Vietnamese Tomboy For Black Stud

If you're Black and male in North America you cast a giant shadow over everything and everyone around you, whether you're short like Kevin Hart, strong like Mike Tyson or tower over everyone else like Shaquille O'Neal. How you see yourself and how the world sees you are two completely different things. Sad but true. Take me for example. My name is Omar Saint-Antoine, I study Criminal Justice at the University of Toronto and by my own admittance I'm a smart mouth. I don't apologize for it, though. Got to defend myself in a world full of haters.

My father, Morris Saint-Antoine is originally from Cap-Haitien, Haiti, and my French-Canadian mother, Elisabeth Lalonde hails from Montreal, Quebec. I guess that technically I'm mixed but since I'm Black in the eyes of the world, I consider myself Black. I'm six-foot-one and weigh one hundred and eighty six pounds. I work out almost every day and keep myself lean, muscular and well-toned. My hair is curly and raven-colored, my skin is caramel and I have lime-green eyes. I know I'm pretty, and lots of women and men come onto me. That's alright because I'm totally bisexual and love the attention. My parents and friends know that I'm bi and for the most part no one gives a fuck. And that's how I like it.

I was born and raised in the City of Toronto, Ontario. It's the most beautiful place in Canada if you ask me. The rest of the country is strictly fly-over. This is my tale of getting by as a young Black guy in Canada. When you're a member of the exclusive club which includes everyone from U.S. President Barack Obama to NBA legend Kevin Garnett, Ivy League professor and author Henry Louis Gates, hate crime victim Trayvon Martin, Hollywood legend Morgan Freeman and social pariah OJ Simpson, ( I'm referring of course to the international brotherhood of Black men ) life isn't easy, to say the least. You've got to roll with it and keep it moving no matter what.

I'd like to take a moment to ask any non-Black person reading this to ask themselves a question. How do you see the brothers? Are we threatening, alluring, or indifferent? Hmmm. I'd say how you see us depends on who you are and of course what you're up to. About a year ago I received a commendation from the City of Toronto for bravery and decency. What did I do? A short, nervous-looking White dude took a nearly fatal plunge off a subway platform just as the train was coming. Dude fell on the subway tracks and lay there, panting and moaning. Everyone around us, on both sides of the platform, simply stood and stared. Like the stalwart hero that I am I jumped in, pulled him from the jaws of death and hauled both of our asses back to safety.

Before we go any further, I should tell you that the same dude who fell off the subway platform and got rescued by yours truly was given me the stink-eye when I came in from the street. I stood about ten meters from him and he kept turning to look at me. I guess he either felt threatened by my presence or found me attractive. I shudder to think of a third option. Yeah, I don't think that guy liked seeing me there. Of course, after I pulled him from danger, he insisted on having his picture taken with me and we even made the cover of the Toronto Sun newspaper. How about that? All of a sudden everyone in Toronto thinks I'm the nicest thing since the iPhone 5! I went on TV for several interviews and people talked about me on blogs and on YouTube. Naïve as I was, I actually thought it would last. Ha!

Anyhow, the day after the "Big Save" I went to chill at my friend Huyen "Yen" Nguyen's house. I've known Yen since grade school, I think. Her family's from Vietnam, and her parents were both lawyers. Hmmm. Must make for some interesting arguments at the dinner table, that's for bloody sure. As usual I showed up unannounced, choosing to text her that I was coming when I was at the doorstep. Her father, Mr. Van Nguyen, greeted at me at the door wearing his York University T-shirt and purple pajama bottoms at eleven o'clock on a Friday morning. Whassup Mr. V? I said with a smirk, before commenting on his pants. Hey short stuff, he said with what passes for a smile around the Nguyen household.

I heard a feminine voice inquiring about who was at the door and recognized the sharp timbre of Chau, A.K.A. Miss C, Yen's mother. It's Omar the Haitian kid, Mr. V shouted. Dude don't diss my name, I told him from the umpteenth time. Mr. V shrugged and fixed me with a stare that might work on opposing counsel in a court of law but had zero effect on me. You're almost completely bald now you should just shave it all off, I said, looking at his dome. He gritted his teeth and I braced myself for a sharp rebuke from him.

