John Smith
Well-Known Member
February-March 2012.
Bodies of campus commitees and social activism campus movements all around Quebec decided altogether to instigate an endless student strike face to the provincial government's unfair rising in high attending scholarship fees. Dozens and dozens of colleges and universities closed all across the territory.
I was 18 years old. Attending my first trimester in college and barely one month later, I was slacking at home: nearly as bored as now, with no job nor extracurricular activity, nor enough money neither to keep my mind and body distraught.
Living up within a disadvantaged neighborhood still pervasively crippled up by lingering bouts of inter-gang violences, racial profiling and hustling still simmering reminiscingly around every once and again and grew up in poverty, I had all the reasons in mind to stand wholeheartedly in favor of the in-coming riots. Nonetheless, being fixed at this stationary situation at home, instead studying and working my way through a diploma and a secured entrance through university, brought me so much ennui.
Someday, my mother ordered me to go shopping to the Muslim grocery store, at barely a five-minutes walk from home. I put on that old black jacket coat my now-deceaced older brother offered me one year earlier, a pair of ridiculous kids boots bought by my overprotective weather-phobic mother I was carrying around since perhaps my thirteen summers, then walked my way out from Mother's to the store. The climate outdoors dramatically heated up as much as the political atmosphere back then: snow melted very early in late wintertime. Before the equinoxe even started, Montreal was struck by a 86° Fahrenheit (30° Celsius) premature heat spike!
The owner recently had a lot of his personal departing that year, replacing them with a tandem of fresh starters. Having begun to grow for a while into the on-and-off absolutely incurable ladies's men I will soon become, I fortright attempted to test the waters by progressively approaching two newly cashiers, albeit now I recollect about these events... in a cringe-inducing manner that cried out loud my very extremely weak flirt game and lack of experience at that time.
The first cashier was a young, very attractive hijabi-cladded woman of Lybian descent, nowhere too far from my age and of a small-medium built and as tall as me, who used to push a good 5'10" tall at that time. Her delicate yet somewhat robust North African features, gently pulpy cheeks, glamorous dark eyebrows, shy-yet-naughty green-hazel-eyed stare, light brownish-olive complexion and naturally modelesque appeal had for match but her fashionable dressing: juggling between slim-fitting flared Midi dresses of a floral, beige or creamy textured colour from the likes of those popular amongst young French Moslems or Millenial local Moslems hailing from a upper-working-class background, traditional abayahs or a combo of black long-sleeved polo shirts and high-waisted jeans; all flaunting her slender, willowy stature, towering legs, fairly round hips and full C-cupped breasts. In spite my yet-poorer fashion acumen at that time, she seemed for a while to be geniunely fetched by my wits and personality: she was attending for a bacchalaureate and aimed toward a brain job I couldn't remember what exactly about. But after a couple of weeks, she rapidly grew jaded about me and ignored my advances, to my little dissappointment.
The second woman, into her late twenties or early thirties, was a Near Easterner of an average height although very bosomed built. She wore a dressing more conservative and less eye-fetching than her coworker, alterning between long modest tunic dresses or black-cladding loose dresses which, most unfortunately to her, were unable to totally conceal her rather slimm-ish yet heavy-bosomed Petite silhouette... think about a "normal"-weight, gown-cladded BigCutie Marilyn but with a brunet-white complexion and slight strands of natural ashy brown hair rolled between the front hem of her headress and temples, a grievous and mean-looking although comely visage and enough charm to draw a few suitors into the store. The first time she has seen me, she stared hard at my dressing, boots and visage without really seeing my features or eyes - only a coloured person might been familiar with that stare to know what I'm talking about - and nonverbally yet agressively dismissed my presence around at the first second: since then, she refused to serve me anytime I was shopping around and when she had no buffer cashier nor leisure time to justify it without overtly passing for a downright racist, she begrudgingly checked my purchases, tooth grinding, caught my dollar bills and pieces as rags belonging to a leper before brutally throwing out my due money on the damned treadmill and away of my hand and grumbling faintly in her native tongue so that none of her coworkers or passing clients could really caught the nature of her bigoted actions toward me. Once, a regular male client even approached me after leaving together the store and tell me she was treating me of kh*lush (figure out by yourself its meaning) and abd "slave" whenever she saw me around, but ended up being the one who was shocked when I revealed to him dubbling quite enough in spoken Arabic Levantine to nail almost every single of her brieve verbal tirades but nonetheless don't give a crap: that store was widely known within black folks living long enough in the neighborhood to remain as good as deaf when it comes about customers filing out those types of complaints... anyway, her misbehiavor was starting to affect my casual mood and I ended up finding any excuse to ignore my mother's shopping recommandations when it came about that store.
