1 comments/ 4499 views/ 1 favorites From Indonesia with Love By: Samuelx I have to put on a fake smile and remind myself to be patient with idiots who mistake me for others who may or may not be part of my ethnicity. Price I pay for being Asian in western society, I guess. My name is Armida Waluyo, and my friends call me Amy. I was born in the City of Pekalongan, Indonesia, and moved with my parents, Fajar and Nisrina Waluyo, to Ontario, Canada, in the tenth summer of my life. Ten years later, I'm a second-year student at Algonquin College in Ottawa, struggling to make ends myth. The North American Dream, what they sell you on TV, it's not easy to achieve. If there is one Canadian town with a clear divide between the haves and the have-nots it's Ottawa. I truly do wish that Canadians would stop beating us immigrants over the head with their multiculturalism slogan. Seriously. They don't like us, I wish they'd stop pretending! Where am I going with this? Let me elaborate a bit. If your last name is Chang, Hussein, Yamamoto or something else that's obviously not western, and you're an educated person shopping your resume around, don't bother. At least not in the City of Ottawa. It's a fairly conservative town, which is a polite way of saying that it's not minority-friendly. I've met people of African, Asian, Hispanic and Arabian descent who hold degrees from schools like University of Ottawa, Carleton University and the University of Toronto and they're working at Starbucks downtown because the white people in the fancy offices won't hire them. Even entry-level positions are routinely denied to non-white applicants in both the public and private sector. Breaks my heart when I see such talented young people unfairly denied the chance to shine. What can I do? I don't run this town that runs on systemic discrimination. When it comes to landing good jobs in Ottawa, you've got to get really creative if you're a minority. I work at a Call Center downtown. They pay me seventeen dollars per hour, and I have an ID badge that lets me into the building. It's got my picture on it and everything. I wear it on a lanyard around my neck to show it off to the bigots who stare hard at me as I ride the OC Transpo bus from Orleans to downtown Ottawa where I work. How I got that job is one for the ages. I called them and sent them my resume. They said they'd call me back but didn't. Four weeks went by. I was in dire straits, so something had to give. I finally showed up at the Call Center, and got past security. I managed to get to the human resources department, and ran into one Betty Madison. A short, red-haired and stocky, masculine white woman. Out of ideas and out of break, and looking over my shoulder for the approaching security guards, I frantically handed her my resume in a hail Mary move. As the security guards got ready to escort me out, the odd woman promised she'd call me. And she did, I came back for an actual interview. Yup, that's how I got hired! I love working at the Call Center. The other workers suck, and there's a lot of backstabbing and name-calling but that's okay...as a Muslim woman living in western society, I was ready for it. After living in Canada's Capital region for over a decade, I have lost all traces of my Indonesian accent. Anyone looking at me would see a five-foot-six, slender, bronze-skinned, brown-eyed and raven-haired Asian gal in her early twenties. I speak English and French fluently, having attended a bilingual school in Orleans shortly after my folks moved there. Oh, and just in case you're wondering, I'm a proud citizen of Canada. Took the oath of citizenship downtown ages ago, when I was still in high school. And yet not a day goes by without some fool, usually of European descent, asking me where I come from. Sometimes I like to flip the question on them, the almighty Euro-Canadians. Where are you from, buddy? I ask them, deadpan. They usually stare at me blankly and say they're Canadian. Smirking, I ask them where in Europe are they from since they don't look Native. This usually irks them, at which point they either walk away or cuss me out. Sorry for being somewhat flippant but someone has to keep these fools in check. The planet Earth is the abode of all humanity. From the darkest man in Africa to the peoples of South Asia, the Latinos, the Caribbean people, the Arabs and the Europeans. No single group can lay greater claim over this world than any other. For the Most High hath made us all... Sorry if I'm bitching but I really get frustrated with them people in Ottawa. My parents live in Toronto now and they love it. It's where most of the newcomers to Canada love to stay. Lots of Arabs, Africans, Asians and Latinos in the Greater Toronto Area. I think whites are on their way to becoming a minority in the GTA if current population trends hold. It's a lovely place and it's quite diverse but I can't afford to live there. Besides, I'm close to earning my bachelor's degree in business at Algonquin College. Why quit when I'm so close to the finish line? Yeah, didn't make much sense to me either. Besides, I have one reason to stay in Ottawa, and his name is Garaad "Gary" Suleiman. I met the