Saudi Girls Into Haitian Men

It's often been said that you find out not who or what you think you want but that which you need when you least expect it. I find this to be true, mainly because it happened to me. The name is Khadra Al-Jubeir and I was born in the City of Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, to a Saudi Arabian father and a Somali immigrant mother. As a Muslim immigrant woman living in the City of Ottawa, Ontario, there are certain things I simply cannot escape. I wear the hijab and traditional clothing, and the Western gaze is always upon me. I mystify them, it seems.

My parents, Mahmoud and Hodan Al-Jubeir moved to Ontario, Canada, in 1995. I was four years old at the time and barely remember anything about Saudi Arabia, though I hold dual Saudi/Canadian citizenship. I've always been proud of my heritage, and the reasons are many. When you're a minority in a world that's constantly putting you down, your best self-defence is to uphold and celebrate that which makes you different. What they try to make you feel bad about is something that repels them because they fear it at an almost cellular level. Use it against them.

In the United States, around the time of the Civil Rights Movement and afterwards, black Americans defied white racism by saying 'black is beautiful.' Although I've never been to the U.S. I studied its history, especially the part about their treatment of African-Americans, and I learned from them. There's a reason why men like Barack Obama and Deval Patrick got elected President of the U.S.A. and Governor of Massachusetts, respectively. In the U.S. black people are outspoken in the face of both interpersonal and systemic racism. In Canada, we're all asleep, blissfully unaware, when it comes to race issues.

As the daughter of an interracial couple, I simply cannot escape racism. I stand five feet eleven inches tall, and like all tall women, I tend to attract the male gaze. My skin is dark bronze, my hair is black and somewhat kinky, and my eyes are brown. In spite of my attempts at dieting, my body remains curvaceous, wide-hipped and big-bottomed. My mom told me to stop fighting my African genes. I jokingly told her that I desperately need a smaller ass. Seriously. I've been mistaken for everything from Puerto Rican to Brazilian and even Moroccan. I always tell people that I am biracial, born of Saudi Arabia, the Heartland of Islam, and Somalia, an indefatigable nation that neither Western colonialism nor Islamism have been able to break. I've been told that I'm too dark by some Arabs and too light by certain Somalis. I always tell them that I am simply the way Allah made me. They tend to grow quiet after that, for in the Holy Quran, the Prophet Mohammed, the Last Messenger of Allah, denounced racism and proclaimed that all men, from the Black to the Arab and the White, and everyone in between, are creations of God and thusly equal. Who can argue with that?

I live in the Kanata area of Ottawa, and it's a very nice, if somewhat pricy, neighborhood. My father works as a branch manager at the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce or C.I.B.C. and my mother teaches Arabic and Art History at La Cite Collegiale, a French-language community college in Ottawa. My older brother Djohar is at the University of Ottawa, studying medicine. He recently married a young woman named Madeleine Cartier, a French Canadian woman who converted to Islam a few years before they met. They have a son together, my darling little nephew Nasser.

My sister Jamila is at York University, studying anthropology. She's engaged to a guy named Ibrahim, an architecture student from Morocco. As you can see, my family has done fairly well for itself in Canada. We're fiercely proud of our Muslim faith, and uphold it as best we can. One aspect of my culture I don't much care for is that we're under pressure to get married. My parents always tease me about bringing home a nice young man to introduce them to. My mother in particular is fond of lamenting the fact that her youngest daughter ( that's me ) has always shown zero interest in the opposite sex.

The truth is that I've never been what most guys consider particularly attractive or approachable. I'm a tall, somewhat large woman of color sporting the hijab and a long skirt in a world built to worship pale, skinny girls in revealing outfits. Most of the guys I meet at Muslim community events don't light my fire because I find them boring, dull, and utterly predictable. Sometimes I honestly wondered if there was something wrong with me because, well, I found myself lonely. This world isn't for singles, it's a couples world. Don't believe me? Look at tax forms sometime and notice how biased they are in favor of couples, especially those with offspring. See what I mean? It's a couples world and as a perennially single young woman, I felt the pressure. Especially since a lot of the girls at my school, Carleton University, started getting married and getting pregnant left and right.

