Somali Dykes In Ottawa

Salutations, ladies and gentlemen. Sheliza Abdirahman is the name. Not Liza or anything of the sort. I am a Muslim woman and I refuse to westernize my name to please those who view my people with suspicion and dread. The way I see it, there are seven billion people on the planet, and slightly less than half a billion of them are of the Caucasian persuasion, so the sooner the latter group learns to accept that others are different and it's okay, the better off we'll all be.

I have a fairly unique perspective on these things. I was born in the City of Toronto, Ontario, to a Somali immigrant father, Sheikh Abdirahman, and a white Canadian mother, Elisabeth Randall. My parents divorced when I was real young, and I was mainly raised by my mother's side of the family. Growing up biracial and Muslim wasn't the easiest thing in the world, even in one of Canada's most diverse cities. I was teased by both black and white students at my old high school in Mississauga, even though most of the students were minorities themselves.

I was too white for the chocolate students and too dark for the vanilla ones. At some point I said a big fuck you to both groups and decided to simply be me. I grew to be five feet eleven inches tall, curvy and sexy, with light brown skin, long curly black hair and lime-green eyes. People often ask me if I'm Moroccan or Puerto Rican, but I always tell them that I am half black and half white. Still, I didn't give much thought to my Somali heritage or what it all meant until I moved to the City of Ottawa, Ontario, after high school, to get to know my father.

You see, after my parents rather messy divorce, my father moved to Ottawa, and got a job as a CRA analyst. The Canadian government isn't the most welcoming place for educated minorities to work, and many resent our presence in such places but my father is a hard-working man. Dad moved to Ontario from Somaliland when he was twenty three years old, he learned English and French, and enrolled at the University of Toronto while working as a security guard to make ends meet. He took care of our family, but mom's folks didn't like him for being black and Muslim. They didn't want their precious daughter with a man from another race and faith. And sadly, they drove my parents apart. For many years I felt abandoned by my father but after our reunion in Ottawa, I understand the truth.

Ever heard of parental alienation syndrome? It's when the custodial parent ( usually the mother ) unlawfully and maliciously prevents the other parent from seeing their son or daughter. All those years I thought my father stayed away from me because he didn't care, it's my mom and her family who kept us apart. I confronted my mother about this and she went off on me with a litany of curses, angry accusations and excuses. I'm not at all sad to say that we are now estranged. I don't need her in my life. I am my father's daughter in more ways than one, I guess.

My father, Sheikh Abdirahman, isn't at all what I expected. Or, rather, what I was told to expect. My mother told me that he was a control freak, and a sexist, like all Muslim men, according to her warped view of the world. Well, after meeting my dad's side of the family, I can honestly say that she was full of it. You see, my dad is a nice, easygoing guy. His new wife Maymuna is of Djiboutian descent, and she's a lovely lady. They have a son together, my half-brother Kader.

My stepmother Maymuna abdirahman doesn't wear the hijab, nor does she seem like the submissive type to me. The lady has a University of Montreal degree, teaches French at a private school in Ottawa's west end and she also rides a motorcycle. Maymuna has offered to teach me how to ride but I'm too chicken to take her up on it. I like my dad's family, and I visit them all the time. They live in Kanata, and although it's a long way from Ogilvie, where I live, I visit them as often as I can. I came to Ottawa to study criminology at Carleton University and decided not to live on campus because it's way too damn pricy.

At Carleton University, I experienced a brand new world. Toronto schools are diverse, sure, but the minority students at Carleton were almost half of the student body! I saw more Somalis, Arabs, Chinese and Hindus walking the hallways of Carleton than I would normally see in downtown Toronto! I guess you could say I fell in love with the school right away. One of the first people I met was this Somali chick named Aida Osman. I bumped into her while walking through the Loeb building, and she immediately guessed that I was part Somali. Usually people ask me if I'm Arab or Hispanic. I know my people and you're one of us, Aida said confidently, a mischievous gleam in her brown eyes. I liked her right away.

Aida and I became close friends, and I was thrilled about that. We had a lot in common, though at first glance we couldn't be more different. Aida is five-foot-six, chubby and funky, with dark brown skin, long black hair which she often hides under a drab hijab, and light brown eyes. Her father, Yousef Osman, is a preacher and her mother, Hodan, is actually a Loblaw's manager. Aida has an older brother, Amin, who studies at the University of Calgary. Born and raised in Ottawa, Aida knew all the cool spots in town. With her as my guide, I discovered that Ottawa, the town I pegged as a dead end, had many fun places. You haven't lived if you haven't smoked weed on Parliament Hill on April 20, seriously!

I guess it's true what they say, doesn't matter where you are, it's all about who you're with. One night, while at the movies with Aida, something happened. We'd gone to see God Is Not Dead, at our favorite theater, Silver City in the east end. As usual we sat in the middle, and I had cravings halfway through the movie so I went to buy a burger and fries, both outrageously overpriced. I came back, and of course Aida was hungry and started pawing at my fries while I pretended to be annoyed. I looked at her and she looked at me, and then we, um, kissed. It was a five-second kiss, nothing like what you see on The L Word or something, but it was still a kiss.

What was that for? I said, a bit shocked, glaring at Aida. The gal I considered my best friend smiled faintly at me. You're so beautiful Sheliza I couldn't help it, she gushed. I crossed my arms, snorted, and fixed my eyes on the screen. Sorry, Aida said quietly. We watched the rest of the movie in awkward silence. As we exited the movie, I grabbed Aide's arm. We need to talk, I said sternly. Aida stood there and looked at me, visibly trembling. I didn't mean to offend you, she said, her lip quivering. I looked at her, and smiled. It was so easy to push Aida around sometimes. I stood over her, shaking my head. Next time kiss me like you mean, I said, then I kissed her.

Second time around, things were a bit better. Aida's lips met mine, and I pulled her close as we kissed, passionately. I felt her tongue dart into my mouth, and welcomed it. Wow, Aida said, smiling at me, amazement all over her round, pretty face. I shrugged. I'm cool like that, I said. As Aida and I stood outside the theater, it slowly dawned on me that a lot of our fellow moviegoers were, um, staring at us. I guess the sight of a tall, mixed chick kissing a dark-skinned chick in a hijab isn't something they're used to.

Ottawa people always stare at us minorities, I said to Aida, shaking my head. Aida flashed me that fearless smile I knew so well. Let's give these annoying white folks something to talk about tonight, Aida said, and smacked my butt. I a bit jolted at the sting of it but I liked it. Didn't know Aida had such fire in her. I laughed and put my hand on her shapely derriere. And just like that, we left the theater together. Nothing to see here, white people. Just a couple of Somali girls who like each other hanging out at the theater on a Tuesday night.