From Cambodia With Love

If I knew then what I know now....blah, or so the old adage goes. Personally, had I known back then what I now know, I would have done everything exactly the same way. Fate is a powerful thing, for good and for ill, and I've learned not to oppose it. My name is Adam Crowley Dieudonne, and I was born in the City of Belfast, Ireland, to a Haiti immigrant father and Irish mother. Growing up mixed-race in Ireland wasn't the easiest thing in the world, take it from me.

My mother, Amanda Crowley, tried her best to shield me from the everyday racism that came my way, but there was only so much she could do. I'm six-foot-four, with light brown skin, curly black hair and lime-green eyes. My features are a blend of African and Caucasian. In lily-white, uptight Belfast, I stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. The Emerald Isle is a beautiful place but there's quite a bit of xenophobia in it. Since the last decade of the twentieth century, scores of Asian and West African immigrants have moved to Ireland, along with significant amount of Middle-Easterners, forever changing the nation's demographics.

My father, Christopher Dieudonne, divorced my mother and went back to his hometown of Jacmel, Haiti, in the eleventh year of my life. He works for the Haitian government's Ministry of Foreign Affairs. We've reconnected via Facebook, you see. Mom doesn't like to talk about the divorce but I'm sure it still pains her. Her proud Irish Catholic family never accepted her marriage to an African immigrant. Never mind that my parents met as students at the University of Westminster in England in the 1980s, and were madly in love. Racism drove my parents apart, and Ireland wasn't much kinder to me in my time.

Sorry to sound cynical but outside of major cities like London, Versailles and Paris, Western Europe is no place for African immigrants or their descendants. That much I understood early on. I graduated from Dublin City University in the summer of 2010 with a bachelor's degree in computer science at the age of twenty one, and left Ireland for good. I worked for a couple of companies in England, tried to write a novel, failed and lived in London and Uxbridge for a while. I fell in love with the City of London, and its sheer diversity and culture. London is a magical city, full of people from pretty much everywhere.

On the streets of London I saw Somalis, Arabs, Bangladeshis, Chinese folks and some ethnicities I can't even identify. I had a wonderful time there, but after two years, I had grown tired of it. I wanted to experience other things, live someplace else and meet other kinds of people. Like many people around the world, I felt the pull of North America. What can I say? The continent is a magical place, the number one destination for immigrants of all shades and faiths, and I was no exception.

I made up my mind after much soul searching, and boarded a plane for Canada from Europe. In the summer 2012, I moved to the City of Montreal, Quebec, and enrolled at McGill University. I had my transcripts sent in from Belfast, and got accepted in the MBA program. It wasn't easy, adjusting to life in Canada after living in Europe my whole life. Canada has a lot of rules and restrictions. I had to apply for a study permit and a work permit along with a social insurance card in order to function in Canadian society. Without these things, I couldn't work, study, or do anything. I'd be a non-person, essentially.

Luckily for me, my educational credentials from D.C.U. were accepted at McGill University. I learned from many of my fellow students, especially the ones from Third World countries, that I should really count my blessings. Many of them with degrees from established colleges and universities in nations such as Ghana, Nigeria, Brazil, Colombia, China, and even tiny European nations like Lithuania and Estonia are told by Canadian academic institutions that their credentials aren't valid on this continent. That's a damn shame if you ask me. There are plenty of talented and smart people in so-called Third World nations and western institutions should respect their credentials.

I was determined to make the most of my time in Montreal. Quebec is a beautiful place but it's in the grip of a serious identity crisis. For over half a century, immigrants of Haitian, Lebanese, Syrian, Chinese and Indian ancestry have changed the face of Montreal. For the most part, the immigrants get along with the French Canadian population, but lately there's been some tension between the two groups. A lot of Muslims live in Quebec, and there's been some clashes between them and the predominantly Catholic-leaning European population. Some politicians such as Pauline Marois, the Premier of Quebec, has seized upon the malaise of the French Canadian people and revved up the eternally divisive issues of identity politics. Language and religious rights are at the forefront of Quebec politics nowadays.

While walking through the streets of Montreal, I met someone I would never forget. Sikha "Spike" Youtevong, a young Cambodian woman who tried to pick my pocket. I was on my way to my car, and someone bumped me. Now, anybody else might have thought nothing of it not I. We've got a real problem with pickpockets on the streets of London, Dublin, Belfast and other major European cities. I immediately doubled back, and caught up with the fleet-footed thief.

