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A Mixed-Race Black Woman’s Tale free porn video
Sometimes I wonder how come I got into these risky situations. Seriously. It’s true that I have awful luck but once you see the details you will be as astounded as I am. My name is Antonia Tartaglia. A tall and very voluptuous young Black woman of Jamaican and Italian descent living in the City of Ottawa, Province of Ontario. These days I attend Carleton University. Born to an Italian father and Jamaican mother, I am a gal with a complicated life. Simply put, my parents don’t approve of my penchant for exclusively dating Black men. Especially tall, dark-skinned Black men straight from the depths of Africa. I go after immigrant guys from Continental Africa like my life depends on it. My parents don’t approve of my choices because they’re honestly kind of racist. Yes, you can be in an interracial relationship and hold racist views. It happens more often than you think.
My father, Antonio Tartaglia met my mother, Belle Johnson, one fine day in the summer of 1986. He was a newcomer to the Confederation of Canada, hailing straight from the City of Naples in Italy. My mother had just moved to the Province of Ontario from the region of Montego Bay in the island of Jamaica. They were just a couple of immigrants from different worlds who fell in love. They got married and had little old me. Antonia Tartaglia. I grew up to be a six-foot-tall, black-haired and green-eyed young woman with very light brown skin. I often get mistaken for a Hispanic woman but I always tell people that I am Black. I don’t consider myself mixed. I consider myself totally Black. To the dismay of my Italian father and Jamaican mother.
I think my problems with my parents began when Arthur Adewale asked me to the Prom, and I accepted. Arthur is a handsome young Nigerian who courted me while we were both pupils at Carthage Academy in the City of Ottawa. I have a thing for dark-skinned guys with accents. I’ve never been attracted to white guys or Hispanic guys. My mother warned me away from Black men. You see, she was married to a Black guy named James in Jamaica before she met my father. According to mom, James was abusive. When they divorced, she left the country for a better life. Mom seems to think all Black men are dumb brutes who abuse women. Never mind that I’ve heard my father call her some despicable names during some of their shouting matches. Sure, he never laid a hand on her but sometimes he treated her like shit. Theirs isn’t a perfect marriage. However, mom remains adamant that white men are knights in shining armour and Black men are trash. Well, I feel just the opposite.
In spite of my parents objection, I went to the Prom with Arthur Adewale, and I had a good time. The handsome young man from Nigeria was polite, friendly and supremely charming. Ever the gentleman, he was so nice and sweet to me. We remain friends to this day. You should see the way my parents react when he comes by to visit me. My mother reacts to Black men the way you’d imagine mean little old white ladies in the Old South did during the days of Martin Luther King. She can’t stand the sight of them. As for my father, he tried his hand at boxing when I was younger. His last bout was against a famous boxer from Brazil, a mixed guy who clearly had some Black in him. It was the match which ended my father’s boxing career. To this day, he can’t hear too well in his right ear. Dad isn’t fond of Black guys, and neither is Mom. And you white ladies with Black boyfriends think you have it tough. Trust me, mixed chicks who love Black men don’t have it easy either.
Anyhow, as soon as I could, I moved out of my family’s house in the suburb of Orleans. I won a scholarship to Carleton University. I chose to study Criminology because I was always fascinated by shows like The Shield and Law & Order : Criminal Intent while growing up. I can see myself joining the Ottawa Police Service or the Ontario Provincial Police someday. I know I’ll succeed. I’m good-looking, smart and very thorough. I don’t back down from challenges. And my dear uncle Louis, my mother’s long-estranged brother, took me to the shooting range many times after our families got reunited. These days, I’m learning a lot about my mother’s family. My mother’s younger brother Louis Johnson lives in the Ottawa suburb of Barrhaven with his Irish-born wife Deirdre O’Malley and their three sons Jacob, Henry and Shawn. I guess marrying outside the race runs in my mother’s family. Still, there was a pronounced difference between my uncle and his wife’s approach to racial issues and my parents uniquely twisted views.
My cousins Jacob, Henry and Shawn were so different from me. They are equally proud of their Jamaican heritage and their Irish side. They travelled extensively in both Ireland and Jamaica growing up. They even spoke both Gaelic and the Jamaican Patois! How I envied them. My mother didn’t want me to have anything to do with my Jamaican side growing up. She steered me away from anything having to do with the Black race. And my father let her because he finds the Black race terrifying, especially the men of that race. His marriage to a Black woman didn’t diminish his hatred for Black men one little bit. To him, Black men were monsters and dream crushers. A Black man abused his wife in her previous marriage. And a Black man from Brazil ended his once promising boxing career by beating him to a bloody pulp in front of a large audience in downtown Toronto. I grew up confused about my racial identity, and was taught to hate half of myself. My cousins were fortunate enough to have parents who taught them to love both their African and their European side. The more time I spent with my newly rediscovered family, the more I loved them. Especially my dear aunt Deirdre. When I shared with her the tale of how my Italian father and Jamaican mother reacted when their mixed-race daughter went to the Prom with a Black guy, she held me in her arms and we both wept. At long last I seemed to have found the loving and accepting mother figure I longed for all of my life.
Sometimes, I still cry when I think of all the things my twisted parents put me through. My aunt Deirdre helped me see the light. My parents hatred didn’t have to colour the way I saw the world, or shape the rest of my life. I now understand that the experiences they had shaped their vision of the world. They are essentially the sum of their experiences. I don’t have to follow their path. I can choose my own way in this life. I don’t have to let bigots affect me one or the other. I now know that bigots come in all shapes, sizes and colours. Sometimes the most bigoted person in the room isn’t the white person standing alone in a sea of so-called minorities. Often it’s the person in the interracial relationship who feels much venom for their own kind as well as those different from them. Anyhow, I’ve said enough about this. Kind of hurts to rehash the past, but it’s oddly therapeutic, you know?
Right now, I’m sitting in my dorm. Waiting for a most special gentleman. Raphael Saint-Germain. A big and tall young man whom I met in my Laws 1000 Class at Carleton University. He’s an international student from Northern Haiti. This gorgeously dark-skinned stud with the kind smile and shiny white teeth has simply stolen my heart. We’ve been seeing each other for three months now. And tonight I’m seriously thinking about giving him the green light. That’s if he can sit still through hours of screaming chicks as we watch the last chapter of the Harry Potter Saga. That’s the flick which we’re going to see at the Silver City movie theatre. I hear the bell, and receive a text on my phone. It’s Raphael, and he’s at my door. I smile and head downstairs. Here’s my Raphael. Looking gorgeous in a bright red silk shirt, blue silk pants and Timberland boots. And he’s holding flowers. White roses. My favourite. He’s so old-fashioned but in a cute way. I smile and take them from him, then kiss him on the lips. Arm in arm, we walk to his car. This is going to be a fun night for both of us.
Dottie
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