They Said This Would Be Fun

by Eternity Martis

  I didn’t feel fulfilled by this arrangement, but telling him started hours-long fights that always ended the same way.

  “This is who I am. But I love you enough to let you go if you’re unhappy.”

  “Maybe we’re just too different,” I’d say. But the next day, he’d call me as if nothing had happened. We fought every night after his late-night taxi shift, coming to the same conclusion: we loved each other too much to let go, but that was no match for the mountain of difference ahead of us. I had tried to find ways of changing who I was to make our relationship work. But I was slowly realizing that there was nothing wrong with me in the first place.

  I was starting to feel myself bloom. This change felt physiological, like every atom in my body was bursting, like I was shedding my old skin and glowing with consciousness. Amir was wrong that exploring my values and beliefs—my adventurousness, my curiosity, my independence, my disregard for gender roles—made me hedonistic, abnormal, and unladylike. And I had let his judgement shame me into thinking I was a bad, immoral person.

  I was still working through what it meant to be in a relationship—what I owed Amir as my partner, and what he had no right to ask for. His expectation that I change in order to fit into his life was starting to feel like a deal-breaker. After so many years of changing who I was to fit into other people’s lives, to make myself convenient and small, I was finally giving myself permission to walk away from people who didn’t nurture my growth. For once, I felt fiercely protective of myself. This meant I no longer wanted to explain myself for the sake of someone else’s insecurities, or be less of myself to make others feel comfortable.

  A month before my fourth year was over, Amir asked me if I wanted to get engaged. I thought he was joking.

  “Don’t you want to get married soon? It’s the next step,” he said.

  “I don’t think that’s our next step right now. We’ve got a lot of things to figure out,” I replied.

  “I’m going to ask your mom’s permission anyway,” he said, with a grin.

  I knew my mother would never tell Amir what he wanted to hear. Too many times over the course of our relationship, she had pointed out that her daughter was not meant to sit at home and put her life on hold for a man. They had spent many moments together, sitting and smoking in each other’s cars, talking about me. They spoke on the phone sometimes, she was like a second mother to him. They were honest with each other about everything—my mother sided with me when she thought I was right, and she told Amir and me when we were both acting foolish. And he was being foolish now, asking a woman he knew he wasn’t compatible with to spend the rest of her life trying to fit into the mould of what he wanted. “You’re a good person,” my mother said when he called her about the engagement. “But you’re not right for my daughter.”

  A couple of weeks later, he asked me again about marriage. I asked him a question back: if we got married, what did that mean for my way of life—hanging out with friends, socializing, going out? Unacceptable for a married woman, he said. My mouth? Too opinionated. My writing? Too explicit. My freedom? We’d be living with his parents—people I still hadn’t met—and they’d make the rules.

  I looked at his face—he seemed almost excited, like he thought I was considering his proposal. I realized he didn’t know me at all—worse, he thought who I was as a person was a phase, that I’d be willing and able to change my politics, my pastimes, my stubbornness, my independence, my unruly, unladylike behaviour, my nasty, filthy mouth—all for a ring. I wanted love, to be loved, to feel love for someone else, and I wanted it so badly that I’d attached myself to someone whose acceptance was conditional on toning myself down silently and dutifully.

  As a teenager, I had completely lost myself in my relationship with Joshua, whose control over me had made me afraid of getting stuck with the wrong guy. Now in my early twenties, I was in another relationship, which was controlling in different ways. Amir was a gentle guy, he was a nice guy. He wasn’t the man you ever had to worry about stepping out on you. And that kind of reassurance alone would be enough for some women to jump into the matrimonial pool and hope the issues resolved themselves. I knew I had found someone who wouldn’t abandon me like my father. But the mere thought of settling for this life made my stomach twist and my breath shorten. I wanted to be that woman for him. I wished I could provide the kind of submission he needed, hoping I’d like it, that it would be something that I wanted to do. I wondered what was wrong with me, why I couldn’t just bow down, why the thought of settling and living with a half-hearted decision made me erupt into a cold sweat.

  Perhaps it was because I had seen what settling could do in a marriage. Some of the women in my family had done it: played their domestic roles, raised kids (and grandkids), behaved modestly and conservatively. I saw them stay at home, cooking, cleaning, and caring for their children and elderly parents and in-laws while their husbands earned the money—and if they also worked, they still had to perform the same amount of emotional and domestic labour at home. They didn’t have a choice, as a woman of their generation, to abandon the expectations of their family, culture, and religion. Some of them broke their silence: If I had known. If I could do it over again. If I was a young woman during your time. If I was a woman like you. I had seen the torn, pained look on their faces, their own fear of just how far their regret ran.

  My mother has never cared for marriage. As the only person in the family without a spouse, she doesn’t let the judgement of others bother her. She is unapologetically herself: loud, opinionated, independent. She refuses to change for anyone. My own grandfather, the only one among his siblings to marry for love, put aside the beliefs he was raised with to make sure that my mother didn’t settle for my father, and to make sure that I never needed to rely on a man to take care of me. He raised me as a daughter, but with the leniency of a grandparent, and he encouraged me to live a full life without apology. He pushed for me to get an education, to be smart, to think for myself—to know myself before even thinking of marriage. He has never criticized the way I’ve chosen to live my life, never called me unwomanly or unnatural for not following the status quo.