Before he disappeared around a street corner, I caught him by the arm. Gotcha, I said, and my eyes went wide when I realized that the slim young man in the baseball cap who'd bumped me was in fact, a short-haired lass dressed like a chap. Let go of me you creep, she said, struggling against me to no avail. I'm quite strong, you see. You took my wallet, I said, looking her in the eye. I wanted my stuff back and wouldn't leave without it.

The thief was actually quite pretty, Asian, with light bronze skin, short spiky black hair, and a lot of tattoos. Clad in a sleeveless black leather jacket, red tank top and blue jeans, I guess her style was tomboy chic. Whatever, the gal said, and pulled my wallet from her pocket. I took it back and pocketed. Just as I was about to let her go, a police car pulled up. A burly white cop came out of it, hands on his gun holster. Let the lady go pal, he said, in heavily accented English.

Great, I grunted, and the thief grinned. Looks like you're in trouble now, she whispered into my ear. I shook my head. The witch had me. Officer this isn't what it looks like, I said feebly, knowing perfectly well that I looked guilty as hell. A big and tall black guy has a short Asian woman up against a wall in a back alley. The cop stepped closer. I won't tell you again, he said. I had been in Montreal for a few months and although I kept out of trouble, I knew of the local police's reputation for racism and heavy-handed tactics. This wasn't going to turn out well.

Yeah, just as I was ready to throw in the towel, something unexpected happened. The thief threw her arms around me and kissed me. Trust me, she said, flashing me a mischievous grin. Je suis avec mom chum officier pas de problemes, she said, in accented French. Translation? I'm with my boyfriend, officer, no worries. With her arms still around me, I looked at the cop and flashed him an embarrassed grin. Sorry about that, I said. The cop grunted, mumbled something under his breath and told us to get a room. Don't make me come back out here, he grumbled, then walked away. He got back in his police car and drove away.

I looked at the thief, my unexpected savior. I saved your ass big man, she grinned. I nodded, still blown away by the whole thing. Next thing I knew, she made a run for it. I watched her run away, and shook my head. Damn, I thought. I went back to my apartment in Montreal-Nord, a neighborhood filled with Haitians along with a few Chinese and Africans. As I lay on my bed that night, I thanked God for letting me get home in one piece. North America isn't like England or Ireland. Cops are notoriously trigger-happy here, especially when dealing with minority men.

Even in Europe we've heard about the shootings of Sammy Yatim in Toronto, Amadou Diallo in New York City and Trayvon Martin in Florida. North America is a dangerous place. The next day, I went to class, and afterwards, I took a walk around Montreal. I went to Griyo, a really classy Haitian restaurant in Greater Montreal. I love Haitian food, and I've tried to reconnect with Haitian culture ever since I moved to Montreal. These are my father's people, after all.

I don't speak French or Haitian Creole as of yet but I'm learning. Picking up French while living in Montreal isn't hard. It's a mostly French town after all. The French culture is in every corner, every street, every damn brick of the old town. So there I was, eating a delicious plate of rice and beans with Sirik ( Haitian for crabs ) and goat meat when a certain familiar silhouette walked into the restaurant. A short, slim young Asian woman walked in with a plump, light-skinned black woman. The two of them seemed like regulars at the restaurant, and were warmly greeted by the waitress.

Curious by nature, I looked at the young Asian lady, and noticed something familiar about her. The leather jacket, the tattoos...I'd seen this gal before. Calmly, I rose from my seat and went over to her table. Hello again, I said, and smiled at her. You should have seen the look on her face. Oh shit, she said, and turned pale. I had her dead to rights and could have busted her, but I didn't. Instead, I bought her and her friend dinner. Thus I met Sikha Youtevong, formerly of Ta Khmao, Cambodia, and presently of Montreal, Quebec. And her good friend Nadine Duchene, her Haitian-Canadian girlfriend, lifelong best pal and frequent partner-in-crime.

I sat down with the two of them, and found them utterly charming. Two lovely girls from the wrong side of the tracks. Sikha and Nadine, confidence women, talented tricksters and women-about-town. Sikha interested me, strange as it may seem. I had never met anyone quite like her. I grew up strictly by-the-book and have always followed the letter of the law. Sikha intrigued me. I found her mysterious and alluring, especially after she explained her life philosophy to me. I take from the haves because I'm a lifelong have not, Sikha said, shrugging coolly.

