"Or else... this!" He launched himself across the small distance separating them. Grabbing her on both her sides, he tickled.She fell backwards trying...to escape. She was trapped by the arm of the couch. She pulled at his hands and kicked with her legs. She was giggling and thrashing half across his lap. "Stop! Pleaseee stop! I got to go peeee!"Her hair had gone wild. Somewhere under all her hair, she was panting hard. She swept her tiny little hand over her face so she could see. Her eyes were. Or so I tell myself. I work hard. I stay out of trouble. I have a good-paying job. I attend church regularly. And I am a student at the University. I have a deep, abiding love for Black women. It was instilled in me by my mother, a Boston-area schoolteacher. I have a strong work ethic instilled in me by my father, who works for the Department of Corrections in Boston. I think I’m a good Black man. So why am I invisible to Black women in Canada? Ottawa is one of the most bigoted towns I’ve ever. More

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