That's when I heard footsteps rapidly coming down the stairs and beheld Yen in her morning beauty. My favorite tomboy wore a sleeveless blue T-shirt featuring Jay-Z, Black sweatpants and throwback K-Swiss sneakers. They're frigging hard to find these days. What's up D? Yen said, smiling faintly and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. I got you a bootleg of Insidious 2 and Riddick, I said with a smile. Immediately Yen brightened up, and, pushing past her dad, she pulled me into the house. From the kitchen her mother grumbled something about us running and we ignored her as we made our way to the basement.

Yen and I have known each other for a long time, as I said before. Her parents grudgingly tolerate my presence, though her grandmother, Granny Bao, has always been sweet on me. Whenever she visits and sees Yen and I hanging out together Granny Bao would give us some money for the movies and shit. When we were younger she gave us candy and cookies. This little old lady's mad cool. What did she have to move all the way to Calgary after her retirement from UPS? Last time we spoke on the phone was on Yen's nineteenth birthday, and although I promised to visit her someday, I don't really see that happening. Calgary's too far, man. Also, it's located in redneck country, also known as Alberta. To me, that part of Canada is strictly fly-over. Too many White guys with cowboy hats and guns. Visiting a place like that might be bad for a brother's health.

Yen and I watched Riddick, and later joined her parents for breakfast. Her mother made some delicious Mien Ngan, a Vietnamese noodle soup made up of seaweed and cassava, with some goose meat. The fishy-tasting sauce is delicious, and I happily dipped some buttered bread into it, much to Mr. Van's annoyance. I smiled and offered him the plate of bread, but he shook his head. I crammed as many of them into my mouth as I could, which annoyed Yen's dad but made her and her mom smile briefly. Yummy, eh? I said, pointing to the plate. Breakfast lasted an awkward thirty minutes, then Mr. Van leaves to go work at the firm but not before shooting me a weird look, while Miss C went to visit her friend Adele in Mississauga. As for Yen and I, we finished eating, washed the dishes and then went to the Toronto Eaton Center, our favorite mall.

I never get used to the awkwardness around the Nguyen household, seriously. At my house, we're a lively bunch. My mom's a schoolteacher and my dad is a Constable with the Toronto Police Service. You wouldn't think we're a funny bunch but we are. We have lots of fun together as a family, and we discuss almost anything openly at the dinner table. When I discovered that I was bisexual during my senior year at Saint Helens Academy, my folks were supportive, especially my dad. So much for the stereotype about older Black men and homophobia. Yeah, my folks are cool. Yen's parents are uptight, and really need to loosen up. Small wonder she spends all her time out of the home, poor thing. Yen is my best friend, has been for a long time. Her relationship with her parents isn't the greatest, and I feel for her but I know better than to bring it up. Can you say emotional pain?

My relationship with Yen has become somewhat complicated lately. She's the first person I told I was bisexual, and she's been my staunchest supporter. This five-foot-four, spiky-haired and feisty Vietnamese gal with the tattoos and the face of an angel is my rock. She's always had my back. I'm not the best judge of character when it comes to my sexual and romantic life but I'm pretty selective in whom I deem a true friend. During my freshman year at the University of Toronto I met a tall, fine-looking Black chick named Ayaan Suleiman. The Somali chick with the angelic face and killer booty took my breath away. Interfaith relationships are usually ill-advised, especially when the woman is Muslim and the man is a lapsed Catholic, but I didn't care.

I pursued Ayaan relentlessly until she agreed to go out with me. I've always had a thing for tall, voluptuous Black women ( the Serena Williams bikini posters on my bedroom wall aren't just for show ) but I've had lousy luck with them. At my old high school, the first Black chick I asked out told me I wasn't Black enough for her, the second one told me I wasn't manly enough ( read thuggish enough ) for her and the third flippantly told me that she only dated White guys. How cool is that? Look, it's cool to have a preference but did she have to say it like that?

Yet when I asked out a tall, blonde-haired and green-eyed White chick named Brittany Malvern to the Prom, I got the stink eye from all the Black chicks I was acquainted with, including the one with the White boyfriend. I also got some angry/annoyed looks from a few White guys I thought were my friends. Even at a racially diverse school located in the heart of Toronto, some people had a problem with interracial dating. Especially when it's the man who is Black. Nobody seems to mind Black female/White male relationships, though. They still stare when they see a Black man with a White lady. Bunch of two-faced creeps. They can all go fuck themselves...with no lube.