six-foot-four, athletic and dark-skinned Somali stud under less than ideal circumstances. It was nighttime and I was hanging around the Rideau Center. I wanted to catch the number eighteen bus to Vanier, because I was staying with my friend Leanne Abdullah at the time. Leanne is tall and skinny, dark-haire d and fair-skinned. Born in Lebanon to a Maronite Christian family, she's really into Muslim guys for some reason. I guess that's why she loves the east end so much. Anyhow, while waiting for the bus, I got accosted and hassled by three creepy white guys. They leered at me, smoking, drinking and smirking. The Rideau Center's bus stop is one of the scariest parts of Ottawa at night. All the whackos hang around that place. The bozos who get into fights for no reason, the crack heads, the poseurs, the thugs and the wannabe thugs. If you're a young woman in a short skirt just waiting at the bus stop, you're just asking for trouble. At least that's what some people seem to think. So, these guys started hollering at me and I told them to fuck off. Didn't deter them, in fact it spurred them on. Before I knew it, I was surrounded by them. When racist creeps get some alcohol in their system, they're all the more dangerous because they feel invincible. I don't know what I would have done if Gary hadn't stepped in. The tall black dude in the Kufi hat and overalls stepped between me and the creeps, and told them to buzz off. Racist white guys tend to be weary of big and tall black men. It's the one guy that makes them nervous. A brother who's strong-looking and wouldn't mind beating them up if he had to. They'll fuck with anybody except the brothers. Bigoted white guys are terrified of black men, it's a well-known fact. That's why they feel the need to swagger and act all tough when they've got the advantage of numbers. Yet five white guys aren't bold enough to take on three well-built black men, not unless the predictably bigoted cops are around to jump to the white guys rescue. Cowards, the whole lot of them. I mean, to feel like real men, they surrounded me, calling me a chink bitch for rebuking their drunken advances and I, a wee little woman, as I've often been called, stood up to them. Well, I did, until they started shoving me. That's when Gary stepped in, and shoved them back. They sobered right up when they saw him. Big and tall and black, the personification of everything they hate and fear. They seized him up, and I guess they felt like they could take him. Well, I stood by his side, this perfect stranger who stuck up for me. I drew a pen from my purse, and held it before me like a dagger. The three bigoted schmucks looked at Gary, then at me. One of them grunted something about Canada letting in too many damn chinks and niggers, then they walked away. Gary started after them as they cross the street but I stopped him. They're not worth it, I said, halting him by laying my hand on his arm. Gary looked at me, hesitated, then nodded. Finally, he returned to the bus stop. There were quite a few people who'd been observing the whole exchange between myself, the drunken racist thugs and my eventual rescuer. I looked at Gary, and thanked him for his help. Nodding, he shrugged and said it was the right thing to do. Before I could reply to that, the number nine bus came and Gary got on it. He waved me goodbye, and I stood there, blown away by the whole event. I got to Leanne's place that night, a bit rattled, as you can imagine. The two of us stayed up late that night, and I decided right then and there that I would never go anywhere near Rideau Street on my own at night again. Not unless I had a revolver or something and as you may know, handguns are illegal in peaceful little Canada. I went to bed that night thinking of Garaad, my hero. I figured I'd never see him again. Ottawa may feel like a small town but it's got about a million people. You can go ages without running into some people...even if they never leave town. I went to school the following Monday, and guess who I saw coming out of the library. Gary, the tall Somali dude from that unforgettable night. Except he was wearing a black and red sports coat with the words "Carleton Ravens" written all over it, blue jeans and boots. And there was a short, slender young Black woman with him. I approached them, and much to my surprise, Gary actually remembered me. As Salam Alaikum Amy, he said. I nodded, and shook his hand. This is my sister Maymuna, Gary said, nodding to the gal next to him. I shook Maymuna's hand and gave her the run-down about how I met her brother. That's my brother he's a real hero, Maymuna grinned. I smiled and nodded at that. I stood there, smiling awkwardly at Gary and Maymuna, and wondering what else I could say. Fortunately, Maymuna was a real sweetheart who invited me to grab a bite with her and her brother. We ate at a Quizno's restaurant located not far from Algonquin College, off of Baseline Road. Thus I learned a bit about Gary and his sister. Gary's in his third year in the criminology program at Carleton University. The tall Somali brother spoke with pride as he told me his dream of one day becoming a lawyer. You can totally do it, I chimed