"Stop talking shit about my religion, you lesbian feminist witch!" Those were the first words my future girlfriend Nabila Yassin ever said to me. Most of you would assume that things wouldn't bode well for us, and this is where you'd be wrong. Absolutely wrong. The most passionate couples out there argue the most, and clashing isn't always a bad thing. It translates into a lot of fire in the bedroom, let me tell you.
My name is Christina Mathieu, and I was born in the City of Kingston, Ontario, to a Haitian immigrant father and a French Canadian mother. My parents come from radically different worlds but they made their relationship and produced not so little and not so old me. Six feet two inches tall, athletic, brown-skinned, short-haired, green-eyed, tomboyish and fearless, and ragingly and openly lesbian, that's me. I study Criminal Law at Carleton University.
I've sometimes been called arrogant, and that amuses me. Is there something wrong with being outspoken? Don't answer that. I am simply a product of my environment. I grew up in the City of Kingston, Ontario, a fairly homogenous town where ninety nine percent of the people you meet are white. Do you have any idea what it was like to grow up the daughter of an interracial couple in such an environment?
My father Christopher James Mathieu is black, and works as a police constable with the Kingston Police Service. Not an easy job for a person of color, even in the twenty-first century, let me tell you. Small-town Canadians are notoriously xenophobic, though they often hide it behind a polite smile. Polite doesn't mean good or open-minded, ladies and gentlemen. Polite simply means polite, at the end of the day.
Since Dad was born in the town of Cap-Haitien, on the island of Haiti, and came to Canada during his college days, he'll never be Canadian enough for some people. The fact that he was born outside the country, and is non-European extraction, that's something they can never get over. Never mind that my father loves Canada and has been a citizen for some time. To a lot of people in Canada, "real" Canadians are white Canadians.
My mother, Leanne Lapierre-Mathieu, born and raised in the City of Montreal, Quebec, and was doing her graduate studies in sociology at Queen's University in Kingston in 1989 when she met my father, who was an international student at the time, and they fell in love and got married. My mother teaches sociology at Queen's University these days, by the way. I've never met my maternal grandparents because they cut my mother off after finding out she'd fallen in love with a black man. Yup, that's the kind of family I hail from. I am a fighter by nature.
Which brings me back to the story of my first meeting with my Muslim life partner, Nabila Yassin. We clashed over our differences, to be sure. Alright, maybe clashed is putting things a bit mildly. Nabila and I got into a shouting match in class, and after class, the diminutive yet gorgeous young Yemeni-Canadian Muslim diva ( hey, she deserves the title of diva, seriously ) basically got in my face. That's okay, though. I like my women fiery.
"Nabila, I've got nothing against Islam, I respect your religion, I just don't like it when insecure men use religion and cultural norms to control women," I replied hotly, and the short, curvy young Yemeni woman glared at me angrily. I should mention that we were in the middle of a heated classroom debate at Carleton University in the City of Ottawa, Ontario.
The class, Law And Society, taught by professor Joelle Harding, one of a few black faculty members at our school, seemed destined for controversy. Discussing Islam and feminism is like a powder keg, I swear. Look, I'm not dumb enough to believe that feminism can solve all of the world's problems. Plenty of white feminists I've met on the Carleton campus and beyond are just as racist as the worst redneck bozo you can imagine, if not more so. Still, the way that women are treated in certain countries irks me and I believe in speaking out against injustice. Unfortunately, that sometimes mean clashing with other women.
"Look, I think we both have a lot of passion for these issues, we don't have to be at odds on women's rights, we should talk about this and try to find a compromise," I said hesitantly, and Nabila looked me up and down. Clad in a brown leather jacket over a black turtleneck shirt, blue jeans and boots, her dark hair hidden by a black Hijab, Nabila looked really good. This Yemeni gal is only five-foot-five, but I swear, when she gets mad, she looks like she might go toe to toe with the Hulk himself. I won't lie to you, I found her anger and passion a tad bit intimidating...and a bit of a turn-on.
"Okay, Christina, we should continue this discussion some other time," Nabila said, and then she took out her cell phone. My heart skipped a beat, and then, I dictated my digits to her. Nabila then sent me a ping, and told me to save her number, then she walked away. I watched Nabila as she walked down the hall, and turned around a corner, before disappearing from my line of sight. Feisty and bossy with a nice ass, I thought with a smile.
Three days later, Nabila and I sat inside the Starbucks located inside the Carleton campus library, and spent the next three hours talking about everything from campus politics to sports, and of course, feminism and Islam. I found her charming and friendly, and not at all the religious hardball I'd previously imagined. Oh, and I should mention, Nabila looked smoking hot in a red shirt featuring Montreal Canadiens defenceman P.K. Subban, black jeans and boots, with a dark gray hijab.
"You're not at all what I expected, I'd never figure you for a Montreal Canadiens fan," I said, laughing, and Nabila flashed me that fearless smile of hers, and I found myself thinking about how cute she looked, and I noticed her full lips, and the tawny tone of her skin, and her lively, golden brown eyes gaze at me with an intensity that I found, well, almost unbearable. In a good way, though.
"See, Christina, I was born in Yemen but raised in Canada, I love this country, but I can't turn my back on my culture or my Islamic faith," Nabila said, and for some reason, her voice trembled slightly. Out of concern, I gently laid my hand on hers, and Nabila looked at me, and suddenly I was worried that I might have crossed the line, and as I tried to mumble an apology, Nabila smiled and shook her head.
"I'm sorry, Nabila, my pops is from the Caribbean, people are kind of touchy in his culture," I said, by way of apology, and Nabila grinned, and then laid her hand on mine, and looked into my eyes. My heart skipped a beat, and I pursed my lips, and Nabila slowly nodded, answering a question I never voiced, and a fierce joy soared through me.
"Yes I am, yes, and um, I don't mind touching," Nabila said slyly, and I found myself smiling from ear to ear. Nabila and I were in a crowded Starbucks around lunchtime, but I swear, it felt like we were the only people in there. I smiled at her and she smiled at me, and that's when I knew that I'd met the woman destined to change my life. We were as different as can be, but fuck it, that's okay.
