for the Boston Engineering Innovation Center is that I have to travel all over the country. Those trips unfortunately take me away from my family, which sucks.
"It's alright, sweetie, I'm here," I said as I gathered Chi-Chi into my arms, and she smiled and looked up at me. In that moment, I saw the woman I fell in love with all those years at Northeastern University. How I remember those days. It's been twenty years, but you never forget how you met the love of your life, that's for damn sure.
"Aaron needs you, and I need you," Chi-Chi says to me, and I smile and nod. Our son Aaron is a senior at Boston Latin Academy, and pretty soon he'll be graduating and hopefully heading off to college. I don't know what's going on with our lad. All of a sudden, he's acting up, and hanging out with suspicious characters, and smoking. Before, he was like an angel. Now he's a moody mess that I barely recognize as my own flesh and blood.
The name is Edgar Magloire, and I was born in the town of Les Cayes, southern Haiti, and raised in the City of Boston, Massachusetts. My parents, Marianne and Eliphet Magloire left the island of Haiti in the ninth summer of my life, and have lived in New England ever since. I barely remember our old life in Haiti, though my culture and heritage will always be part of me. I am the son of two worlds, Haiti and America. I can't escape that fact.
I grew up poor in the Dorchester area of Boston, and dreamed of making it out of the hood. I'm talking about the Dorchester of the late 1980s and early 1990s, not today's gentrified Dorchester with its gay couples, yuppies and booming Latino population. Nope, the Dorchester I grew up was mostly African-American, Afro-Caribbean or some variety of Black, and proudly so. Nevertheless, it was a tough place to live in.
My parents and I didn't have it easy, being recent immigrants from the Caribbean and all. A lot of people say 'black is black', but they don't know the conflicts between different black cultures. Since I spoke with a French accent during my early years in Boston, I got teased a lot by the African-American gals and guys at school. I was the weirdo who went to church every weekend, tucked my shirt in my pants while everyone went around sagging, and oh yeah, I liked school and didn't believe in smoking, drinking our cussing.
My parents, being typical Haitians, were strict, and didn't want me to hang out with the wrong crowd. School, church, and work, that's where I spent my time. I never went anywhere else because they wouldn't let me. They feared that I would end up on the wrong side of the law. In those days, I hated them for being so hard on me. My friends could do whatever and go wherever they wanted, while my parents turned me into a recluse. It really sucked, man.
Nowadays, I'm thankful for their hard work and shining example. I have seen what happened to a lot of the "cool" brothers I went to high school with. A lot of them are in jail, dead, or running from the mommas of brats they can't afford to take care of. After graduating from Dorchester High School, I had scholarship offers from schools like Boston College, Boston University and Tufts University, but I chose Northeastern University.
In 1996, at the age of eighteen, I started my freshman year at Northeastern University. While checking out an Intro to Engineering book at the library, I met the woman destined to change my life forever. There she was, the tall, lovely young Asian woman with the long black hair and sharp features who would smile frostily at the guys who would come into the campus library where she worked, just to check her out.
"Good morning, ma'am, I was wondering if I could check this one out," I said to the young woman working at the circulation desk, whose name tag read Chiyoko. She looked me up and down, which I pretty much expected. I was well aware that I stood out on the Northeastern University campus. I dressed well, spoke the English language without butchering it, and generally moved about with cautious confidence. Yeah, I was a stranger in a strange land.
Boston might call itself a liberal town, but in those days, you didn't see a lot of young black men at the city's elite colleges and universities. Only a sprinkling of us were allowed to attend Boston University, Boston College, the fabled Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Northeastern University and almighty Harvard. That's just the way things were.
"Well hello there," Chiyoko said, and I saw a glimmer of interest in her lovely brown eyes. I stand six feet three inches tall, with dark brown skin and curly black hair. I am built like a college football player, but I couldn't throw a ball to save my life. I've always been good with numbers, and I like working with my hands. I honestly can't tell you how often people have asked me if I was part of the lackluster Northeastern University football team. Yeah, welcome to my life.
"Going to borrow this one a lot, I'm afraid, they tell me that the professors barely use these expensive books they expect us to buy," I said pleasantly, and this time, Chiyoko actually smiled at me. My heart fluttered in my chest, and I felt nervous, but I decided to play it cool. I looked Chiyoko in the eye, and held her gaze.
"Smart choice, sir, I'm in law and believe me, I wish someone warned me our profs barely use the textbooks," Chiyoko replied, and then she laughed. I looked at her, taking in her lovely if understated appearance. Chiyoko stood five-foot-ten, which is tall for a woman, and she's a bit curvy, unlike the usually short and slender Asian ladies I saw walking around town.
