Jungle fever. That's what everybody thinks when they see us together. As if sex is the only thing in the minds of Black men and White women when we get together. Well, as someone in such a relationship I resent that. My name is Anne-Marie Longueil. I was born and raised in the City of Trois-Rivieres in the Province of Quebec. My world changed when I moved to Metropolitan Montreal to attend University. It's where I met the young man destined to change my life forever. Jean-Francois Poisson, a proud native of Northern Haiti sent to study at the University of Montreal by his relatively well-to-do family.
I have quite simply never met anyone like Jean-Francois. Tall, dark and handsome. So sure of himself. Loud and brash, yet so sweet when you get to know him. I've seen good-looking Black men before, and that's not why I was drawn to him. It had nothing to do with his sheer physical presence, which he had a lot of at six feet two inches and two hundred and sixty pounds. No, it was something else which drew me to him. Simply put, he got on my blasted nerves. He didn't like the Quebec culture, or our way of speaking the French language. And he was quite vocal about it.
As a proud Quebecoise, I wanted to teach him the error of his ways. To be blunt, I wanted to smack the hell out of him. My Quebec heritage is something I am quite proud of. I am what my people call a Purelaine. My family has been in Quebec for a long time. Way back when it was called New France. Long before the British dominated what would later become the Confederation of Canada. Want to know how to spot a Quebecer? Easy. We're sexier and smarter than other Canadians, especially those blasted Anglophones. They envy us, you know. We walk a little straighter and carry ourselves with more confidence. We're more passionate, and livelier. And I am a proud representative of my kind.
I stand six foot one inch tall, neither fat nor slender. I am a real woman and real women have curves. Because of my height, curly blonde hair and icy blue eyes, people are forever asking me if I'm of Nordic ancestry. As a Quebecoise of purest lineage, I am deeply offended. Hell no to the power of ten! Gallic blood flows through my veins. My family lived in the City of Calais, Republic of France, before moving to the Province of Quebec, Canada. That was centuries ago. Anyhow, where was I? Oh, yes. I was about to tell you how I almost smacked the hell out of my future husband the first time we met. He was big and tall, intimidating in the eyes of many but not to me.
You've never seen a Quebecoise when one of gets mad, have you? Other women got nothing on us! Like a fury from the deepest pit of hell I went up to the offending man, and let him know what I thought of him. Jean-Francois stood his ground, and looked at me cockily. A Haitian man's specialty. I told him that he should watch his words, lest he offend the wrong person and get his ass kicked. Jean-Francois was clearly not used to being spoken to in this manner. Nevertheless, he grinned that charming grin I would later come to love. He apologized, and looked at me with a strange look in his deep brown eyes. His eyes moved up and down, and his grin changed. Into something I recognized easily. The look of lust. I scoffed, and walked away.
The burly Haitian laughed, and wished me a nice day in his flawless yet heavily accented, not-from-Quebec French. That should have been the end of it. An arrogant Haitian man insulted my homeland of Quebec, and I stuck up for my heritage. However, it wasn't. For I ran into him again. Inside my Literature Francaise class at the University of Montreal. Professeur Gaetan L'Oiseau was discussing the Works of Rabelais and a very persistent someone kept interrupting him. Whom, you may ask? None other than that infuriating burly Haitian. Clad in a bright red silk shirt and Black dress pants, he was correcting our French professor in front of the entire class. And the entire class appeared to be on his side. What is it that makes Haitian men so damn arrogant and so sure of themselves? I don't know. Must be something in their homeland, or perhaps it's genetic. Nah, Black men from Africa don't have it.
I shook my head. The Haitian was trying to get himself in trouble so early in the semester. Immigrants usually stick to the Province of Ontario because the rules in the Province of Quebec are different. Stricter. Us Quebecers are welcoming, especially to Haitians, French-speaking Africans, and Arabs from francophone lands. However, it is our belief that Quebecers should have a worthy place in Quebec. We are proud of ourselves as French Canadians. We don't apologize for being who we are. Immigrants have to adapt to us, or get to stepping, as the blasted Anglophones like to say. Someone clearly hadn't told the rules to that particular Haitian guy, whom the Professeur called "that irascible Haitian upstart Jean-Francois". I had to give Jean-Francois credit for standing his ground. It takes major balls to stand up to the French Profs at the University of Montreal. Most of them think of themselves as the Gods of Mount Olympus.
Class ended, and Jean-Francois stood in the hallway, getting accolades from many a student who wanted to see our annoying Professeur put in his place. I was heading out when our eyes met. I really hadn't planned on running into him. In fact, I had never noticed him in class before. Well, I had never noticed him before because he signed up for our class three days after the term officially began. I just love how the school bends the rules for international students. The University of Montreal is becoming more international all the damn time. Scores of Africans, Arabs, Asians, Hispanics as well as foreign-born Caucasians have made it practically theirs. And us Quebecers are starting to feel a bit left out.
Jean-Francois eyes met mine for the second time in days, and I froze. Don't ask me why. I just did. He smiled and walked up to him. He extended his hand. After a brief hesitation, I shook his hand. I introduced myself, and complimented him on his misguided bravery. He laughed and told me he had a wicked sense of fun and liked to take down 'clowns' who took themselves too seriously. I grinned and told him that he wouldn't last long at the University of Montreal with that kind of attitude. Being a cocky Haitian man, he gave me a very patronizing look and told me not to worry. I shrugged. It's his life. Jean-Francois licked his lips, and asked me what I was doing for lunch. I froze. Was the cocky Haitian seriously trying to ask me out? As if! I told him I had a boyfriend. Little White lie. My ex-boyfriend, Robert Des-Croix, left me for Lisa, some big-booty Jamaican chick he met while visiting relatives in the City of Boucherville.