  I wasn’t raised to be what Amir wanted. We both had to accept that.

  As the end of my four years at Western loomed, I fell out of love. And Amir knew it too. I would be starting my Master of Journalism program at Ryerson in Toronto in the fall, and I needed to focus on this new chapter in my life. I didn’t want to argue about going out with new friends or worry about whether my decisions—the ones that I made in my best interests—would offend him. I didn’t want to put myself second anymore.

  After final exams finished in April, I moved back home. Amir and I spoke every couple of days, though there was nothing to talk about. In June, I went back to London for my convocation; Amir brought me flowers, and sat with my family, proudly taking photos. A week later I took a three-week trip to Europe. The day before I left, I texted him. I’ll talk to you when I’m back.

  Okay. Have a safe flight, he responded.

  When I landed back home, I messaged him, but he didn’t text back. Not the next day either, or the rest of the week. I tried to keep busy as I prepared to move into my new place in Toronto before the start of my Master’s, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the deafening silence coming from Amir. One evening, my mother and I talked about Amir as we sat in her car. I slumped into the seat, hurt and angry. “He could’ve at least had the decency to tell me it was over,” I finally said.

  “He called me a few days after you came back,” my mom said, putting a cigarette between her lips and lighting it. That day, they were on the phone for hours, talking about their own regrets, and about our dying relationship. “You were right,” Amir had told her. He had made the mistake of trying to change me, but we were just too different. “I love her, so much,” he said. “But I have to let her go.”

  Long before Amir, I had been se
arching for stability. He wanted to provide that, but on his terms. In the nearly two years we were together, he’d wanted me to be better, to be responsible for my life and what I wanted for myself. With his patience, I learned that I could cope with my emotions instead of numbing them with alcohol and partying. He showed me how to communicate in conflict. He pushed me towards a career in writing and supported me emotionally as I applied to grad school. He helped me spend more time with family. He encouraged me to be confident in who I was becoming as a woman.

  Yet Amir saw my beliefs and values, my own personality, as needing refinement. He saw my needs—for him to accept me as I was, to be there for me, to match the effort that I put in—as irrational and selfish. He wanted to be a good partner—and in many ways he was—but our definitions of what made a relationship work differed. And because he had qualities that I needed in a partner that the other men in my life had lacked, I chose my own silence in order to be the perfect person, to live with the discomfort of not having my basic needs and expectations met so I could continue to access and hold dear the good parts of our relationship. Just like I had done with Joshua and Nathan, and even Taz.

  Just like I had done with my father.

  * * *

  ///

  I would be lying if I said that I’ve become better at relationships since graduating university. One of the hardest things I’ve had to come to terms with is how I’ve silenced and policed myself, all in the hopes of being that cool girl who gets the guy, gets the best friend, gets the coveted life.

  My desperation to be the model child for my dad, to behave perfectly, to not communicate my disappointment when he didn’t show up, deeply impacted my romantic relationships: I moved through them with the same kind of inaction and made the same kind of excuses. I shrugged when men let me down. I let them take advantage of my patience and love. I hoped that if I said nothing but gave everything maybe they’d see I was the perfect woman, the model woman, that they’d stay. When I did finally find my voice, I was shoved into silence again by accusations that I was hysterical, crazy, irrational, selfish. I’ve chosen partners who were crooks, scrubs, abusers, liars; people who are physically and emotionally absent. I’ve given many chances before leaving. When I finally do walk away, I have nothing left of myself.

  Harder still is understanding that this path did not start with the men I loved, but the man who made me. From conception, my father has played an insignificant role in my upbringing, and yet those fleeting moments with him have had a lasting impact on who and how I love, including how I love myself. I still greatly fear abandonment and rejection. I still worry any flaw will turn someone off, and they’ll leave me waiting on the doorstep like my father did, never to be heard from again.

  It’s difficult to understand how these small moments have embedded themselves so deeply, when my grandfather—my only source of male stability and security—has ensured I never feel abandoned or unloved. He did more than my father ever could, more than a grandfather ever needs to. But this is the unfortunate evolutionary, psychological, and biological reality of the father-daughter relationship: they can be long gone, or they may have never been there to begin with, yet we still feel that ghost pain, that dull ache, that haunts us.

  I’m still learning what I need from relationships, and each year I get better at finding what that is. I know that requires using my voice. I know that means putting myself first. I now know that there is nothing attractive about not having needs and expectations. Having needs does not make you unlovable. Wanting care, love, and support is not weak, needy, or selfish. It is not sustainable to live on scraps to feed the needs of someone else. Over the years, I’ve walked away from people I loved, who took everything but gave nothing, who only cared about me when it was beneficial for them. But advocating for what I need—loving myself—is greater than settling for love that is conditional.

