From Thailand With Love

Every culture, every race, every religion and every nationality has stereotypes attached to it and it's hard to live them down. The same holds true no matter where you're from. If you're from continental Africa, people assume that you're from a war-torn, poverty-stricken place because that's all they see on TV. If you tell people you're from Thailand, you're presumed to be an oversexed, drug-loving and perpetually lusty kitten with loose morals because, guess what? Bangkok has earned that reputation on the world stage. So in the eyes of foreigners, you had better get with the program. As if.

My name is Nat, short for Natalie Makudi, and I was born at Mass General Hospital in Boston, Massachusetts, on October 30, 1991. Mere months later, my parents left New England for the City of Khon Kaen, northeastern Thailand. I spent the bulk of my life there, while visiting the U.S. during the summer months. Just call me the Intercontinental Woman. My parents, Anurak Makudi and Maryam Wilson-Makudi brought me up in the Christian faith, not the easiest feat in a country dominated by the eastern faiths.

All in all, I had a nice life back in Thailand. My father works for the government's Ministry of Finance, and answers directly to the Head of State, King Bhumibol Adulyadej himself. Dad lived in the City of Boston, Massachusetts, in his youth, and earned an MBA from Northeastern University. It's where he met my mom, actually. They were college sweethearts, back in the day. My mother is of Irish-American descent. Like me, Mom holds dual American/Thai citizenship, but has lived more than half her life in Thailand.

People say I resemble my mother a lot, and it's been a mixed blessing in a nation like Thailand, which can be peaceful and welcoming one moment and extremely xenophobic the best. I stand five feet eleven inches tall, with light bronze skin, curly black hair and light green eyes. I get my height from my mother, who is six-foot-one, well-built, with blonde hair and green eyes. My facial features are almost purely Thai, but with a hint of something else. I got teased my whole life back in Thailand for being mixed-race, and it's made me somewhat shy around people since I've been on the receiving end of bigotry more times than I care to admit.

Thailand is a beautiful country with a vibrant culture and rich history, but it's also a complex society, as far as racial and religious issues are concerned. Most Thais follow either Buddhism or Islam, and Christianity is a fairly new but fast-growing religion there. The tension between the Buddhist and Islamic groups and the constant arrival of expatriates from North America and Europe has caused many people in the region to turn to Christianity, the new religion around these parts. The growing number of Malays and Sikhs in Thailand has also upset some ethnic Thai folks, who don't like it one bit. Foreigners from the West see Thailand as a lovely place with a colorful culture. They don't know the half of it. Enter at your own risk.

I attended Saint Patrick International Academy in Khon Kaen, a private English-language boarding school with about five hundred students, most of whom are the offspring of wealthy expatriates. It's where I learned to speak English, and made some lifelong friends whose parents hail from places like England, America, Australia and Canada. The director of the school, Father Jonathan Williams, is a Jesuit priest originally from the City of Toronto, Ontario. He taught me much about his country of origin, Canada, and about the world.

Once I graduated from Saint Patrick International Academy, I decided to study outside Thailand. My mom wanted me to study in the City of Boston, her home and native land, as did my father, but I'd already been to New England many times. Almost every summer I stayed in the suburb of Milton with my maternal grandmother, Granny Jasmine. As much as I love Boston, the town of my birth, I already knew it like the back of my hand. I'd had enough of New England and Thailand. I wanted to explore life outside of my comfort zone.

I love Thailand, it's a lovely place and it's in my blood. I cannot escape that. I can also never escape the fact that I couldn't forget if I tried. With a Thai father and a white American mother, I was used to getting stared at everywhere I went with my family. Whether on the streets of Bangkok or Boston, people couldn't help gawking at us. You'd think people would be used to interracial families in the twenty-first century. After all, U.S. President Barack Obama, leader of the free world, is the son of a Black man and a White woman, and Ivory Coast President Alassane Ouattara is married to a white woman, Dominique Nouvian. I guess people never learn. Change is good, and it's here to stay.

Speaking of change, after spending my whole life traveling between Thailand and America, I felt like a change of scenery. I have always wanted to visit Canada, and I saw my chance in 2009. I opted to study at the University of Toronto, and the sheer diversity I found there amazed me. So many people from places like India, Ghana, China, Brazil, South Africa, Colombia, Japan, Nigeria and Jamaica call this metropolis home, and they're well-represented at its flagship school, U of T. With my parents somewhat reluctant blessing, I had my transcripts from Saint Patrick International Academy sent to the Ontario Universities Application Center, selected the University of Toronto as my school of choice, and then applied for a study permit.