in enthusiastically. Maymuna shot me a look but said nothing. We continued talking. Indeed, Maymuna told me about her prowess in the police foundations program here at Algonquin but I didn't really listen. My eyes were riveted on Garaad "Gary" Suleiman. The brother was well-spoken, and quite handsome! After lunch, we parted ways, for Gary had to go back to Carleton. He was only visiting his baby sister at our school. Always one to seize the moment, I took out my cell phone and gave each of them my number. I don't know a lot of people in town, I said sheepishly. Maymuna rolled her eyes, apparently seeing through my ploy but Gary seemed to buy it. I wished them both well, then went back to class. I went to the library and did the creep thing on Facebook, hunting for one Garaad Suleiman. Lucky for me, my 'potential new love interest' had a profile. I checked it out and sent him a friend request. To my surprise and delight, he added me as a friend mere minutes later. Hmmm. Apparently he's got Facebook on his iPhone. Cool. Gary called me a few hours later, and we made plans to hang out. I told him I'm a very outgoing person who loves to meet new people. As you can imagine, Gary was delighted to hear that. When he invited me to go see a movie with him, I jumped at the chance. Look, I know I seemed eager but fuck it, life is too short to fool around, you know? A lot of girls make the mistake of fooling around and driving off the good guys while chasing the bad ones. Me? I know better. Garaad Suleiman is definitely the type of guy I could see myself with. He's good-looking, intelligent, ambitious and going places. Oh yeah, and he saved my narrow Indonesian ass the first time he saw me. He's a fellow Muslim, being Somali and all, and seems like a good guy. That's got to count for something. So, yeah, I decided I'd go out with him and see what happens. That was six months ago....we've been together ever since. What can I say? I've got it like that. Peace be upon you. From Indonesia With Love : T.O. When most girls envision their future, most think of their wedding day rather than marriage and family. And that, my friends, is a problem. It takes two to tango, and I honestly feel that if most people put as much energy into their marriages as they did their wedding days, there'd be fewer divorces. Seriously. My name is Tika Danusubroto-Wallace and I was born and raised in Pariaman, a coastal town in the Sumatra region of Indonesia. After living in Canada for half my life, I still feel at odds with this wonderful and at times treacherous new homeland of mine. Today, I am a happily married woman and a mother of three living in the City of Toronto. My husband Suleiman and I have two sons, Omar and Kader, and a daughter, our little angel Rani. We're just another family living in the diverse and lively suburb of Mississauga, we simply happen to be an interracial Muslim family. We do alright for ourselves, I think. I hold a bachelor's degree in business administration from the University of Toronto and I am currently working on my MBA. In the meantime, I'm an account manager with the Toronto Dominion Bank downtown. My husband Suleiman is a corrections officer. Our family lives in a nice house in Mississauga. By all signs, we've made it, thanks to hard work and effort. So why do I feel like there's something missing? Even though my passport now says Canadian, I'll always be considered the cultural other in this beautiful land. I guess it's the price I pay for being an outsider. In the eleventh summer of my life, my parents, Adnan and Maryam Danusubroto left Indonesia for Ontario, Canada. We've been living here ever since. When we first arrived in Toronto, the place simply blew us away. The most beautiful and racially diverse metropolis in North America became our home. We were in love with it from the get go, disillusionment only came later. Whenever I talk to folks back in Indonesia, they're so naïve about life in the West it's not even funny. They don't know what life is really like for southeast Asians in the great white north. I'm five-foot-seven, bronze-skinned, black-haired and brown-eyed. I am a minority woman in Canada. During the early days, I wore the hijab but now I do not. I still consider myself a devout Muslim. It's piety and sincerity that makes a true believer, not items of clothing. Allah can see right through all of us, can He not? To understand the root of my malaise, I feel it's necessary to go back to the beginning. Wide-eyed immigrants who feel like a wonderful, easy life await them in Canada are easy for me to spot, doesn't matter where they're from. What can I say? My parents and I once fit into this category. Not anymore. Living in this land has toughened us up. We're well-aware of the struggles and endless battles against the prejudice which await visible minorities in this oh so wonderful place. Back in Indonesia, my father was a businessman, he owned several restaurants. As for my mother, she was a nurse. Both were shocked to find out that their educational credentials weren't valid in Canada. Supposedly, the Canadian government is working on a program to adequately evaluate the college and university degrees