I learned to politely decline invitations to bridal showers and baby showers. I was always ' too busy'. I work at a Call Center in downtown Ottawa. The job pays eighteen dollars per hour, and in the summer, I work forty-hour weeks. Since I work from seven in the morning till three in the afternoon, I was usually free but I wasn't about to let my marriage-and-baby-obsessed family and friends find that out. Being single isn't a disease, dammit, so why is everyone hell-bent on curing it? Sheesh! Pardon my French but leave me the fuck alone, eh?

On Tuesdays, my ritual involved going to the Silver City movie theater in Ottawa's east end ( I cannot stand the Kanata movie theater, it sucks ) and catch a movie. Just because I make relatively decent money doesn't mean I like to spend. My rent costs four hundred dollars a month and in this economy, I'm not taking chances. I'm a year away from obtaining my bachelor's degree in business administration from Carleton University, and since I didn't qualify for OSAP, I'm paying for the whole thing myself. With that many burdens on my shoulders, you'll forgive me for being a penny pincher.

Anyways, I went to the theater that day and watched the new Spiderman movie, the one with Jamie Foxx as Electro. Surprisingly, for the noon show, there were very few people in the theater. I figured all the fan guys and gals and the Comic Con types would be there but they weren't. Hmmm. I sat alone in the middle of my row, eating a pizza I bought at the Blair Mall food court because I wasn't about to pay the exorbitant prices that movie theaters charge for the grub. Imagine my surprise when this black dude wearing a sports coat and hat came in just as the previews were ending and for some reason, he got the urge to sit right next to me.

Um, what the fuck? I thought, smiling politely at the bozo who just invaded my personal space. Hi Miss K, he said cheerfully, and I almost bolted out of my seat. How do you know my name? I asked politely, feeling a bit alarmed. In the dark, he smiled, showing pearly white teeth. We go way back I'm a friend of your brother's, he said confidently. As I pressed him for more details, the dude had the nerve to shush me. Shhh the movie's starting, he said. Fuming, I pondered if I should get up and switch seats, this white couple came and sat one seat down from us. Immediately they began canoodling and making out. Great, I thought.

I sat there, uncomfortable as can be, and just as the movie began, the black dude next to me gently elbowed me. Miss K I'm getting a drink do you want something? he asked earnestly. I'm cool, I said, clutching my half-eaten pizza almost defensively. He smiled again, and got up. As he made his way down the aisle, dude totally struck my knee with his long frigging legs. My bad sister I'm sorry, he said, laughing as he left. I took a deep breath. You can leave this place, I told myself. Bad enough this bozo sat next to me but the white couple was seriously pushing the boundaries of decency as they made out. I mean, the dude had his hand up his girlfriend's shirt and I don't even want to tell you where her hands were. Westerners, I thought, disgustedly.

Two minutes later, the bozo came back. I'm back Miss K, he said triumphantly, carrying a brown box containing pizzas and drinks. Yippee, I said with admirable false enthusiasm. He resumed his seat next to me, and ate noisily. I closed my eyes, hard. Please keep it down, I said, through gritted teeth. You're still so bossy la petite Cherie, he said, laughing. I stared at him. What did you just say? I asked, now beginning to get seriously angry. That's when the white couple next to us chimed in. Would you guys mind keeping it down? The white guy said.

Mind your fucking business, the bozo said, glaring at them and clutching his pop can angrily. That did it, the couple got up and went to sit further down. I breathed a sigh of relief. Involuntarily I smiled. Thank you for that, I said, looking at the bozo with something approaching gratitude. De rien Khadra, he said, nodding graciously before popping a huge slice of pizza into his mouth. I plopped down in my seat, and tried my best to enjoy the rest of the movie. Spiderman kind of sucked, in part because the British guy simply can't fill Toby Maguire's shoes, but Jamie Foxx made for a charismatic and sympathetic villain as Electro. As the lights came on and I got ready to leave, the bozo got up and winked at me. That was fun, he said, belching loudly and stretching.

I shook my head, amazed that someone this charmingly uncouth could exist in today's world. What is your name? I asked. Jamal James Lafleur at your service, he said, taking off his Boston Red Sox baseball cap for good measure. He extended his hand for me to shake. I looked at him dubiously before shaking his hand. You know my brother? I asked. Jamal ( if that's his name ) smiled. Indeed I met you three years ago when I joined your family for Eid feast, he said confidently, as we exited the theater.