I got accepted at the University of Toronto, and enrolled in the Criminal Justice program. I always wanted a career in either law or law enforcement. My first week on campus, I met quite a few people, including the young man destined to change my life forever. Omar Chadwick, or O.C. as he calls himself. The first time we met, I wasn't having the best of days. I was still enamored with the U of T campus like most freshmen were, but someone forgot to tell me that it's the size of a small city! I was desperately late for my Intro to Criminal Justice Class and quite hopelessly lost.

I had a map of campus in hand but it might as well be written in Martian. I couldn't make heads or tails of it. I saw a young black guy walking around talking on his cell phone, and asked him for help. Instead of shrugging and walking away like everyone else, he actually paused to help me. I'm heading to that building and will take you there, he said, and I smiled gratefully. I followed him to the Trinity College building, and he cordially wished me a good day.

Thank you kindly I'm Nat, I said, smiling at my savior. The young man nodded graciously. I'm Omar, he said, extending his hand for me to shake. Welcome to U of T, he said with a smile, then excused himself. I watched him walk away. I remember thinking two things. First, if all the guys on campus look as good as him, I'm definitely going to like it here. Second, and most important of all, Mr. Omar has the cutest ass I've seen on a guy since David Beckham and Tyson Beckford. Hot damn!

I arrived in class at 11 :45 A.M. a full fifteen minutes late, something definitely guaranteed to impress the professor, an old Italian dude. I sat in the middle, and took a look around. The class was amphitheater-style, with about a hundred students. About half of them were white, with a sizeable number of Hindus and Chinese people, with quite a few Africans and some Filipinos and Hispanics. The stocky red-haired white guy next to me asked me where I was from. Take a wild guess, I said. China, he ventured, furrowing his brow. I shook my head, and told him I was American.

You should have seen the look in his face. It's almost as if I said I came from Mars. An American at U of T, he said, shaking his pudgy head. I nodded, and suddenly wished I were seating elsewhere. In the coming months, I would grow real tired of being asked where I came from by white Canadians. In time I would grow disillusioned with the nation hailed everywhere as a bastion of racial and cultural harmony. Canadians aren't the uber-friendly, tolerant people the rest of the world thinks they are. There are quite a few racists in the Great White North.

In the U.S. we discuss racial discrimination openly, but in Canada, especially in Ontario, they have a don't ask don't tell policy when it comes to such things. Canadians, both those of European descent and the ones they call "visible minorities" pretend that prejudice and discrimination don't exist. It's almost as if they all signed a contract prohibiting them from speaking out loud about it. Sorry for being cynical but it's true.

I've lived in the United States of America and Thailand, and in both places, ethnic and religious tensions are matters of national concern, and people actually discuss such issues openly in the hope of finding solutions. Canada is the land of pretenders. All this I would discover in my time in the confederation. For now, though, I was a wide-eyed, naïve and supremely optimistic young woman eager to explore life and love while studying at a world-class university. I faced a sharp learning curve, and I had no clue. I was a lamb in the land of wolves. Fortunately, God sent me an angel to save me.

I was settling into my new town nicely enough, and made friends with a couple of my classmates. Brigida Lawrence, a raven-haired, slender and alabaster-skinned young woman originally from Galway, Ireland, became my new best friend. We lived in the same building. Brigida goes to Ryerson University but she's taking a couple of classes at the University of Toronto. Her boyfriend Jose Gutierrez also goes to U of T, and he's an international student from Saltillo, Mexico. We often hung out together, the three of us. Through Brigida and Jose I met Calvin Jacobsen, a young white guy from Calgary, Alberta.

The guy was well over six feet tall, dark and handsome, trouble with a capital T, but I couldn't stay away from him. Calvin found me attractive, and wasn't shy about letting me know it. He pursued me doggedly and I relented. We began going out, and at first, the guy was positively charming. I've always had a thing for cocksure, outgoing guys. The shy type doesn't do it for me. Calvin had an MBA from the University of Calgary and worked for a big company in downtown Toronto. He was good-looking, had money, and didn't mind showing a gal a good time. I was enthralled with Calvin, until he went from charming to control freak.