Seasons passed and coming at the time leaves on the trees fell in rains of light-green-and-yellowish-amber, colleges and universities just achieved their longrunning winter trimesters. A greying afternoon, I was walking along an avenue in direction to home, mind wandering and brooding when I sensed a familiar, annoying presence coming from the opposite direction of the sidewalk.
Instinctfully, I rose an eye and failed to drop my jaw, appalled: a heavily pregnant woman of very stocky built was waddling along the way, huffing faintly as she was markedly impeded by her extra carriages expanding frontward and much everywhere, her heavy milk-filled juggs wobbling obscenously to-and-fro against the tight fabric of a black dress no longer loose enough to prevent from smuggling against her overfed arms, taunt abdominal protuberance, portly thighs and forming rolls... just think about what BigCutie Marilyn used to look at 265lbs, but with a far puffier face and a 2X-sized gown a few pounds shy from being totally outgrown.
The corpulent going-to-be-soon mother froze for a second, threw a defiant stare toward me then, noting my mindblown stupor, blushed half-vexed half-ashamed then, with a quickier shambling gait, managed to sidestep far away from my incoming passage, failing to mindlessly bump into some pet's gifts (or were these those of a human? The ammoniac-filled spoor nearby reminded me too much about those found nearly everywhere downtown or nowhere close from the Plaza Saint-Hubert, where the homeless, outcasts and junkies gathered) .
Gaining nearly 100 pounds because of the intricacies of being a newlywed pregnant woman who no longer had to worry about her waistline is one thing.
But gaining all of that weight just after a period of religiously-prescribed fasting tradition, just between the last time I've seen her from the corner of the eye at the earliest days of Ramadan last summer ago and had for anything new but a freshly-found husband, a ring and a rather small belly bump but still the same bodyweight, rose suspicions.
Although, the simple fact she used to be pregnant dismissed her from following the fasting, all naturally.
I had no idea my erroneous thought about believers overfeeding themselves overnight while a fasting period was so close from an accurate social reality...
(To be continued...)
Bodies of campus commitees and social activism campus movements all around Quebec decided altogether to instigate an endless student strike face to the provincial government's unfair rising in high attending scholarship fees. Dozens and dozens of colleges and universities closed all across the territory.
I was 18 years old. Attending my first trimester in college and barely one month later, I was slacking at home: nearly as bored as now, with no job nor extracurricular activity, nor enough money neither to keep my mind and body distraught.
Living up within a disadvantaged neighborhood still pervasively crippled up by lingering bouts of inter-gang violences, racial profiling and hustling still simmering reminiscingly around every once and again and grew up in poverty, I had all the reasons in mind to stand wholeheartedly in favor of the in-coming riots. Nonetheless, being fixed at this stationary situation at home, instead studying and working my way through a diploma and a secured entrance through university, brought me so much ennui.
Someday, my mother ordered me to go shopping to the Muslim grocery store, at barely a five-minutes walk from home. I put on that old black jacket coat my now-deceaced older brother offered me one year earlier, a pair of ridiculous kids boots bought by my overprotective weather-phobic mother I was carrying around since perhaps my thirteen summers, then walked my way out from Mother's to the store. The climate outdoors dramatically heated up as much as the political atmosphere back then: snow melted very early in late wintertime. Before the equinoxe even started, Montreal was struck by a 86° Fahrenheit (30° Celsius) premature heat spike!
The owner recently had a lot of his personal departing that year, replacing them with a tandem of fresh starters. Having begun to grow for a while into the on-and-off absolutely incurable ladies's men I will soon become, I fortright attempted to test the waters by progressively approaching two newly cashiers, albeit now I recollect about these events... in a cringe-inducing manner that cried out loud my very extremely weak flirt game and lack of experience at that time.
