Bell Canada Lovebirds

The days keep going by. And I find myself feeling empty. It's such a dilemma when you're torn. I'm close to getting my Master's degree in business administration from the Sprott School of Business at Carleton University. Even though the City of Ottawa, Ontario, is home to some of the best colleges and universities in all of Canada, a lot of young Black men in the Capital region opt not to go. My cousins Ricky and Edgar come to mind. One is currently locked up for assault and battery, and the other is trying to be a rapper. The funny thing is both are getting more love from the sisters than I am. My name is Carl Hamilton and I'll be your 'good' Black man for the day.

Look, I know I'm going to get a lot of condemnation for saying this. I know it's a form of generalization. Why do Black women worship Black thugs and preppy White guys and ignore good Black men? Why do Black women always mistake kindness for weakness when dealing with Black males? Two of life's biggest questions. I don't have the answer to them. A lot of hoopla has been made lately about highly educated Black women who find a dearth of marriageable men of equal educational standing in the Black community. I think it was on CNN or Fox News or something. They keep propping it up fairly often both on television and on the internet. The White media loves to look down its nose at Black men and Black women, as if we're the only ones with problems.

I'm an African-American man from Boston, Massachusetts, living in Ontario, Canada. I have a bachelor's degree in sociology from the University of Massachusetts at Amherst. Soon I'll have an MBA from Carleton University in Ottawa, Ontario. Don't tell me there aren't any educated Black men out there. The problem is that educated Black women don't want educated Black men. They prefer Black guys who fit the stereotype of the thug or the hustler. To Black women, educated and law-abiding Black men are seen as 'lame'. The Black thugs are cooler. And when the Black woman tires of the ebonics-spewing and law-breaking Black thug, she moves onto the preppy White male. Never giving the 'good' Black man a chance. That's life in North America, folks. I have lived this social nightmare both in America and Canada. And I am fed up. For a long time, I thought Black women didn't like me because there was something wrong with me. I looked at myself and seriously pondered that dilemma. I'm six-foot-one by two hundred and forty pounds. People say I look a little bit like the Famous Jett Jackson guy ( facially speaking) but I'm built like the infamous NFL player Michael Vick. Whatever. I'm simply me. What's wrong with me?

I honestly couldn't tell you. I live in the quietly affluent suburb of Barrhaven in Ottawa, Ontario. I rent a two-bedroom apartment complex from Doris Hennessey, an old White lady who's been in Ottawa all her life. My dwelling is in a middle-class neighborhood populated by English, Dutch and Irish folk. I think I'm the only Black person within a three-mile radius. The houses over there go for three hundred grand a pop, even in this extremely lousy economy. The only other Black person I ever ran into in the area was this mixed guy who's married to a Hispanic woman. He has two sons and a daughter with her. His name is Adam something or other and he works for the Canadian Government as an economist. Adam is a friendly guy and we've spoken a few times. He's originally from Halifax, Nova Scotia, and his family has been in Canada for nearly two centuries. He's descended from African settlers who came to Canada around the time of the American Civil War.

When my friend Ariel Wayne, a Jamaican woman from Mississauga, Ontario, came over for a visit, she was amazed at how I was living. I work hard for my money. I work as an operator for Bell Canada in downtown Ottawa, while studying full-time at Carleton University. Lucky for me I am fluent in both English and French. My father Jamal Hamilton is originally from the City of Detroit, Michigan, but my mother Jeannette Montpelier came from the Cap-Haitien region of the Republic of Haiti. My mom taught me how to speak French and Haitian Creole while I was growing up in Boston. Both come in handy while I'm in Canada. My mom has family in Ontario too. Her sister Annabelle lives in Orleans, Ontario, with her two sons Edgar and Ricky. Anyhow, where was I? Ariel was impressed by how I was living and how much money I was making. Twenty five hundred and sixty dollars every two weeks after taxes is considered a good salary for a Black man living in Canada during a Recession. That's how come I can afford tuition at Carleton University and my 1200-dollar-a-month rent in pricy Barrhaven.

Ariel Wayne is a cool gal. Tall, dark-skinned and kind of chubby. We met while I was visiting the University of Toronto campus in the City of Mississauga, Ontario. Ariel is into White guys and Hispanic guys, which I don't have a problem with. She's different from a lot of Black women who go the interracial route in that she's got a lot of close friends who happen to Black and male. We get along alright, and she's been my confidante for the two and a half years I've been living in Canada. Ariel considers me her older brother figure or something even though she's twenty six and I'm twenty-four. Ariel came to stay with me for a couple of days because she was distraught over a nasty breakup with her ex-fiance, an Irish guy named Connelly. Apparently, they had a spat, she threw him out, and when she came to visit him at a motel in a fit of remorse, he was getting a blowjob from an Asian hooker. Wow. I guess he bounced back quick.

Even though Black women have put me through a lot of hell in the dating game, I still respect them. Show me a Black man who doesn't respect Black women and I'll show you a brother who isn't a real man. Even if he's married to a White woman, he should respect the Black woman because she's his grandmother, mother, sister and all that. I was glad to be there for Ariel. However, one night, things turned awkward. I was sitting in the living room, watching the movie Boomerang on BET. That's when Ariel came out of the shower, looking real good in a towel and nothing else. Normally, she'd just head to her room but she came to stand in front of me. Smiling, she winked at me then dropped the towel. Before my amazed eyes could blink, she knelt in front of me and went for my dick.

