Xavier & Yolanda

A lot of people define themselves by their job, which is why, when they get fired or a certain job no longer exists, some people self-destruct. Me? I define who I am. Everything else, from institutions to people and places, are temporary. The name is Xavier Champlain, X.C. to my friends, and I'm a young black man living in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. Got a story to share with you.

I was born in Cap-Haitien, on the north coast of the island of Haiti, to a Latin mother of Dominican descent, Samira Martinez, and a Haitian father, James Champlain. My folks moved to the U.S. in the 1990s, and I grew up in the City of Brockton, Massachusetts. I never forgot the beautiful island of Haiti, my birthplace. I am and always will be a proud son of Haiti, even if my caramel-hued skin tone, curly black hair and light brown eyes make people question me when I declare my ethnicity. Whatever.

After four troublesome years at Brockton Community High School, I wanted out of Brockton. I studied for two years at Bunker Hill Community College, graduating with an Associate's degree in Criminal Justice. I wanted to go to the University of Massachusetts or Bridgewater State University to get my bachelor's degree but fate had other plans for me. One Sunday night, I went to a house party in the south side of Brockton, and danced with the wrong chick, for her man was a real nutcase.

Long story short? I got into a fight with this Cape Verdean dude named Paolo, and put him into a coma. A lot of these gang banger types always think they're so tough. Just because I'm a college dude doesn't make me an easy mark. I'm six-foot-two, a bit on the chubby side, and Paolo was taller and more muscular. I still wouldn't back down, though. Paolo came at me and I knocked him out and left. I thought the dude was out cold, but it was more serious than that. The cops never found out I did it, since Brockton folks don't snitch, but his friends and family came after me.

My panicked parents sent me to stay in the City of Ottawa, Ontario, with my paternal uncle Louis Champlain until things cooled off. After living in Brockton throughout my formative years, adjusting to life in the City of Ottawa wasn't easy. My passport says American, my face, hair and skin tone say mixed-race, and my heart resoundingly says Haitian. To say that my life is complicated would be the understatement of the century.

During my first few months in Ottawa, I missed Brockton sorely. I missed hanging out at Westgate Mall with my buddies Chico and Tyrone. I missed going to Domingas Hair Salon to get my haircut. I missed shopping at PCX, where I used to get everything from T-shirts to sneakers. I missed hanging out in the south side and doing the bump and grind with Creole beauties during the summer festivals. I also missed getting rowdy with punks at the Brockton Fair. Good times, folks. Good times.

My old nemesis Paolo came out of his coma, and he swore eternal revenge upon me. Considering this dude is one of the meanest gang leaders in Brockton's tumultuous history, that's a threat that I took seriously. I knew I wouldn't be coming back to Brockton anytime soon, so I decided to adapt to my new digs in the City of Ottawa. The most boring town in the Western Hemisphere just got one pissed-off new resident, folks.

I was living it up in Brockton, and I had a scholarship offer from no less than two universities, but I had to give it all up. Fate is a bitch, man. I came to Ottawa in the summer of 2012, and quickly found out just how hard life can be in the great white north for a foreigner. I'm an American guy in the City of Ottawa. That doesn't make me special, even though some people found me cool for that reason alone. I had to apply for a work permit, a social insurance card, a study permit and all that jazz before I could earn a living.

My uncle Louis Champlain helped me out somewhat but the dude was going through a messy divorce with his wife Nicole Rutherford, a blonde-haired, plump white chick with cruel blue eyes. I don't know why so many educated black men go for trash white chicks. Now, I've got nothing against interracial relationships. My father is black and my mother is Latin American. What I'm saying is that a man like my uncle Louis, who has an MBA from the University of Windsor, could have done better than Nicole.

Seriously, my uncle Louis works for the Pythian Corporation while Nicole never even went to college. This broad is a manager at a Starbucks. Oh, and she won't let him see their daughter Allison. I feel bad for my uncle because he chose poorly, now he's paying the price. I disliked my 'aunt' Nicole on sight because the bitch likes to put on airs, and she often criticizes my uncle's accomplishments. If a chick does that to me, I'm telling her to get to stepping. Unfortunately, my uncle has acquired the Canadian Niceness Syndrome. Me? I'm an American. I have natural immunity!

The judge presiding over my uncle Louis divorce case awarded Nicole their Barrhaven townhouse, along with joint custody of their daughter Allison. That means that I was shit out of luck and needed a place to stay. I had just gotten my work permit in the mail, and after applying for a study permit, I wrote to Bunker Hill Community College and asked them to forward my transcripts to Carleton University, a Canadian school I am interested in attending.

I went to the local Loblaw's and applied for a job, and soon found myself in the lofty position of shelf stocker for eleven bucks per hour. I looked on the Kijiji website and found a room rental in the east end, in the Vanier area, for four hundred bucks a month. Since I was on the verge of being homeless, I took the place even though it was in a really shabby neighborhood. I told myself I was only staying there until I made more money and saved up for a better place. Yeah, I had a lot to learn about life and necessities, folks.