The first cashier was a young, very attractive hijabi-cladded woman of Lybian descent, nowhere too far from my age and of a small-medium built and as tall as me, who used to push a good 5'10" tall at that time. Her delicate yet somewhat robust North African features, gently pulpy cheeks, glamorous dark eyebrows, shy-yet-naughty green-hazel-eyed stare, light brownish-olive complexion and naturally modelesque appeal had for match but her fashionable dressing: juggling between slim-fitting flared Midi dresses of a floral, beige or creamy textured colour from the likes of those popular amongst young French Moslems or Millenial local Moslems hailing from a upper-working-class background, traditional abayahs or a combo of black long-sleeved polo shirts and high-waisted jeans; all flaunting her slender, willowy stature, towering legs, fairly round hips and full C-cupped breasts. In spite my yet-poorer fashion acumen at that time, she seemed for a while to be geniunely fetched by my wits and personality: she was attending for a bacchalaureate and aimed toward a brain job I couldn't remember what exactly about. But after a couple of weeks, she rapidly grew jaded about me and ignored my advances, to my little dissappointment.
The second woman, into her late twenties or early thirties, was a Near Easterner of an average height although very bosomed built. She wore a dressing more conservative and less eye-fetching than her coworker, alterning between long modest tunic dresses or black-cladding loose dresses which, most unfortunately to her, were unable to totally conceal her rather slimm-ish yet heavy-bosomed Petite silhouette... think about a "normal"-weight, gown-cladded BigCutie Marilyn but with a brunet-white complexion and slight strands of natural ashy brown hair rolled between the front hem of her headress and temples, a grievous and mean-looking although comely visage and enough charm to draw a few suitors into the store. The first time she has seen me, she stared hard at my dressing, boots and visage without really seeing my features or eyes - only a coloured person might been familiar with that stare to know what I'm talking about - and nonverbally yet agressively dismissed my presence around at the first second: since then, she refused to serve me anytime I was shopping around and when she had no buffer cashier nor leisure time to justify it without overtly passing for a downright racist, she begrudgingly checked my purchases, tooth grinding, caught my dollar bills and pieces as rags belonging to a leper before brutally throwing out my due money on the damned treadmill and away of my hand and grumbling faintly in her native tongue so that none of her coworkers or passing clients could really caught the nature of her bigoted actions toward me. Once, a regular male client even approached me after leaving together the store and tell me she was treating me of kh*lush (figure out by yourself its meaning) and abd "slave" whenever she saw me around, but ended up being the one who was shocked when I revealed to him dubbling quite enough in spoken Arabic Levantine to nail almost every single of her brieve verbal tirades but nonetheless don't give a crap: that store was widely known within black folks living long enough in the neighborhood to remain as good as deaf when it comes about customers filing out those types of complaints... anyway, her misbehiavor was starting to affect my casual mood and I ended up finding any excuse to ignore my mother's shopping recommandations when it came about that store.
Seasons passed and coming at the time leaves on the trees fell in rains of light-green-and-yellowish-amber, colleges and universities just achieved their longrunning winter trimesters. A greying afternoon, I was walking along an avenue in direction to home, mind wandering and brooding when I sensed a familiar, annoying presence coming from the opposite direction of the sidewalk.
Instinctfully, I rose an eye and failed to drop my jaw, appalled: a heavily pregnant woman of very stocky built was waddling along the way, huffing faintly as she was markedly impeded by her extra carriages expanding frontward and much everywhere, her heavy milk-filled juggs wobbling obscenously to-and-fro against the tight fabric of a black dress no longer loose enough to prevent from smuggling against her overfed arms, taunt abdominal protuberance, portly thighs and forming rolls... just think about what BigCutie Marilyn used to look at 265lbs, but with a far puffier face and a 2X-sized gown a few pounds shy from being totally outgrown.
The corpulent going-to-be-soon mother froze for a second, threw a defiant stare toward me then, noting my mindblown stupor, blushed half-vexed half-ashamed then, with a quickier shambling gait, managed to sidestep far away from my incoming passage, failing to mindlessly bump into some pet's gifts (or were these those of a human? The ammoniac-filled spoor nearby reminded me too much about those found nearly everywhere downtown or nowhere close from the Plaza Saint-Hubert, where the homeless, outcasts and junkies gathered) .
Gaining nearly 100 pounds because of the intricacies of being a newlywed pregnant woman who no longer had to worry about her waistline is one thing.
But gaining all of that weight just after a period of religiously-prescribed fasting tradition, just between the last time I've seen her from the corner of the eye at the earliest days of Ramadan last summer ago and had for anything new but a freshly-found husband, a ring and a rather small belly bump but still the same bodyweight, rose suspicions.
Although, the simple fact she used to be pregnant dismissed her from following the fasting, all naturally.
I had no idea my erroneous thought about believers overfeeding themselves overnight while a fasting period was so close from an accurate social reality...
(To be continued...)
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