of foreign-born and foreign-educated peoples, and integrate them into the Canadian workforce. That's a load of bullshit. If you were born outside Canada and your degree is also from the outside world, you're going to have a tough time in this country. They're politely but firmly xenophobic up here, and they fear educated and ambitious visible minority types the most. I can't tell you about how bright young men and women from places like Nigeria, Pakistan, India and China walk into the bank to drop off their resumes, and never hear from us again. Just in case you're wondering, they've got degrees from schools like Algonquin College, La Cite Collegiale, the University of Ottawa and Carleton University. They're educated in Canada, and for the most part, they're Canadian citizens. They simply happen to be non-white, and that's an unwritten and unpardonable sin, especially in Ottawa. The few visible minorities you see working at the professional level in Ottawa and Toronto tend to be either entry-level private sector types or government workers. In Canada, we've got discrimination down to a science. You could have a degree from McGill University and if your last name sounds exotic, foreign, or outrageously different, they simply throw your resume into the shredder at the end of the day. The same person who smiled at you and welcomed you into his or her office will toss your resume in the trash and have a chuckle about it at the water cooler with their colleague that same day. Why are they doing this, you may ask? Simply because they're afraid. The mostly white workforce of Canada is growing grayer day by day, and they're deathly afraid of the influx of young, energetic and educated Asians, Africans, Arabs, Hispanics and other visible minority types set to replace them. And the fact that we visible minorities tend to produce more offspring than white Canadians is also a worrisome trend. This country is changing, and not everybody is happy about it. Welcome to twenty-first century Canada. I wasn't always that cynical, though. My parents nicknamed me "Beautiful Dreamer" when I was little. I thought I was going to find fame and fortune in Canada. Believe it or not, I didn't always want to work in banking and finance. I once wanted to be an actress. Lucy Liu was one of my favorite actresses growing up. I thought that if western audiences could embrace a beautiful Asian woman like her, then there was hope for me. I would later sadly learn that while many in the west find Asian women beautiful, that attraction is perverted, for they fetishize us, rather than seeing us as the lovely human beings we happen to be. In high school, I met a young man named Lucien Lemieux. Tall, red-haired and green-eyed, he was the captain of the football team and lots of girls at school wanted him. And I was no exception. You can imagine how I thrilled I was when he asked me out. We began dating, and I was really into him. I saw him as my prince charming. Until the day one of his friends made a joke about Chinese people, and he laughed. Now, I'm Indonesian, not Chinese, but westerners can't tell visually the difference between Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese, Koreans or Indonesians. I'd been called "China Doll" more times than I could count by random guys, usually white, on the streets of Toronto. Like all visible minorities in Canada, I've encountered racism and knew to be weary of certain loud-mouthed, bigoted white guys but for some reason, I thought Lucien was different. Well, he wasn't. When I confronted him about his buddies jokes about Asians, Lucien flat out told me to get over it. I was stunned. This was the first time I realized that just because someone is open to dating outside their race doesn't mean they're not racist. That night, I went home and cried myself to sleep. I couldn't believe that someone as smart and gorgeous as Lucien was bigoted. Although it pained me, I broke up with Lucien shortly after. For the rest of my high school career, I focused on academics, and became a recluse. The only good thing that came out of it is that I won a full academic scholarship to the University of Toronto. I tried my hand at modeling and acting, hooked up with the folks of Barbizon's Modeling School. It turned out to be a colossal waste of time and effort. In 2010, at the age of twenty two, I graduated from the University of Toronto. During the summer after graduation, I went to live in Ottawa with my good friend Artemis Chang, a young Chinese-Canadian immigrant woman I met at school. We were both socially awkward academic superstars. What can I say? We bonded. Artemis and I moved into an apartment on Bronson Avenue, not far from the Carleton University campus. Artemis opted to go to Carleton for her MBA. Me? I was done with school for the time being and felt like joining the real world. I think I hit just about every place in Ottawa in my job search. Both the private sector and the government sector had the same answer for me, namely, they weren't hiring. Alright, they weren't people like me, that's the fucking truth. Isn't that a blip? After three months in Ottawa, I had gotten about sixteen job interviews, and none of