I've made it a habit to call my parents once a week since I've moved to Montreal. My way of keeping in touch with them and keep them updated of my progress in Canada. In a few months I've have my MBA from McGill University, and I've already applied for permanent resident status in Canada. I have an immigration attorney and she assures me that we've got reasons to be optimistic.

I've been thinking about my identity, my nationality and my family a lot lately. I've reached my mid-twenties without any serious relationships, though I've had plenty of sexual encounters with random women, whether in London, Belfast or Montreal. I guess since I seldom felt truly rooted anywhere, I didn't believe in letting myself get attached to the ladies I met. With highly educated and successful parents, I had chances that many people didn't have. Yes, I endured racism as a mixed-race man in Europe and I still feel the sting of it from time to time, even in racially diverse Montreal, but I haven't let it stop me.

When I met Sikha Youtevong, a woman so different from me, yet shockingly similar in some aspects, I didn't know what to do. I've been meeting her lately, just to grab coffee and talk, and hear of her exploits. I told her I'm doing research for a crime novel with a female hero, and that seemed to satisfy her. What I learned about Sikha amazed me. Only twenty one years old, she'd lived quite a life. Born in provincial Kandal, Cambodia, Sikha moved to Quebec with her parents, Chanlina and Phirum Youtevong about ten years ago.

As I pressed her for details about her family, Sikha grew moody and would only tell me that her parents got divorced and she had to grow up fast. Sorry if it's a sore subject, I said apologetically. Sikha took a cigarette from her pocket, and lit it up, even though Sammy's Pub, the neighborhood café we were in, had a strict non-smoking policy. It's my body and I'll smoke if I want to, Sikha said, and I smiled. Okay, I said, and pressed her to continue.

Sikha regaled me with tales of her adventures across Canada's big cities. From pick-pocketing in the streets of Montreal, to credit card fraud online, and, sadly, occasionally selling her body in fancy hotels in Toronto, Sikha had done it all. I do what I got to do to get by, she said, shrugging. I shook my head. What's your ultimate goal? I asked, wondering about her game plan. Surely this lass didn't think she could go on grifting for the rest of her days? Sikha looked me in the eye and told me I wouldn't believe her if she told me. Try me, I said.

Chuckling, Sikha took a card out of her wallet and tossed it at me. My student card, she said. I looked at it and it read University of Quebec at Montreal, along with a picture of Sikha sporting even shorter hair than she did today. Expected date of graduation two years from now. Wow. You're in school? I asked, incredulous. Sikha grinned. I didn't qualify for them government loans so I do what I got to do to pay for school, she said, and licked her lips.

I looked at Sikha with newfound respect, and a bit of awe. I was impressed. I bet I surprised the hell out of you, Sikha said, eyeing me coolly. I nodded at that. A smart gal like you has better options than thieving, I said, crossing my arms. Sikha got up, and stood there, hands on her hips. Who are you to judge my actions? Sikha snapped, then bolted out of the restaurant with speed that amazed even me. Damn, I said, and sat there, stunned by her move. I didn't see that one coming.

That night, as I lay on my bed, I thought about Sikha, and her hard yet fascinating life. I found myself wondering how I might have turned out if my father wasn't a wealthy member of Haitian society who studied internationally and my mother, a middle-class Irishwoman whose family owned a lot of land in the environs of Belfast and the Irish countryside. I studied at one of Ireland's top universities, now I'm at McGill University, the best school in Canada. I live in Montreal-Nord, one of the "edgier" parts of Montreal, not because I have to, but because I want to.

A few months ago, out of the blue, my mother wired me one hundred thousand Euros from her account with the Allied Irish Banks, one of Ireland's top banks, and sent it to my account with BMO, the Bank of Montreal. That's roughly one hundred and fifty thousand dollars Canadian. More than enough to last me a while. I'm a fortunate son. Last December, I spent a holiday with my father in Paris, France, we stayed at a four-star hotel, and the Haitian government picked up the cheque. I've led a pretty comfortable life. Perhaps Sikha was right. Who was I to judge her actions?