Brittany and I didn't last long, and she moved to the U.S. for school. When I started my freshman year at U of T and began dating Ayaan Suleiman, I experienced a whole new world. You have to understand that I've never really felt comfortable in either Black or White circles. As the son of a Black man married to a White woman, I'm like a unicorn. Want to hear something freaky? We're like the only non-White family in our street and everyone is polite enough to us except for a White guy with a Nigerian wife and mixed-race daughter. You'd think our two families would be friends but nope, that's not how it played out. Just because you're in an interracial relationship doesn't mean you're not racist...

When it comes to the Black community, I've always felt like I was on the outside looking in. I was never made to feel welcome. The Black students at my old high school didn't like me, and I didn't much care for them either. My father's side of the family never approved of him marrying a White woman. As for my mother's family, they're polite enough to us when they visit but I wouldn't call our relationship with them warm and fuzzy. Tired of not belonging anywhere because of my color, I simply went my own way. I mean, my best friend is an Asian chick and I'm a Black dude, what does that tell you? I don't fit in with White people or Black people and I figured that's how I'd always be...until I began dating Ayaan.

The lovely Somali gal introduced me to a whole new world. When we went to Carivibe, the annual Black music event in Toronto attended by Africans and Afro-Caribbean folks from all over the place, we actually fit in! While dancing to some Reggae music, Ayaan and I met another Black couple, a Haitian chick named Wilma Joseph and her Sudanese boyfriend Abdul. They were really chill and we exchanged numbers. We hung out with them that night, dancing and drinking and talking, and for the first time ever, I felt like I belonged. It didn't matter that I was mixed. In their eyes I was a brother with a fine sister on my arm. And you know what? It felt right!

With Ayaan in my life I began to think of myself more as a Black man than a mixed man. I'm ashamed to say that in the past, when asked about my ethnicity, I used to lie and say that I was Hispanic or even North African. Not anymore. I embraced my Blackness. I grew out my Afro and began wearing Afro-centric clothing. I read the works of Malcolm X, Henry Louis Gates, Eric Jerome Dickey and Iyanla Vanzant. I began to ask my father about his experiences as a young man living in the island of Haiti, and although surprised at first, he shared them with me. This brought us closer together.

The more Afro-centric I became, the more passionate my relationship with Ayaan got. Sex with her was beyond awesome, man. There was nothing this freaky Somali mama wouldn't try in bed. Since meeting her, I've had my dick sucked in a cab, bent her over and fucked her in a crowded movie theater, and also gotten my ass stuffed with a dildo while she tortured my dick after tying me to the bedpost. She was fascinated by the fact that I'm uncircumcised and loved playing with my foreskin. One time, she put a butt plug in my ass and made me lick her pussy while blindfolded. Yeah, she's freaky alright, and I loved that about her! My parents liked Ayaan well enough but cautioned me not to get too attached.

They warned me not to get my heart broken since relationships between Muslim women and non-Muslim men weren't considered okay in her religion. Ayaan was one of the least religious people I knew. She didn't wear the Hijab, she wore short skirts, drank worse than an Irishman, smoked her weed, and loved freaky sex. She was a far cry from the Hijab-wearing and Koran-hugging Muslim chicks I sometimes saw on the bus and train in T.O. that's for sure. I suppose my ignorance and lack of foresight in such matters could be attributed to the folly of youth.

Trouble was brewing in my relationship with Ayaan Suleiman but I couldn't see it coming. Maybe I didn't want to see it. She began inviting me to Muslim community events, and introduced me to her family and friends as "Brother Omar". With a name like Omar a lot of people assumed that I was Muslim throughout my life and I've always corrected them. Ayaan asked me to stop doing that, especially when we were around her Somali and Arab friends. Would it be so bad if you embraced my religion? she asked me one night, after some body-twisting sex. I looked at her like she had two heads. Then we can be truly together, Ayaan said sweetly. I'm going to need some time to think about it, I told her. Then I hugged my pillow and went to sleep.

Everyone was warning me that Ayaan Suleiman and I were heading in different directions, and no one was louder about it than Yen. My best friend and my girlfriend definitely did not see eye to eye. They couldn't stand each other! This bitch doesn't give a fuck about you, Yen warned me. Naturally, I didn't listen. I guess that since I've been such a stubborn fool I kind of deserved what happened next. On the six-month anniversary of our relationship, I invited Ayaan to a nice little Haitian restaurant called The Island Sun. She came to the restaurant looking super-hot in the proverbial little Black dress. We need to talk, she said icily, putting an end to my day dream of us doing it in the restaurant washroom.

