From Indonesia With Love : T.O.

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Indonesian woman meets black man in Toronto.
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Part 2 of the 2 part series

Updated 08/27/2017
Created 03/10/2014
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Samuelx
Samuelx
2,112 Followers

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 in law 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.

Samuelx
Samuelx
2,112 Followers
12