The next day, I called Sikha and apologized. Let's catch a movie, I said, in what I hoped was a conciliatory manner. Much to my amazement, Sikha agreed. I figured she'd tell me to get lost. Instead, Sikha met me at the Cinema Banque Scotia Montreal and we watched Skyfall. Clad in a black T-shirt featuring Jay-Z, blue jeans and boots, Sikha looked fantastic. The movie was her choice, of course. I've always been a James Bond fan and while not overly fond of Daniel Craig, I liked Javier Bardem's performance as the sexually ambiguous and stylish villain. Sikha couldn't get enough of Daniel Craig, apparently overly buff white guys are her thing. Whatever, I said, as she went on and on about Craig's muscles. You're totally jealous, Sikha chided me, nudging me with her elbow.

We exited the theater, then walked around town a bit. I've developed a fondness for Montreal's streets. It is a mix of both old and new. You get a feel that you're in Europe, when you look at the old gothic cathedrals and cobblestones, and then you see a steel tower and realize that you're in North America. With Sikha by my side, I found myself rediscovering this town I loved so much. Arm in arm, we walked through Old Montreal. Once upon a time, what we call Quebec was known as New France.

J'adore Montreal, Sikha whispered, as we stood on McGill Street, a beatific look on her pretty face. I looked at her, and for a moment, I was awestruck by how beautiful she looked, fierce-looking with all her tattoos, punk hairstyle and attitude. Impulsively, I grabbed Sikha's face, and kissed her. That's right, the shy and world-weary pseudo-intellectual kissed the fearless street woman/part-time university student. Sikha smiled up at me, a puzzled look on her face.

What was that for? Sikha asked slyly. I just felt like it because you're a cutie, I replied, and put my arm around her. Grinning, we continued with our little stroll. I was falling for Sikha, and she seemed to be really into me, and all was right with the world. My novel, tentatively titled The Rogue Woman, was progressing nicely. I was on the two hundred and tenth page. The heroine, an Asian woman from Cambodia, was living a helluva life as a globe-trotting thief and adventuress, doggedly pursued by an African-American reporter seeking to expose her. Oh, and there's a mutual attraction between them. Of course, the two of them bear zero resemblance to Sikha and I.

I remember the first time Sikha and I made love, one stormy night at her place in Laval. We were coming back from the movies, and Sikha invited me over for a night cap. There we were, on her couch in her modest bachelor pad near the University of Quebec campus, cuddling. I hadn't had sex in over six months but could care less. Embracing Sikha, the woman who was an injection of energy into my life, fulfilled me in so many ways. Was I attracted to her? Sikha, the five-foot-six, 120-pound Cambodian-Canadian firecracker totally gets me going.

Resting her head against my chest, Sikha and I were having a moment while watching a rerun of Highlander, a classic television series I love. In this episode, a disgruntled widow threatens to expose both the Immortals and the Watchers, forcing heroes and villains to get over themselves in the name of survival. I guess we all live in a grey area, Sikha said, when I expressed disappointment over the hero Duncan McLeod's actions in the episode. I raked my hand through her short, spiky dark hair. Right as usual, I said, and kissed her forehead.

Sikha looked up at me, and grinned. In the dark all cats are grey, she said, and gently patted my groin. Oh my, I said, and smiled. I pulled her closer and kissed her, and next thing I knew, we were undressing each other hastily. Been a while I can tell, Sikha grinned, as I feasted my eyes on her sexy body. Her breasts were bigger than I thought they'd be, and she had far more tattoos than I previously thought. I'm thirsty, I laughed, using the popular idiom. Sikha laughed, and was still laughing as I gently grabbed her left breast and began sucking on it.

Go easy big guy, Sikha laughed while I sucked on her tits and slid my hand between her thighs. I kissed her all over, and made my way to her pelvic area. I spread Sikha's thighs, and went for the gold, as it were. Have at it, Sikha said, as if I needed any encouragement. Hungrily I ate Sikha's pussy, tasting the woman I loved in her raw and primal beauty, exploring her most intimate regions with my mouth and fingers. I slid my middle inside her and teased her clit with my tongue. Oh fuck, Sikha cried out, grabbing the back of my neck and grinding my face against her pussy. Man, her grip was stronger than I thought, I guess that's what I get for unleashing the passions of my favorite wild woman. Like a man who hadn't eaten in days, I munched on Sikha's delicious pussy like my life depended on it.