I decided to break it off with Calvin, and that's when everything started to go wrong. Apparently, Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome had a controlling side and couldn't believe that I was saying no to him. When we'd go to restaurants together, he'd order for me. And he often criticized what I wore. I had to end it, because he made me feel like he owned me. You're a dumb slant-eyed whore and you're just like all the others, Calvin yelled at me the night I told him we were through. I glared at him, heat rising in my breast.

Go to hell you racist piece of shit, I spat, and walked away. I went home and cried myself to sleep that night. I had never felt so humiliated and disrespected, not in New England and not in Thailand. Calvin's blatant racism shocked me to my core. How could a man who once made love to me and called me his beautiful goddess treat me like this? The next day I found the words "Go back to Asia you Gook Whore" spray-painted in red on my apartment door. The bastard! I went to the police, and obtained a restraining order against Calvin. That did NOT stop him.

Distraught, I turned to Brigida Lawrence for help but she sided with Calvin, and said it was my fault for leading him on. Leading him on? I was falling in love with Calvin until the day he revealed himself to be a control freak and a racist asshole. What's a gal to do? I was having one helluva time during my first semester at the University of Toronto, and I didn't know who else to turn to. If I told my parents they'd be insanely worried and try pull me from school. I finally went to the Women's Center on campus, and sought counseling. My grades were suffering, I had trouble sleeping, and the threats from Calvin and his friends on Facebook weren't helping me any.

I went to the Women's Center, and spoke to Dr. Amy Albright, an ex-cop who joined the university faculty last year as a women's and gender studies professor. I told her my situation, and she advised me to take whatever steps I felt were necessary to deal with Calvin and his buddies. I'd already taken a restraining order against him and that wasn't enough. What was I supposed to do? The good professor wasn't exactly full of good ideas. Great, the Toronto police force weren't helping and neither was Dr. Albright. I walked out of there filled with despair.

I ran smack dab into a guy, and apologized for bumping him. Sorry, I said, and my eyes lit up when I realized I knew who this guy was. Omar? I said, narrowing my eyes. He nodded and smiled. Hello Nat, he said and shook my hand. I hadn't seen Omar since the first week of school, which seemed so long ago. He looked real good in a green silk shirt, black tie and black silk pants. Where are you headed? I asked. Omar told me he volunteered at the Women's Center. When he said that, I was flabbergasted. I didn't know that men cared enough about women's issues to volunteer in our support centers. Especially tall, masculine men like Omar.

I guess my surprise must have reflected on my face because Omar smiled and shook his head. Men care about women's issues too, he said evenly. I nodded, and looked over my shoulder. Someone after you? Omar asked, in a joking tone. I smiled sadly. You don't know the half of it, I said, looking sadly at Omar. If it's serious you should talk to someone, he said. I looked at him, so earnest and friendly, and for some reason, I relaxed, for the first time in ages. Got five minutes? I asked, and Omar smiled.

A few minutes later, we sat inside a nearby Tim Horton's, and I gave Omar the run-down. My whirlwind romance with Calvin Jacobsen, his the revelation of psychopathic and racist tendencies, our subsequent breakup and the nightmare that followed. Sitting across from me and quietly sipping his coffee while listening attentively, Omar nodded as I went on. When I finished I looked at him, searching his oddly neutral face. I'm a wreck eh? I said, smiling sadly. Omar shook his head. Even strong people make mistakes, he said, nodding sagely. He fiddled with his now empty coffee cup. I'd drained mine long ago. What do I do now? I asked.

Omar looked at me, his soulful brown eyes boring into mine. You're going to take your life back and stand up to this bigoted creep, he said firmly. I looked at him, this perfect stranger, and found myself agreeing with him. I had to stop running and confront Calvin Jacobsen. I couldn't expect the police or the university authorities to fight my battles for me. Yes, Calvin is rich and powerful and he's got friends but I'm a strong woman. I refuse to let him intimidate me. This bastard won't know what hit him, I said with conviction, and Omar smiled. He bumped his fist against mine. Good for you, he said, and we both laughed. Before we parted ways, Omar hugged me and slipped me his business card. Call if you ever need anything, he said, and walked away.