Ayaan Suleiman sat me down and talked to me, and let me know in no uncertain terms that our relationship was over. Then she got up and left, but not before enjoying some fine wine at my expense. I sat there like a zombie, unable to move. I didn't move until the plump Haitian waitress came and shook me out of my reverie, and told me the restaurant was closing. I paid the eighty-dollar tab, gave her a ten-dollar tip and walked out of there. I called a cab, and decided against it. I needed to walk about and clear my head.

It's not easy to be, ladies and gentlemen. It doesn't matter what I try, male or female, Black or White, I always end up alone. Ayaan Suleiman broke my heart into a million pieces. I guess my refusal to embrace Islam was too much for even this liberal and freaky Muslim chick to get over. Oh, well. I'm a bisexual Catholic and a happy sinner. Peace out, Miss Lady. I walked through the streets of Toronto like so many lost souls in Canada's biggest metropolis. Guess who I ran into? My good pal Yen, walking out of the Red Lotus bar in Chinatown. Hello stranger, Yen said, a strange look on her pretty face. You were right about her, I said weakly. Yen sighed and shrugged, but she said nothing. I was expecting a big I told you so from her but no such sentence left her lips. Instead, my diminutive best friend hugged me with all of her might. Let's get you home, she said.

As Yen drove us home, I silently looked at the streets of Toronto speeding by. I thought about all the weird turns my life had taken. Man, I've gotten into some shit in my day. Like that time I decided to explore my sexuality by answering an online ad by this older White dude named Todd something or other. I wanted to hook up, danger be damned, and the only person I told was Yen. She advised me not to go, I went, and I'm glad I made it out alive. Todd ( I doubt that's his real name ) invited me to his hotel room in Mississauga and we did the nasty. Dude went psycho on me while we were fucking, and I had to deck him to stop him from strangling me. I ran out of the house with my shorts and socks and nothing else. Later I saw him on the news. Todd, whose real name is Theodore Dalton, is a serial killer from Waco, Texas, wanted by the FBI for the murder of three gay men. Talk about a close call, eh? I'm happy to say that he was arrested by the RCMP and extradited to the U.S.

I've gotten into some hairy situations, often due to my bad luck and reckless adventurism. At every turn, guess who's been there for me? Yen Nguyen. My best friend since, forever, I guess. Let's go grab a bite, I told Yen as we neared the Tim Horton's near our neighborhood. You're buying, she said with a grin. I nodded, and a few minutes later the two of us sat at a corner, having sandwiches, cookies and hot chocolate. Ayaan's out of picture, I told Yen, and I meant it. Just let me say I told you so, Yen smiled. I rolled my eyes. You're right as usual, I admitted.

Dammit, I hate it when Yen's right. Why, you may ask? In front of my amazed eyes, my favorite Vietnamese tomboy practically leapt out of her chair and, with everyone in the restaurant gawking, she began doing what I call the chicken victory dance. I rule and you know it sucker, Yen crowed proudly. All around us people were staring, some were laughing. Alright I give up, I said, rising from my chair and holding my hands in the air. I always have to save this fool from himself, Yen told her impromptu audience. I tried to shush her but she darted out of my reach. Sorry about that, I told a Tim Horton's employee who stared at us, hands on her hips. I finally caught up with Yen, who'd leapt to a table top. She can't do that, the employee said, panic in her voice.

No dancing on the tables at Tim Horton's, I told Yen as I caught her in my arms. I looked into her lovely brown eyes and smiled. Damn she's pretty. I can't believe I never noticed it before. Tomboy hotness, that's what it is. Until the day I die I'll be a creature of impulse. If it feels right and seems like a good idea at the time, I do it. No hesitation. That's why I pulled Yen into my arms and kissed her. In a single moment I crossed a boundary and endangered the decade-long friendship we shared. What was that for? Yen asked me. Felt like the thing to do, I said with a smile and shrug. All around us people cheered, and a little old lady even said that we were cute. I was still patting myself on the back for this oh so cool move when Yen pried herself free from my arms, leapt to the floor and darted out of the Tim Horton's restaurant and into the parking lot. I followed. What did I do? I asked her. I can't do this right now, Yen said. Then she drove off in a dramatic fashion, screeching tires and all, leaving me standing there. That's the second time a woman left me in a restaurant that day. What the fuck?