I froze, then gently but firmly caught her hands. Ariel seemed surprised by my reaction. I looked her in the eye and asked her what she was doing. Grinning, she said she wanted to make me happy. I shook my head. Now, I know a lot of you are reading this and scoffing but I don't cross the line with friends. I don't sleep with my friends. I told Ariel in an even tone that it might be best if she went back to her room. That's when all hell broke loose. At first she seemed surprised that I turned her down, then she got mad. Calling me all kinds of names, she cussed me out before going back to her room. Slamming the door. Not for the first time, a Black woman I showed kindness to verbally lashed out at me under my own roof. I closed my eyes, seething with anger. I'm a nice man but I don't like getting disrespected. Especially in my own home. I felt like throwing Ariel out. I didn't have to. The next morning she was gone. And we never spoke of that incident again. Our friendship was over. To be honest, I thought I'd be disappointed but I was kind of baffled. What the hell is wrong with sisters these days?

The next day at work, I was still down about what happened the night before. I must have looked particularly morose because my co-worker Adrienne Saint-Pierre walked up to me and asked me if I was alright. I looked at Adrienne. Six feet tall, slim and fit ( but curvy where it counts), with long blonde hair, alabaster skin and pale blue eyes. People say she looks like the South African actress who did that superhero movie with Will Smith. Adrienne and I are friendly at work, but that's about it. I wasn't comfortable sharing my personal stuff with her. Well, this time she pressed me. Finally, I broke down and shared with her the lonely hell my life had become. To my immense surprise, Adrienne was really sympathetic. And she shared a story with me. Her ex-boyfriend, James Sanchez, was Mexican. Her family was way more accepting of their relationship than his mother, Maria. In the end, they broke up because James Sanchez's mother did not want her son to be with a White woman. I stared at Adrienne, stunned by her story. I'm not into White women but she's one of the most beautiful women ( of any color) I know. Whoever walked away from her was an idiot. I told her as much. Adrienne smiled, and asked me if I was okay. I nodded. She smiled again, and gave me a simple hug.

After work, Adrienne invited me to grab dinner with her. We went to the Saint Laurent Mall and dined in this nice Italian place, East Side Mario's restaurant. They knew her there. I had a really nice time. I learned a bit more about Adrienne. We'd been working together for almost a year but I didn't know much about her. She started her undergrad studies in business at Concordia University in the City of Montreal, Quebec, then opted for a Master's degree in Communications from the University of Calgary in the City of Calgary, Alberta. Via cellular phone, we added each other as friends on Facebook. This lovely French-Canadian woman had a lot of minority friends, mostly Asian guys, Hispanic guys and Black men, I noticed. I found that fascinating. She didn't seem to associate with White guys much. I asked her about that and she told me she liked darker-skinned men. I smiled at that. Nothing wrong with dark-skinned men. We're a beautiful bunch, to be sure.

Looking me straight in the eye, Adrienne asked me if I liked White women. I grinned, and said I liked the one in front of me. Then I gave her hand a gentle squeeze. Adrienne smiled and said, 'good answer'. We walked out of the restaurant together. As we walked through the Mall, folks were staring. That puzzled me. There were a lot of mixed couples in Ottawa, especially in this mall. Earlier I saw a chubby White guy walking around with a tall Black woman, and I saw a White guy with a Chinese lady. I also saw an Indian guy with a Hispanic woman, and a skinny Black guy with a curvy White lady. Yet Adrienne and I seemed to get more stares than all of them. Thinking about it, I knew why. We had come straight from work. I wore a dark gray silk shirt and Black silk pants, with my Bell Canada ID card hanging around my neck from a lanyard. Adrienne looked really good in a White silk blouse and long gray pants. Her long blonde hair was pulled in a bun. We looked like a pair of professionals, dressed in business attire with our work ID cards hanging around our necks. Not only did folks think we were an interracial couple, but they also thought we had money!

While walking through the mall, Adrienne and I did some actual shopping. I bought a Black leather jacket and she bought a pair of dark gray Capri pants. When she tried them on, I noticed her big round butt for the first time. Hot damn. This lady had a booty like tennis legend Serena Williams, and she was Caucasian! Adrienne noticed me noticing her ass, and smiled coyly. We paid for the stuff and left, arm in arm. We went back upstairs to our separate cars, and guess who we ran into? None other than Ariel, looking a tad bit disheveled and walking around with a tall, skinny, balding White male dressed like a gang banger. She saw me, then noticed Adrienne with me, and the look she gave me was pure disdain. Adrienne met Ariel's gaze without wavering, and then we walked past them. Adrienne squeezed my hand, and asked me if I knew 'that woman'. I smiled, and told her this was Ariel. Adrienne smiled, and told me I could do way better. My answer to that was to take Adrienne's hand and bring it to my lips. She smiled, then kissed me lightly on the lips. Ladies and gentlemen, I think I'm already doing better.