To Believe in Blac Love

A lot of people are saying some disturbing things about the State of the Black Community in North America, the burdens of the Black man and the plight of the Black woman. What do I have to say to all those haters? Um....how about fuck you? Everybody has problems. The Black person doesn't own sin. And plenty of us are doing alright, thank you very much. My name is Fiona Jackson and I approve this message. I guess you could say that I'm that sister who just doesn't fit the mode. I am twenty six years old and hold a Master's degree in Sociology from the University of Toronto and I presently work for the Ottawa Department of Social Services as a counselor for at-risk youth.

I was born in the town of Memphis, Tennessee, but moved to the City of Toronto, Ontario, with my mother Iris Jackson eleven years ago. These days, I hold dual U.S./Canadian citizenship. Last summer, I married the love of my life. Terrence Voltaire. A handsome expatriate from the City of Atlanta, Georgia, whom I met in the City of Toronto, Ontario. Terrence was born in Atlanta to Jacques Voltaire, a Haitian father and Verna Sykes, an African-American mother. His father came from the City of Montreal, Province of Quebec, but moved to America to be with his mother. After graduating from Morehouse College in Atlanta, Georgia, with a business administration degree and finding himself unable to find work, Terrence moved to Toronto to make a fresh start. He recently earned his Master's degree in Economics at the University of Toronto and now works for the Canadian Revenue Agency. Not bad, eh?

My husband and I live in a beautiful condo in the town of Orleans, just minutes from downtown Ottawa. We're young, Black, educated and successful. So much for the stereotype of the Black community as poverty-stricken, criminally inclined and eternally downtrodden. I love my Terrence something fierce. For me, he's a dream come true. A six-foot-four, lean and broad-shouldered brother with medium brown skin, curly Black hair and pale brown eyes. People say he looks like that actor from Criminal Minds. I say my man is finer than Shemar Moore. For starters, Terrence is taller than him and much better-looking. My man is fine as hell, and he's got a brain the size of Saturn. He was valedictorian of his class at Morehouse College, you know.

Terrence and I met each other at a time when we both desperately needed someone in our lives. It's not easy to believe in Black Love these days. If you're of African descent and live in North America, the Powers That Be amuse themselves by throwing obstacles on your way and making you jump through hoops. You're trying to make your way through this life by finding the right educational institution for your financial and academic profile, taking whichever job happens to be connected to your field after graduation and fighting off the sharks to keep what you earn. You have all that pressure and you feel isolated in a workplace where most of the people you work with don't look like you. I am one of forty Black social workers in the entire City of Ottawa. There are hundreds of others and most of them are White. Quite a few are Asian.

When you live in such a lily-white world, it's easy to get discouraged. You're alone, even if some of those around you claim to be your friends. Many Black women find themselves in that situation and they end up depressed and lonely. We get passed over for promotions all the time. We have no allies. We are the last hired and the first fired. Even other professional Black women sometimes stab us in the back. And the few Black men we run into at the workplace at either gay or into White women. The life of the Black female professional in North America can be a lonely one. Some sisters decide to test the waters of interracial dating. Some find happiness. Many end up disappointed. In my experience, most men don't like an intelligent woman who is accomplished and going places. It's the male ego at work. It's not a Black thing or a White thing. All men seem to have that problem.

Take Lawrence O'Connell for example. He's a tall, decent-looking Irish guy I met at the Canadian Museum of Civilization three years ago. I have to say, the red-haired and green-eyed Irishman looked good. And he had a thing for Black women. Lawrence worked for the Ontario Provincial Police. I found him interesting and we went out a few times. He was patient, friendly and romantic. He showered me with affection and attention. I thought I had found my knight in shining armor. Everything seemed alright. Until the day I saw him in the newspapers, suspended without pay from the O.P.P. Oh, and he was under investigation by the Special Investigations Unit, a powerful civilian-run organization that investigates allegations of police misconduct in the Province of Ontario.

Apparently, while off-duty, Lawrence went to a nightclub and got into an altercation with some Black guys after he drunkenly put the moves on one of their girlfriends. He pistol-whipped some Nigerian guy who was one of the club bouncers, and wounded one of the Black guys in the leg with his service revolver. Several witnesses identified him as the drunken aggressor, uttering racial epithets at his victims. My knight in shining armor, ladies and gentlemen. Caught on tape inside a night club, beating up people, using racist language and even firing his pistol at an unarmed man. I dumped Lawrence real fast. Last I heard, he'd been fired by the Ontario Provincial Police and was facing a guilty verdict for attempted murder due to his actions at the club. This charming man whom I liked had a pathological hatred of Black males. This wasn't the first incident involving him and Black guys. Six years ago, he put an unarmed Afro-Cuban grocery store owner in the hospital and gave the man's wife a Black eye when she tried to intervene. What brought this on? Apparently, he was responding to a burglary call and when he got there too late, the store owner blamed him for the thugs who got away. And patrol officer Lawrence O'Connell lost his temper. The O.P.P. cleared him of wrongdoing during that incident. They were throwing the book at him now.

Before I met Lawrence O'Connell, I dated Julian McKean. Tall, dark and handsome. Born to a Jamaican father and Irish mother. Julian is a Montreal-based tax attorney and he makes six figures. Hmm. We went out and I thought he was my Black Knight in Shining Armour. Until I caught him in bed with Lucy, this chubby White woman who lived next door to the apartment we shared. Am I lucky with men or what? I met Terrence Voltaire after disastrous romances with both Lawrence O'Connell and Julian McKean. Who would have thought that I would find true love after a dating disasters involving a sleazy biracial cheater and a racist White cop? I seriously thought about forsaking dating for the time being because, at the rate I was going, my next boyfriend might be a serial killer or something. And then, along came Terrence Voltaire. Tall, Black and handsome. Educated, gainfully employed, law-abiding and God-fearing. Oh, and he's good to his parents, whom he visits on statutory holidays and often sends money to via Western Union.

When I first met Terrence Voltaire, I knew. Okay, I more than just knew. The absolute certainty I felt came from deep inside. Beyond lust, and beyond vision and memory. One look into his eyes and I knew we were meant for each other. Yet he wasn't my type, though. He was so shy, for one thing. I liked my men on the macho side. Macho, but with a soft center. Lawrence and Julian both fit that type. Terrence was nothing like them. If they were Supermen, he was more like a Clark Kent. Tall, handsome and friendly. Gentle, easygoing, steady and reliable. I approached him inside that Tim Horton's restaurant in downtown Toronto, taking a chance. He looked at me and smiled. That special smile I would spend the rest of my life cherishing. And I haven't looked back since. That's how I met my husband and the father of my future sons and daughters, ladies and gentlemen. When the time is right, you'll simply know, ladies.