A Former Muslim Turns Lesbian


I’m happy to be single tonight, I smiled to myself as I listened to some rap music on YouTube. There I sat, typing away on Microsoft Word at a computer terminal inside the Carleton University library’s second floor. It’s almost six in the afternoon, and the library is busy as ever. Just another cold day in Ottawa, Ontario. From time to time, I glanced at my fellow students as they moved about. We have quite the microcosm at Carleton. From tall, blonde-haired white chicks who look like supermodels to curvy, brightly attired Latin women, short, smiling and furtive Asian women and hijab-wearing dark-skinned Somali ladies, and of course, men of all shades and walks of life. My eyes naturally zeroed in on the women because I am a woman who loves women. Oh, I love men too but I think women are hotter. There, I said it.

I’ve never been the most social person on the planet Earth. Always been the odd woman out. Literally and figuratively. And not just because I tend to stand out in a crowd. I stand six feet two inches tall, curvy and big-bottomed, and very dark-skinned. I was born in the City of Cap-Haitien, Republic of Haiti, and raised in the town of Brockton, Massachusetts. The name is Stephanie Voltaire Cherenfant, by the way. You might wonder what a Haitian-American sister like me is doing at a Canadian school. Well, why not? Last year, I was bored out of my skull at the University of Massachusetts campus in the City of Boston. This year, I get to be bored out of my mind at Carleton University in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. Isn’t that fun?

Last Sunday, I came out to my family. I was speaking to my aunt Gina Cherenfant. She still lives in the City of Brockton, Massachusetts, where she works as a Nurse. She’s the hard-working Haitian woman who raised me after the deaths van escort of my parents during one of Haiti’s numerous periods of violent political turmoil. Aunt Gina is married to a White guy named Peterson Robson. They have two daughters together, Leanne and Marie. Both are stellar students at Northeastern University. Even though I’m thankful to my aunt for taking me in after my parents perished, I never really fit in with her family. My cousins Leanne and Marie are twins, and they’re both tall, slender and light-skinned with green eyes. They consider themselves mixed rather than Black. They’re straight-laced, pretty as models, and got the world on a string. Good for them, I guess.

I was always the ugly duckling in my aunt’s picture perfect little family. As for my ‘uncle’ Peterson Robson, he’s a creep. I never liked him and I never hid it from them. The guy has issues, man. Okay, this might not make much sense to you but it’s the awful truth. My aunt married a racist. Uncle Peterson Robson might be married to a Black woman but he can’t stand Black folks. Especially Black men. He’s got a terrible fear of Black males. When I used to date young Black men, Uncle Peterson never hid his disapproval. He brainwashed his biracial twin daughters into thinking White men are perfect and Black men are chumps. And my aunt Gina never did anything to curtail that kind of racist brainwashing. She kowtows to that White dude so much that it’s disgusting. My twin cousins act Whiter than the cast of Gossip Girl. You can understand why I don’t get along with them.

Thankfully, I still remember my parents, Arthur Cherenfant and Fabiola Voltaire Cherenfant. I have always known that Black people can accomplish great things. Something that was anathema in the White-washed escort van household that adopted me. I never forgot where I came from, though. My dad Arthur Cherenfant studied in England and had an Oxford University degree in Aeronautical Engineering. He used to work for the now defunct Pan-Caribbean Airlines. As for my mother, Fabiola Voltaire Cherenfant, she studied Medicine at Tufts University in downtown Boston and practiced both in the U.S. and the Republic of Haiti. There, so much for Uncle Peterson’s stereotype that Black people can’t get anything done in this day and age. The treasured memory of my parents is part of the reason why I came to Canada. My mother’s older brother, Jacques Voltaire, lives in Ottawa with his Jamaican-Canadian wife Nicole Russell and their sons Edmond and Matthew.

I’m still getting to know that side of my family, but I get along with them much better. My uncle Jacques is a nice man. His wife Nicole is a good woman. She treats me much better than aunt Gina did. They’re a big part of the reason why I am actually starting to like my life in Ottawa. I’m taking up Criminology at Carleton University. When I graduate in 2013, I just might stay in Canada. I can see myself working for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police or something. Either that or I’ll go to Law school and become a kick-ass attorney. My uncle filed for me to become a permanent resident of Canada. I’ve met other Americans in big Canadian towns like Toronto, Vancouver, Montreal, Halifax, Calgary and of course Ottawa. There are far more United States citizens living in the Confederation of Canada than people realize. The Canadian town with the most American residents is the City of Calgary in Alberta. I visited it last semester. Calgary can be a fun place van escort bayan but far too redneck for my liking. I prefer the City of Toronto. It’s more my style.

As I continue to daydream and listen to music, I almost panic when suddenly, a hand clamps down over my eyes. I gasp, but a laugh and a whisper reassure me. The hand is suddenly gone, and I whirl around to look into a very familiar and beautiful face. This face belongs to Samirah Amal Bashir. A six-foot-tall, beautiful young woman with light brown skin, long Black hair and light gray eyes. Samirah was the first person I befriended at Carleton University when I attended the Summer Orientation for International Students. Samirah hails from the City of Mogadishu in Somalia but has lived in Ontario for more than half her life. This vibrant young woman raised in a conservative Muslim household is openly gay and considers herself Agnostic. Lately, she’s been accompanying me at All Nations Full Gospel Church, an afro-centric church in Ottawa.

I look into Samirah’s lovely eyes, and kiss her passionately. Samirah throws her arms around me and kisses me. When we come up for hair, the nerdy-looking White guy sitting at a computer is staring weirdly at us. A chubby Black guy in a red jacket nods at us appreciatively. Samirah winks at me, then takes me by hand. I tell her that I’ve got work to do. She looks at my computer, and frowns at the Rihanna videos I’ve been browsing. She wags her finger at me, puckers her lips in that sexy way she knows I like, and I nod. I’m a sucker for a sexy Black woman with cute lips. Hand in hand, we walk to the Page Break, this neat little restaurant located inside the Carleton University library. Time for a break indeed. What can I say? My woman missed me. Samirah playfully smacks my ass, and I yelp. I pout, and she shrugs and laughs, but secretly, I love it. And she knows it. I love my feisty Somali girlfriend. And she loves me. I’m a bisexual Haitian-American Christian female living in Ottawa with my Somali-born ex-Muslim girlfriend and we are happy together.

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