them called me back. Out of boredom, I went to Carleton, mainly to use the library computers. I also told them I was considering their brand-new Sprott School of Business. One day, while walking through the library, I bumped into someone...extraordinary. Tall, broad-shouldered and muscular, with dark brown skin, curly black hair and light brown eyes. Solomon Wallace, born and raised in the town of Frankfield, Clarendon Parish, somewhere on the island of Jamaica. Looking for something? he asked me as I stood on the library's third floor, near the computers, exasperated after hours of fruitless job search. Yeah I need a job, I told him sarcastically. The young black man smiled at me and said he was in the same boat. In his booming voice, he introduced himself as Solomon Wallace, and we shook hands. I'm Tika, I said simply. I'd been coming to the Carleton University library for months, usually in the evenings, and had never really spoken to anyone. And yet, there I was, talking to a big and tall young black guy with an imposing build and fearless smile. I told him it was nice to meet him, then went back to my seat. I smiled to myself as I resumed my search, looking for Ontario-wide jobs with Google as my ally. I am Muslim, but I'm not ashamed to say that in Google I trust. I think I must have sent my resume to a thousand places, usually via email. Corporations. Mom and pop stores. Department stores. Mid-sized businesses. You name it. How many of them replied with "sorry we're not hiring at this time" or didn't reply at all? Most of them. I took a break, and went to the University Center food court. Can you guess who I ran into in line at the Shawarma place? None other than Solomon Wallace, or as I called him in my mind, the Jamaican prince. Hello again, he said, and I smiled and nodded. We made small talk while in line, then grabbed our food. Please join me, Solomon said, as he made his way to the checkout line. I smiled and nodded. Sounds good to me, I said, smiling as Solomon and I made our way back to the cafeteria. We sat together near the window overlooking the big parking lot outside the University Center building. As we ate some delicious rice and potatoes along with Shawarma sandwiches, I got to know Solomon Wallace a bit better. We were from very different worlds, and yet, I felt a kinship with him. I can't explain it, it's just something I felt, you know? Solomon was very proud of his Jamaican heritage, though he considered himself spiritual rather than religious, unlike the majority of Jamaicans, who follow Christian beliefs. I believe in God but it's humanity I have a problem with sometimes, Solomon said evenly. I looked at him and smiled at that. I believe in Allah and bow down to His will, I said with a curt nod in Solomon's direction. For over an hour we sat there, talking about religion, school, politics, anything we could think of. Solomon was a year younger than me and wrapping up his fourth year in the criminology program at Carleton University. I want to work enforcement someday soon, he said confidently. I nodded and tried to look supportive. The job market is treacherous nowadays, I cautioned Solomon wearily. Shrugging his massive shoulders, Solomon shook his head. They don't like to hire those who don't look like them that's why we must fight them for our rights, he said, raising his voice a bit. People sitting nearby looked at us but Solomon ignored them. I admire your confidence, I said, looking into Solomon's deep brown eyes. Solomon nodded, and pursed his lips. The moment we start believing their lies about minorities being less qualified we're doomed, he said. I looked at Solomon, and saw a headstrong, fearless guy. Of course, he is still in university and hasn't even seen what the job market is like yet. Maybe he'll sing a different tune in a year or two. It's about who you know not what you know, I told him, sharing some pearls of wisdom with this sweetly naïve young black man. Solomon grinned, and told me he was all about networking. Let's keep in touch, he said, taking out his cell phone. I hesitated. Typically, I don't give out my phone number to random guys I meet. There are a lot of creeps and losers out there. However, I sensed something in Solomon. There is something different about him. Okie, I said, and told him my digits. I still have a Toronto-area cell phone. Ottawa is whack and I honestly don't intend to be here long. Cool, Solomon said, then he got up and grabbed our empty plates. Be right back, he said, and walked away with them. I couldn't help admiring Solomon firm backside as he went to the trash bin, tossed the empty plates and cups inside, then came back. It was good to meet you Tika but I really have to go to class, he said. I smiled and shook his hand. Our eyes met. Pleasure's all mine, I said, and watched him walk away. Hmmm. The guy is overly enthusiastic, decidedly energetic and a tad bit full of himself. He's seriously easy on the eyes and has the cutest butt I've seen in a while. I'll definitely keep in touch with that one, I said to myself as I gathered my laptop and other belongings. It was definitely time to head home. That night, Solomon called me, kind of