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Haitian Boys for Lebanese Girls

I've always loved motorcycles. I think I became obsessed with them after seeing the movie Terminator 2 : Judgment Day for the first time in 1991. I was only four at the time, I think, but it became my favorite movie. And my fascination with all things related to bikers began. The problem is that I didn't know any bikers from my ethnicity. The only black bikers I can think of are those I've seen on television, in movies starring L.L. Cool J and Ice Cube. Fiction can be fun, but doesn't hold up to grim reality.

The name is Samuel Blanc, and I was born in the City of Montreal, Quebec, to a Haitian immigrant mother, Giselle Blanc, and a white father, James Steinbeck. I never knew my pops, he died when I was a few weeks old. Ironically from a motorcycle accident. My worried mother did everything to discourage my interest in motorcycles, for she feared losing me as she lost my father. I love my ma, but I felt smothered by her constant worrying. Every day she would warn me about racism on the streets of Montreal, fights between rival gangs of Haitians and Italians, and so on.

Montreal is one of the most racially diverse cities in the western world. In the 1960s, thousands of Haitian immigrants arrived, forever changing the demographics of Quebec's crown jewel. Today, there are close to two hundred thousand Haitian-descended people living in Montreal and I am proud to say that I am one of them. Many people of Chinese, East Indian and Arabian descent make this place their home as well. For the most part the various minority groups get along, but sometimes there's bloody friction.

As if I didn't know about these things. I experienced them firsthand as a young man of color walking through the streets of Montreal. I enrolled at McGill University and earned a bachelor's degree in Criminal Justice. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do with my degree. And I had a lot of bills to pay. Education is cheaper in Quebec compared to the rest of Canada but still...you need dough to earn a degree. And if you don't start paying your student loans six months after graduation, the government of Quebec will garnish your wages. For a couple of years I worked for the Quebec Ministry of Corrections as a prison guard, and although it was interesting, it's also kind of a dead-end job.

If you want to work as a prison guard, the worst thing you can have going on for you is being overeducated and overqualified. The job attracts a lot of guys, most of them white, with barely a high school diploma, though some of them have some trade school or community college. Men like these tend to be distrustful of anyone different from them. And I was quite different from them. I'm six feet two inches tall, with caramel skin, lime-green eyes and curly black hair. Even though I'm light-skinned, I identify as black rather than biracial. A lot of black folks and biracial people take issue with that but the way I see it, being half black means catching all the prejudice that 'pure' black people get, so why not embrace my blackness in its totality?

The fact that I have a McGill University degree got me chided and ridiculed at work, by men who were clearly envious. The Ministry of Corrections in Quebec isn't a place where highly educated individuals work. At least not at certain echelons of the organization. Being overeducated and a person of color made me a target. When it got to be too much, I told the losers to buzz off because there's only so much bullshit I can tolerate before losing it. My immediate supervisor, a forty-year-old Frenchman named Joseph Tremblay sided with a guard named Evan Stiles when he filed a charge against me for restraining him as he beat up an inmate, an old Chinese guy named Chen.

Evan was one of the meanest guys at work. The kind of guy who's always looking for a fight, didn't matter whether said fight was with his fellow corrections officers or inmates. Chen is old, and hard of hearing, and had been at the prison for a long time. He's a harmless soul, but that day, something he did must have provoked Evan's ire, for the dude went after him with everything he had. I had to step in and stop Evan from killing Chen. The old Chinese guy was on the floor, and Evan had his boot against his chest. A seventy-year-old unarmed Chinese-Canadian man versus a six-foot-tall ex-military redneck. The very definition of an unfair fight if you ask me. Sadly, Chief Tremblay didn't see it that way.

I was suspended with pay pending an evaluation. I had a lot of time to think in the fourteen days before I faced a hearing with the Board of Corrections. I walked all over Montreal, ate at nice restaurants and watched movies. I was sitting inside a café one evening when I ran into an old friend. It took me a moment to realize that the five-foot-nine, raven-haired and bronze-skinned vision of feminine beauty in the low-cut red dress was my old study buddy. Sarah Beyhum, this Lebanese Christian chick I met while at McGill. Hello stranger, she said, in that voice that sent pleasant chills down my spine. Smiling, I cordially invited Sarah to join me. Nodding gracefully she accepted, and I ordered her a latte.