Oh, I said, vaguely remembering my brother Djohar inviting one of his American friends to the Eid feast with us a while back. Suddenly I remembered a particularly obnoxious American who criticized all things Canadian, declared Dunkin Donuts superior to Tim Horton's ( hell no ) and even said the U.S. should have annexed us a long time ago. I got so mad I called him an asshole. You must be J.J. from Boston, I said, recalling the one guy who got under my skin so much that I wanted to smack him as he insulted my country while dining with my family and I under our roof.

In the flesh, J.J. said, grinning. I definitely remembered that fearless smile of his. Why are Americans so damn sure of themselves? I remember you hated Canada so why are you here? I asked, standing near the theater steps. J.J. grinned, and shrugged. My bad I was new to the country back then, he laughed. I cocked an eyebrow. You like it here now? I asked, hands on my hips. Fuck yeah Ontario's a great place, he said, with that thick Boston accent I found so annoying. Glad to hear it, I said, smiling. Maybe he wasn't so bad after all.

Well it was nice to run into you but I got a bus to catch, I said. J.J. nodded as if he understood. I'm headed to Carleton so yeah I got to get moving too, he said. I was stunned by those words. What are you doing at Carleton? I asked. I got accepted at the Sprott School of Business, J.J. said confidently. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and showed me his student ID. Nice mug shot, I laughed. J.J. rolled his eyes. I told the bitch at the University Center shop to use more light but she didn't listen, he griped. Let's ride the bus together, I said, and we made our way to the Blair Station.

J.J. and I rode the 95 bus to Hurdman, then switched to the 4. I like the school already, J.J. said a few minutes later as we got off near Minto Center. Why is that? I asked, as if I were surprised. Carleton is an awesome school. Lots of foreigners and interprovincial visitors think so. I don't speak a lick of French so I couldn't get into Ottawa University, J.J. shrugged. He rolled his eyes at me. Fuck those French bastards, he laughed. I shook my head. I'm fluent in French as well as English so watch what you say, I chastised him. J.J. shrugged. My bad lady, he grinned.

We made our way to the University Center, and caught the elevator to the fourth floor. From there we made our way to the library. I've got some documents to print, I said. J.J. stood there, and smiled. Cool because I'm heading to Tory Building, he said. Awkwardly he hugged me. I'm not big on people touching me, especially males. Part of it is my Islamic cultural upbringing, and part of it is personal preference as far as boundaries. Yet for some reason I hugged J.J. back. Tell your brother I said hi, he said, then dashed off across the quad to Tory.

I stood there, smiling and shaking my head as I watched him go. What a sight. A big and tall black dude running through a Canadian university campus like the devil was after him. Brother has a cute butt, I noticed, and licked my lips. I went to the library, and went to my favorite spot on the third floor. I logged on and went to Facebook. Immediately I checked my messages, and noticed a friend request from one Jamal James Lafleur. Hello sister pleasure running into you at the movies, his line read. I hesitated. Should I add this bozo? I checked and noticed that he really did have my brother Djohar as a mutual friend. That's why I clicked accept. Good to see you too, I replied, posting on his wall.

Out of curiosity, I peered through Jamal James Lafleur's Facebook photos. Pictures of him graduating from the University of Massachusetts at Amherst with a degree in accounting. Pictures of him playing football for Boston College High School. Shots of him in Chicago, in the summer of 2013, at a Nation of Islam social event. He's Muslim? I thought dubiously. I noticed several quotes from Louis Farrakhan on Jamal's page, along with links to books such as A Torchlight For America by The Honorable Louis Farrakhan. The man is political, I smiled.

As a Sunni Muslim, I find the Nation of Islam endlessly fascinating, in all the wrong ways. They're hell-bent on righting the wrongs done to African-Americans by racist whites, which is a daunting but commendable cause, but religiously speaking, they're quite different from what the mainline Islamic faith teaches. To call yourself a Muslim you must acknowledge the oneness of Allah, the one true God, and follow the teachings of the Prophet Mohammed, the Seal of the Prophets. People from the Nation of Islam have different beliefs. Still, I show them the basic respect that I show to my fellow Muslims, even though I disagree with many of their views.