surprising me, to tell you the truth, and we ended up talking on the phone for over an hour. What can I say? The guy's funny, well-informed, and can keep you talking forever if you let him. When he asked to meet me somewhere, I told him I'd meet him anywhere except malls and campus restaurants. Solomon laughed and told me he wanted to show me one of his favorite places, since I was new to Ottawa. Surprise me, I said, before wishing him goodnight and hanging up. On Thursday, exactly two days after we met, Solomon took me to the National Gallery of Canada, a world-famous museum and an Ottawa landmark. Incidentally, he once worked there as a security guard. Your old stomping grounds eh? I chided Solomon, elbowing him in the ribs none too gently. Solomon laughed and shrugged. I sometimes miss the place, he said, as he took me on a tour of the building. We were inside the chapel along with a few tourists, and I'd had enough of art for one day. Solomon and I grabbed a bite at the museum cafeteria, and he introduced me to some of his former co-workers, guys and gals he knew from his security days. Lovely lady friend you have here, said his friend DJ, a tall, burly middle-eastern guy. As salam alaikum, I told DJ, flashing him a bright smile. DJ, a native of Algeria, was surprised to hear that I was Muslim. I thought you were Chinese, he said, somewhat apologetically. I'm Indonesian, I said proudly. Solomon laughed. Big mistake amigo, he said, clapping DJ on the shoulder. DJ excused himself, his lunch break was apparently over, and he rushed out of the camera like a bat out of hell. Solomon and I sat there, eating. You've got some funny friends, I said. Solomon shrugged. Life takes us many places my sister, he said evenly. I thought about his words. Seriously, is this guy part poet, part aspiring law enforcement officer and part jock? Apparently so. The more I learned about one Solomon Wallace, the more I wanted to know. He told me his parents, Paul and Janice Wallace lived in Toronto with his sister Nadine and his older brother Rodrick. You must miss them a lot, I said, gently touching Solomon's hand. I miss my family every day but Ottawa is a better place to study than Toronto, Solomon said firmly, his eyes locking with mine. Looking into Solomon's eyes, which are usually filled with intensity, I saw a surprising vulnerability. One that touched me. It's okay, I said, looking at Solomon as his eyes grew moist and uncertain. I have family in Toronto and I miss them too, I said. Solomon looked at me silently for a long moment. Thank God someone understands, he said wistfully, and I nodded. Arm in arm, we left the museum for a walk around town. And that's how it began, ladies and gentlemen. People often call Ottawa the town that fun forgot ( and rightly so ) but it's also the place where I met the love of my life. Solomon and I began seeing each other, and I must say, this charismatic, utterly fearless ( yet deeply sensitive ) young man was an injection of energy into my otherwise dreary life. With him by my side, the new city I found myself in stopped feeling like a dead end. I guess it doesn't matter where you are, only who you're with. Solomon and I changed each other's lives, in more ways than one. He was curious about Indonesian culture, and the Muslim faith, I regaled him with tales of my youth back in Sumatra. I read the Koran to him at night, as we lay side by side in his dorm. In all my time in Canada, I had never met anyone I connected with so well. Solomon is friendly, charming and easygoing. He only gets intense when the topics of discussion were race, culture and discrimination. I don't know what it's like to be black and male but as an Indonesian-Canadian woman, I am considered a visible minority, and I've endured my share of discrimination. I can relate to Solomon's sense of frustration. After all, I graduated from the University of Toronto with my business degree and can't find work...this is six months after graduation, by the way. I got myself a part-time job at a restaurant called Iberia in the Little Italy area of Ottawa. It's an upscale place, meaning that you need a reservation and an invitation to get a good seat. I liked the staff and the owners just fine. The clientele was nice enough, lots of big tippers. I had been at the job for a month before the first 'bad' incident. My boss, Rico Bonnelli is nice enough, but his son Antonio is quite a handful. He's got a thing for Asian girls, something my Japanese co-worker Yasmin Yasumoto warned me about. Antonio is tall, well-built, dark-haired and bronze-skinned. Many would call him handsome, but his cold gaze has given me the creeps from day one. One day, he practically cornered me in the kitchen. Hello short stuff, he said, eyeing me lustfully while licking his lips. I glared at Antonio. I got to go, I said, and tried to walk past him. Clearly one who is used to getting his way, Antonio grabbed me by the shoulder and slammed me against the kitchen wall. Stay a while, he said, grinning. As I winced in pain, Antonio brought his face dangerously close to mine. You're really pretty, he said, gently touching my face. Antonio let me go, I said, and for some reason