Everything in Canada is so damn complicated, man. I wanted to study at Carleton University, whose criminology program is ranked among the best in North America. I checked online. I had to enroll on the Ontario Universities Application Center website in order to set up a file, pay a huge processing fee, and have my old school in the States send my transcripts to Carleton University. Canadians are uptight about the rules, man.

Finally, I got accepted at Carleton University as an international student, and was told that I could start in September. I had been in Canada since July. The school was charging me more than double what they charged Canadian students, so I could only take two classes during that first semester, on account of my being broke and all. Seriously, with what I make at Loblaw's, I can barely get by. I lamented the loss of my scholarships at two of Massachusetts premium universities. Fate can be so cruel, folks.

A man's job or circumstances don't define him, that's something my father is fond of saying. When I told Pops about my difficulties in Canada, he told me it would build my character. Whatever. When September 2012 came, I went to Carleton University with a big smile on my face. I would study there for a couple of years, get my bachelor's degree and return to Boston, where I intended to go to Suffolk University's School of Law. Life is what happens while you're making plans, as has often been said. Life definitely had a lot in store for me.

On my first day at Carleton, I met the woman destined to change my life forever. Yolanda Akkad, a tall, bronze-skinned, black-haired and brown-eyed cutie from the City of Jableh, Syria. Now, I've seen a lot of cute gals of all colors in the environs of Boston and we've got them all. Jamaican. Haitian. Irish. Italian. Greek. Cape Verdean. You name it, we've got. I've dated my fair share of cuties. Still, Arab cuties like Yolanda Akkad were outside my experience.

When I saw Yolanda walk out of the campus bookstore and strut up the stairs in the university center building, I followed her as if entranced. I caught up with the tall, shapely Arab gal in the Atrium, and asked her if she knew where the engineering building was. Now, I'm a criminology student, but engineering is the first thing that popped into my mind. Yolanda smiled at me and told me she was in engineering, and I smiled, mesmerized by that angelic smile. I was still grinning when Yolanda noticed my accent, and asked me where I came from, that proverbial Canadian question.

Looking into Yolanda's golden brown eyes, I proudly told her that I am a proud son of Boston. Smiling, Yolanda offered to walk through to the engineering building, the place she called her "second home". Damn, I had barely met the gal and she was already walking around with me. Some Arab dudes walking by looked at us but I didn't care. I'm from Brockton, revolver and switchblade city, where there's a violent murder every weekend, so the local guys don't faze me. Yolanda walked me to the Minto building, and along the way I found out a bit about her.

Yolanda Akkad was a relative newcomer to Ontario, Canada. Indeed, the pretty Syrian gal moved here with her family in the summer of 2010. Later, Yolanda told me that her and her family were Christian refugees, fleeing persecution from the Islamist radicals that plagued Syria and much of the Middle East. For some reason, I found that appealing. In a way, I am a refugee in Canada. I fled America because of radical Cape Verdean motherfuckers who want to murder me for beating one of their toughest gangsters into a coma. When I told Yolanda that, she slapped my arm.

Yolanda's lovely eyes flashed with anger, and I smiled sheepishly. Leaving at the door of the Minto building, she left in a huff. I watched Yolanda's gorgeous, thick ass as she walked away and smiled. Damn I wanted some of that! The next day, I went looking for Little Miss Arabia. After scouring the various science buildings on campus, I spotted Yolanda at the Azrieli building. I've always found opportunity in disaster, so I apologized to Yolanda and offered to buy her coffee to show my sincerity.

Transparent ploy, I know, but Yolanda bought it! That's how it all began, folks. I took Yolanda Akkad to the Starbucks located in the university center building, and we sat together and talked about things. I asked her a lot of questions, and Yolanda found that annoying but I always used my American foreigner card as an excuse. Yolanda was lovely, and smart too. I'm talking about book smart and life smart, folks. Can you say total package?

Yolanda Akkad of Jableh, Syria, was something else. The gal was tall, at least five-foot-ten, with a curvy body and one hell of an ass, and I couldn't believe that she was single. I inquired about that, and Yolanda told me her ex, a Muslim dude named Saleh, tried to pressure her into converting and she dumped his ass. Well, ladies and gentlemen, Saleh's loss is my incredible again. I am an insatiable opportunist and I always go for what I want. I asked Yolanda for her digits, because, I, ahem, might need a study buddy and she was a smarty pants, and she actually gave it to me.

After coffee, I walked Yolanda Akkad to her next class, and got ready for my first class, a third-year criminology course. I showed up on the first day of school even though I didn't have class because I always show up on campus on the first day of school. I want to see who's around, and what people are into. Get a feel for the local culture, and the lay of the land. Good thing I performed this bit of recon at Carleton because it allowed me to meet Yolanda. I want that gal something fierce. Of course, Yolanda has been through some pain, so I'll have to proceed with caution. No worries, folks. I'll definitely help Yolanda forget what's-his-face. Word up.