Man, it was fun to sit down and catch up. As I said before, I knew Sarah at McGill. We were in the same freshman seminar. I studied criminal justice and she took up psychology. Back then, just like now, Sarah was gorgeous but I never made a move on her. We were both seeing other people at the time. I dated this tall, fine-looking Jamaican chick named Hannah Cameron from the sociology program and Sarah was seeing a Syrian guy named Fouad. I couldn't help asking her about him. That ended a long time ago, Sarah replied, a world of bitterness in those shiny brown eyes of hers.

Sorry for dredging up a bad memory, I said quickly, carefully noticing the sour look on Sarah's beautiful face. Shaking her head, Sarah forced on a brave smile. I wasn't fooled by Sarah's nonchalance for a minute. I could sense that she was in some pain. If you want to talk about it I am here, I said in my best Denzel Washington voice. Sarah rolled her eyes. Okay Romeo, she said, laughing. I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms, waiting for her to begin.

Fouad and I got engaged and he dumped me when I refused to convert to Islam, Sarah began in a somber voice. For a moment she fiddled with her hands, then grabbed an empty coffee cup before continuing. I listened with rapt attention as Sarah shared her sad love story with me. On and on she went, regaling me with what constituted a cautionary tale about interfaith dating. I nodded and tried my best to look concerned, but truth be told, I was bored after the first ten minutes. When Sarah finally finished, I gently touched her hand and nodded thoughtfully. Then I asked her what she was doing Friday.

Now, at this point, I thought my ploy was so obvious as to be considered practically transparent. I mean, what guy hasn't listened to a gorgeous gal talk about her ex and then tried to get with her? Sarah, a Ph.D. candidate in the Psychology department at McGill University actually fell for it. Completely. Smiling, I told her she needed to get Fouad out of her mind, and a fun outing with me was just what the doctor ordered. Would you believe Sarah gave me her new cell phone number? Ha! Man, when I'm good I'm pretty damn good!

Sarah and I had been sitting in the café, chatting for like two hours or more, when we were notified by a waiter that the place was closing. I thanked the waiter, and told him I had us covered. Sarah offered to pay but like the classy gentleman that I am, I told her to chill. Smiling, she put away her wallet. We left the restaurant together. I parked a block away, and offered her a ride home but she had me drive her up to the station where she took the train instead. Oh, well. At least I offered, right? I sat on my old Yamaha, watching Sarah Beyhum as she walked away, her gorgeous Lebanese tushy practically sashaying in that low-cut red dress of hers. Hot damn. How did I pass that up in school again? Oh, yeah. I was seeing a hot Jamaican chick who turned out to be a cheating skank!

I drove to my apartment feeling more than a bit self-satisfied. Alright, I was feeling SMUG with a capital S, alright? I went home and slept, feeling happy for the first time in ages. Just made plans to go on a date with a hot chick, now if I could only get my job back, then life would be sweet. When I woke up, I had two lengthy messages on my cellphone. The first one came from my boss, saying that due to Evan's behavior, they decided to let him go and I could expect full reinstatement the following Monday. Shit, I felt so happy I actually started tap dancing.

I stopped when I found the second message. It's from Sarah Beyhum. Look, I'm going to keep this short because it's not one of my finest moments, alright? In her six-minute message, Sarah informed me that she was thanking me for providing her valuable insight last night. Okay, sure, I thought. As I continued listening, I began to wish I hadn't played the damn voice message. Basically, Sarah Beyhum thanked me for helping her see things clearly. She was going back to her former fiancé Fouad, since she missed him so much. Damn. When it rains it frigging pours, eh? I sat on my bed in my boxer shorts, staring at my cell as if it were a foreign object.

For several minutes I couldn't move. Sarah Beyhum cancelled our date, and decided to go back to her ex, Fouad. Oh, and she's thanking me for that decision. How do the fuck did that happen? Women. Oh, well. Got to roll with the punches, know what I mean? I ate breakfast, then showered and got dressed. At least I got my job back. And the one bozo I hate the most is now out of a job. So what if I didn't get the lady? Plenty of fish in the sea. I'm going to enjoy the next couple of days. I'm talking bars, clubs, and maybe a trip to Ottawa or Toronto. Whatever it takes to forget Sarah Beyhum. Who's with me?

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