  It’s still a challenge to speak up when Chill Girl is waiting to jump out of my throat and downplay my concerns to avoid abandonment. It’s even more difficult to walk away—far away—when my needs aren’t being fulfilled. But that doesn’t mean that my independent ass doesn’t want and deserve to be loved.

  Because we all do, friends. We need love. The real kind of love that is complete and whole—no almosts or maybes. The kind that makes you a priority, not a late-night text. The kind that is communicative and fair, that doesn’t hurt you or make you feel that you have to hide who you are. Love that isn’t ashamed of you. Love that chooses you and appreciates you as a person and a partner. Love that doesn’t delegitimize and dismiss your feelings, that doesn’t call you crazy and emotional. Love that respects your needs and respects you. Love that accepts love and wants to give love back.

  I want this for all of you. I want this for myself. I’ll let you know when I find it.

  The Necessary Survival Guide for Token Students

  The Token in Public

  WHAT TO EXPECT: You will need to dodge Permit Pattys, BBQ Beckys, Pool Patrol Paulas, and all the other watchpersons who are just trying to be nice, do-gooding citizens by calling the police on you. While running errands, strangers will strike up a conversation and ask where you’re from. They’ll guess Africa (they haven’t figured out yet that it’s not a country). Oh, you’re not? Maybe Ethiopia then, like those children in World Vision commercials.

  A random person may approach you to tell you about a Black childhood friend or a former lover, who they will describe in great detail as if there’s a chance you’ll know them. People will also remember your face: That Black girl who went to Metro and bought a whole cake for herself. That Black girl who catches the 5:10 p.m. bus. That Black girl who once picked her dress out of her ass when she thought no one was looking.

  HOW TO DEAL WITH IT: Capture all POCs (persons of caucasity) using the phone they think you can’t afford to publicly shame them. White lies will help you get through the questions people will ask about your hair, clothing, background, and “accent.” Also, just pick your wedgie, eat your damn sheet cake, and take your public transit at your designated time—recognition is inevitable.

  at

  all

  costs

  “Have you seen that Black girl? The one with the curly hair? She’s so hot.”

  The limo driver went on and on about her to Amir as they leaned on their cabs, waiting in the queue by the London Music Hall for customers. He often saw her around the city and wanted to talk to her, he told Amir, but he was always driving his cab, and she was always in a rush. So he’d slow his limo down to a creeping roll behind her, studying her body, watching her hips swing when she walked.

  He knew some things about her too. She was a student at Western. On weekends, she walked down Talbot Street to get to the Greyhound station, carrying her PINK roller bag. She lived somewhere near Oxford and Richmond, because in the evenings she carried grocery bags from the nearby Valu-mart. Once, he followed her and her friend down the road as they walked to Jack’s, their legs wobbling in their cheap stilettos. That day he parked his cab at the entrance and went inside. He found her, touched her arm, and said hello. She looked confused by this smiling random older man in a suit, his bald head glistening with beads of sweat—it was so hot that night—but she smiled anyway, a smile that made the hairs on his arm stand up and his dick hard.

  The translation from Sudanese to English only captured a fragment of its intent: “If you gave me five minutes with that girl, man, I’d fuck her so hard I’d give her back her pussy in her hand.”

  The translation of how sorry he was—that he didn’t know, that he wouldn’t have said it if he had known she was Amir’s girlfriend—was about the same.

  I had occasionally seen a limo slow down, but the tinted windows made it hard to see who was driving. I had once seen the whites of his teeth and the flick of his hand as he waved. It had never occurred to me that I was being followed.

  Amir told the l
imo driver to never look my way again, or he would let all the other drivers know what kind of man he was. I never saw him after that.

  I was comforted by Amir’s threat, and I knew the guy would take it seriously. After all, his limo was his livelihood. His reputation and his income hinged on his acceptance among the rest of the drivers in London. How easy it was to stop following girls around so that none of the other men thought badly of him. How easy it was to go from wanting to fuck a girl so brutally that he ripped her apart to apologizing not because he had disrespected her but because he had disrespected her boyfriend. And yet how difficult it was for me to understand that, as a woman, the most dangerous things aren’t as obvious as we’ve been trained to see.

  * * *

  ///

  The wet grass sloshing underneath my shoes from another rainy spring day was the only sound I heard as I walked through the field and back to my residence from the gym. The sky was a gloomy blue, the sliver of dawn illuminating the vastness of the field. As I approached the middle of the field, a pile of flowers and a few bouquets were lying on the grass, colourful and startling against the greyish landscape.

  Had someone died here? There were no cards, photos, or candles. Back at residence, I read through the Western Gazette, but nothing was mentioned.

  The next day, I cut through the field again. Bright and piled high against the vast quietness were even more flowers—striking violets, soft pinks and deep yellows. Some had been pulled from nearby trees.

  I still couldn’t find answers in the paper to explain the swelling scene. Yet whispers made the rounds about a female student who had been sexually assaulted in the field. Some claimed they were friends of the survivor; others said they’d heard it from the survivor herself.