I honestly never would have pegged someone like Jamal James Lafleur for a Muslim, especially since his Facebook states that he was born in Cap-Haitien, Haiti, and raised in Boston by Haitian immigrant parents. I know that Haitians are traditionally a Christian community, though some of them purportedly follow the Voodoo faith. I didn't think a Haitian would ever choose to follow any branch of Islam but we do come in all shapes and sizes. The more I browsed through Jamal James Lafleur's profile, the more fascinated I became. Imagine my surprise when I saw pictures of him and his friends sporting white Thawbs and Kufi hats while praying near the Kaaba in Mecca, Saudi Arabia.

This American bozo has performed Hajj? When I saw that, my jaw dropped. I couldn't believe my eyes. The Kaaba is a cubic structure located at the heart of Al-Masjid Al-Haram, the largest mosque in the world and one of Islam's holiest sites. I commented under the pictures. Masha'Allah you are so lucky to have performed Hajj so early in your life, I wrote, gushing. Moments later, from wherever he was, Jamal 'liked' my comment. Thank you sister, he wrote. I looked at his profile picture, where he sported a Green Celtics T-shirt featuring Paul Pierce, and a hat on backwards. Never judge a book by its cover, I said to myself, smiling.

I sent Jamal another message, this one with my number. Let's keep in touch, I said, then got up to print the documents I needed. I'm being trained as an associate in charge of the auditor division at the Call Center, and accounting for every phone call, every minute of company time takes up a lot of time and paperwork. The job comes with a seven-dollar bump in pay, but seriously, I'm starting to think it's not worth the hassle. My Blackberry buzzed, and I noticed I had a text from an unknown source. Hello mamas these are my digits, the message, which could only have come from Jamal, read.

I smiled and paused a moment before replying to Jamal. Good to know, I wrote back. I saved his number, and then packed up and went home. That night, as I lay on my bed, stark naked, I thought about the day's events. The unlikelihood of my running into an old buddy of my big brother's at the movies, and all the events that followed...all that simply amazed me. My life is usually carefully ordered and boring, as you can tell. I do lead a fairly active fantasy life, though.

As I lay there, I thought of a certain tall, dark and ruggedly handsome American gentleman...and those thoughts of mine were decidedly naughty. I closed my eyes, and my hands slipped between my thighs, as I let my mind wander. In my fantasy, Jamal was in bed with me, and I feasted my eyes on his dark, muscular body. He kissed my lips and caressed my breasts, and then made his way to the space between my thighs. Lick me lover, I pleaded, and Jamal happily obliged me, fastening his mouth to my pussy lips and eating me out like only a pussy-starved man can.

Writhing and moaning on the bed, I thrust my fingers into my wet pussy and pinched my nipples, as fantasyland Jamal continued to delight me, sticking his tongue inside my cunt and teasing me with his fingers. Soon I was crying out as I came, shuddering all over and shaking my bed violently as I came, my pussy squirting hot girly cum all over the damn sheets. I brought it to my lips and tasted it. Hey, a gal's got to have her thrills, especially while single, right?

Not nearly sated, I pulled my twin dildos out of my erotica drawer, next to my Zane novels, and made good use of them. I licked one, and slid it into my asshole while I worked the second one into my pussy. I rammed them both home, and filled myself completely. In my fantasy I envisioned Jamal on top of me, sliding his big Caribbean dick into ALL my holes as I spread my legs invitingly, giving him total access. For the second time that night, I cried out in pleasure. Shit, I'm definitely going to have to do laundry tomorrow because them sheets are frigging dirty but it was totally worth it. I fell asleep that night with a smile on my face.

I expected Jamal James Lafleur to call me the next day but he didn't. Instead he called me Thursday morning, and asked me to grab dinner with him at the Baton Rouge restaurant downtown on Saturday. Hmmm. Classy joint, dude must make decent money. As we talked on the phone, Jamal casually told me that right after getting his permanent residence card from the Canadian government, he applied for his realtor licence and now worked for Coldwell Banker, one of the top real estate companies in Canada. Apparently, he used to work for them in Massachusetts.

Got that American ambition I see, I laughed, pleased to hear that Jamal was out there getting things done. A lot of brothers I see in Ottawa don't think they can amount to anything. They let the racist white people get to them. There is greatness in men of color. With a university education, opportunity and ambition there's nothing black men can't accomplish in North America. As a woman of color living in Canada I firmly believe this. If black Canadian men don't get this, maybe it's high time we started getting some brothers from the States here in Ontario. American black guys like Jamal with their mixture of intelligence, cockiness and fearless might be just what the doctor ordered.