this made him laugh. That's when I smacked the shit out of him, pardon my French. As Antonio gasped in shock, I ran out of the kitchen. I complained to the manager, Rosa Antonelli, and she told me she'd look into it, then hugged me and sent me home. The next day, I was fired. When I told this to Solomon, he just lost it. Later, unbeknownst to me, he went to Iberia's and confronted Antonio. The end result? A black eye and bruised ribs for Antonio, assault charges were filed and later dropped against Solomon. We didn't escape this unscathed, however. A restraining order was filed against Solomon and myself. Until we die, neither of us is allowed anywhere near that particular restaurant, or the Bonelli family. Nobody messes with my lady, Solomon told me, after we walked out of the Elgin Street courthouse. I looked at this roughly handsome, headstrong and emotional young man. The one who'd do anything for me. I love you for this, I said, and, on the courthouse steps, we shared our first kiss. Yup, and this is how I met my future husband and the father of my brood, ladies and gentlemen. Solomon and I fell in love, and in time, he came to embrace Islam. Allah is true because He brought you and I together, Solomon, who took the Arabic name Suleiman, said to me the night before he took his Shahada at a mosque in Ottawa. I met Suleiman's family when we returned to Toronto, and I'm happy to say that they're lovely and totally accepting of our relationship. My own parents had their misgivings, until I shared with them the story of how Suleiman defended my honor by standing up to Antonio, the entitled and arrogant Italian bozo. After that, they welcomed him into the fold with open arms. From Indonesia With Love : T.O. I was moved to tears as I watched Suleiman graduate with a bachelor's degree in criminology from Carleton University one bright Sunday in June 2011. I celebrated his big day with him and his family, and it was a wonderful celebration. A couple of weeks later, Suleiman and I decided to go on a cross-country road trip, just the two of us. We wanted to spend some time together as a couple, and kind of get away from it all. We got in my dad's old Volkswagen, loaded it up with gas and supplies, and drove from Toronto, Ontario, to Buffalo, New York. We stayed at a quaint little hotel near the Galleria Mall and spent a couple of days walking around Buffalo. The town is lovely and diverse, but also quite segregated. I mean, the white parts look suburban, quaint and peaceful. The predominant African-American part of town has potholes on the roads, barely-paved roads, and tons of boarded up houses. It's almost as if half of Buffalo is a North American metropolis and the other half is some Third World shantytown. What gives? Suleiman and I saw many disturbing things while in Buffalo. The town is something else, very lively, but it also saddens me. Look, there are some crappy places in Toronto and even Ottawa but in Buffalo, what I saw made me cry. Next, Suleiman and I drove to New York City, and after eight hours on the road, we pulled over to the side, and slept. We ate at a McDonalds come morning, and continued our journey. We finally arrived in Manhattan a couple hours later, and went straight to a hotel, The Ace Hotel. You should have seen the way they looked at us, a black man and a young Asian woman, with Canadian accents, booking a room at a hotel in NYC. Suleiman and I looked at each other and smiled. Haters going to hate, Suleiman whispered into my ear as we took the key card from the concierge and took the elevator. Suleiman and I stayed at The Ace Hotel for three days, and explored Manhattan and much of New York City. It was fun, walking around Times Square, and visiting places like the Apollo Theater, and parts of Brooklyn and Harlem. New York City is beautiful, and I saw lots of people of all colors on its streets. Still, after a few days in the City That Never Sleeps, I missed Toronto. Suleiman and I drove back to the border. America is beautiful, the land of opportunity, where racial and religious minorities can achieve things that their counterparts in Canada can only dream of, but it's not home. Toronto is home. There's no place like home, I said to Suleiman as we stepped out of the car in the parking lot of our building. Amen to that mamas, Suleiman said, patting my ample derriere. We went into the bedroom, hand in hand, and once there, we made love. Passionately. I love this man, what can I say? The day Solomon "Suleiman" Wallace came into my life, he changed it forever. As a university-educated interracial Muslim couple in the City of Toronto, we knew the odds were against us. We're part of the changing face of Canada. A black man and a southeast Asian woman, both foreign-born and both Muslim, forging a life for ourselves in the great white north. We knew many would hate us simply for being who we are. Nevertheless, we were determined to make our relationship work. And that's exactly what we did, supporting each other in our search for work, fighting for our love in the face of bigotry and intolerance, and ultimately prevailing, with Allah's grace. I thank the Most High for His blessings. Peace be upon you.