The following Monday, I did something completely unexpected. Without really thinking about it, I showed up at McLean & Madison Ltd, the company Calvin Jacobsen worked for. He'd taken me to a party there once and I recognized some of the people. Getting Gladys, the lady at the front desk to let me into Calvin's office was easy. Apparently, lots of women show up at Calvin's place of business. Well, I decided to give the womanizing creep a surprise he'd never forget. I waited for him in his nicely decorated, tasteful office, and about forty five minutes later he showed up.

I let him come inside, remaining safely hidden behind the door. Hello Calvin, I said, and he turned around, gasping in shock. I delivered a swift kick to his groin that brought him to his knees. I took a switchblade out of my pocket and pressed it against his throat. If you come near me again I'll cut your dick off and then I'll kill you, I said. I looked into Calvin's steely blue eyes and saw complete and abject fear there. Please don't do it, he pleaded. I smiled wickedly, then smacked him hard across the face. Who's the bitch now? I smirked, and walked out of his office.

I felt like a million bucks as I walked out of that building. I walked through the streets of Toronto, one of North America's biggest cities, and I felt like a superwoman. I felt invincible. I went home, and had a good night's sleep. The next morning, two police officers from the Toronto Police Service showed up at my door. They arrested me for aggravated assault and battery and assault with a deadly weapon. You went too far, a blonde-haired white female officer said as she snapped the cuffs on me. Her partner, a burly bald-headed black guy, shook his head.

As I sat in the back of the police cruiser, in handcuffs, I wondered how my life could have gone to hell so fast without my noticing. I was brought to the police precinct, and placed in a cell full of women, mostly black, Hispanic or South Asian women, I noticed. When it came time for my obligatory phone call, I could think of only one person to call. I called Omar Chadwick. Don't tell anyone anything my uncle is a lawyer and I'll get you out of this, he said, after I told him what happened. Thank you, I said, sobbing on the phone.

As I sat in a corner of the cell, I looked at the ceiling, marveling at the stupidity of the criminal justice system. A woman goes to the police after being abused by a man and the cops don't do anything. The same woman takes proactive action and defends herself and that same police force imprisons her for it. Later I was brought up on charges, and was represented by Francis Adam Tennyson, Omar's uncle, at the proceedings. Calvin was there, along with Brigida Lawrence and her boyfriend Jose Gutierrez. So much for the sisterhood bond between women, huh?

I looked at Omar, who looked so handsome in a dark blue suit, red tie and white silk shirt. He winked at me. I smiled sadly at him. Thank you for standing by me, I shouted, and the judge, an old white dude, chastised me for it. No more outbursts young lady, he cautioned, actually wagging his finger at me. I soon found out in exactly how much trouble I was in. Calvin Jacobsen was seeking a restraining order against me, apparently there were cameras all over his office building. I was seen entering it and leaving it. The building's external cameras showed me tossing the knife in a trash can about forty meters from the front doors.

Oh shit, I said, realizing that I was totally screwed. My defense attorney pleaded that I was acting in self-defence, since I already had a restraining order out against Mr. Jacobsen. The judge didn't buy it. Restraining orders tend to work both ways. Victim and perpetrator have to stay away from each other. It's not carte blanche for the victim to do whatever she or he wants. You went over the line young lady, the judge said, and Calvin and the Crown's prosecuting attorney, a pretty blonde woman in a sharp business suit, actually smirked.

In the end, I was put in jail for three weeks, and once I was released, a permanent restraining order was put in place against me. I couldn't go anywhere near Calvin Jacobsen, his home, his place of business or his family. I returned to school, crestfallen, and was barely able to pass the semester. I got a C for the first time in my life. And I now had a criminal record in Canada, though Omar assured me that such records could be expunged over time. I gambled and I lost, I said, trembling slightly as we stood in the quad one morning in early December.

You're stronger than you think, Omar said, looking into my eyes and gently touching my face. I looked at him, this young man who stood by me through thick and thin, and smiled. You're so good to me, I said. Omar smiled and nodded, then he kissed me. I was a bit surprised by the kiss, but I liked it. I wrapped my arms around Omar, and kissed him back passionately. Let's get out of here, he said. I smiled and nodded. Sounds good to me mister sweet lips, I said, and Omar put his arm around my shoulders as we walked away.