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The secret life of a beautiful, kinky student is exposed.

As I walk through campus, wearing my Obama T-shirt with pride in the aftermath of his successful bid for re-election, the white students ( and others ) at school are staring. Let them stare. I am the new breed of Black man. I don't play basketball, I don't rap and I don't have a record. I can outperform you in the classroom, the boardroom AND the bedroom. Worst of all, you know it. That's why you fear me. I go to class, and the professor, this bearded white guy with beady little eyes, ignores me when I raise my hand, for I'm the guy with the answers while the rest of the class is stumped. So I shout my answer, and the short, blue-eyed blonde chick sitting next to me smiles, and she wonders aloud if I've taken this class before. I smile at her and tell her that I'm a new student, just like her. Class ends, and I wrap up. Time to go to the library to get ready for my next class. The blonde chick next to me smiles, and I smile politely. She wants something. The question is...what? She introduces herself as Beth, short for Bethany. I'm Raphael, I say. She looks surprised because most of the Black male students at our school have ethnic African or Muslim names. I'm neither an African Christian or a Black Muslim. I'm a Haitian man, don't get it twisted.

I shake Beth's hand, and the professor looks on. He's not the only one looking on. There's this tall, curvy Black chick named Mira whom I spoke to a couple of times before. We're like the only Black folks in this small classroom. I found Mira cute, and I liked how she seemed smart. I thought I'd get to know her better. She shot me down the first time I tried to say hello. Clearly, she wasn't interested in me. So why are her eyes shooting daggers at me as I speak to Beth? The expression on Mira's face mirrors that of the professor. Why is it that white males and Black females, both of whom oftener than not hold the Black male in contempt, hate seeing Black men with white women? Beth and I just met. We're not going out. Stop staring, please. Thank you!

I exit the class, and Beth and I walk through the hallways. The library is right next to the building we're exiting, and since it's early on a Monday morning, competition for available computers in our refurbished library is going to be fierce. I wish Beth a nice day, and hurry up the ramp leading to the library. I rush to the second floor, where there's a lineup of students waiting for computers. Great. I stand in line, and toy with the crucifix hanging around my neck. My mother gave it to me while I was visiting the island of Haiti last summer. Mom's a proud Catholic, and dad is a lapsed Protestant. Me? I'm a secular human being who believes in God, but rejects the religious nonsense associated with those who claim to speak for Him.

As I twirl my crucifix, I notice a pair of eyes fixating on me. They belong to a tall, skinny Arab guy with dark eyes and reddish hair. He makes a face while looking at my crucifix. I stare at him blankly. What's the matter with this bozo? I wonder. I get so many stares throughout the day that it's hard to keep track of them all. While heading to the university center, I ran into a trio of white chicks who were chatting away happily while walking. As soon as they saw me, they seemed to tense. Wow. Black man phobia huh? Sheesh. What's the scientific term for that one, I wonder? I wonder what my cousin Ricky would think. He's in love with every white chick he sees, and seems oblivious to the fact that there are a lot of racist white women out there. They're just as bad as the bigoted white men, and they can get away with it more easily. Of course, Black guys who crave vanilla cream won't be deterred. Hmmm.

I think I know why the red-haired Arab dude was staring at me.

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