The Other Side of Paradise: A Memoir

by Chin, Staceyann

  We get inside and Miss Tolloch asks me if I am ready.

  My hand is shaking so hard the mike is making rustling sounds against my orange organza dress. I take a breath and begin.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, fellow graduates, parents, well-wishers, and friends, this has been a difficult five years for many of us. As—as some of you may know, I myself have had great ch-challenges to endure—absent parents, poverty, and a-a-an—an unstable home life. And many times I have wished to be someone else, ah—perhaps even one of you. But today I stand here, in my own shoes, knowing that I have accomplished the first leg of my life’s journey. Regardless—no, not regardless, but especially because of my difficult circumstances, the circumstances I mentioned before, I can be particularly proud that I have satisfactorily finished the course set before me…”

  I don’t feel like I am making any sense, but I press on. “I am not a victim. No matter the beginning, I know that it is up to me to make a way for myself. And I have every confidence that I will!”

  By this time I am speaking with my hands and bellowing the words into the microphone. The room is so quiet that the words are bouncing off the walls: “…to conclude, I would like to thank the members of the Grawley family, who have stood in for my own absent family, and the many women who have opened their homes to me—thank you, thank you for your generosity. And finally, on behalf of my fellow graduates, I extend a heartfelt thank-you to the parents, the friends, and the teachers. We would not be here tonight without your support. Ad astra per aspera—to the stars through difficulties! Thank you, thank you all, and good night!”

  When the last word is out, the entire room is standing and cheering. Some of the girls are crying. Natalia hugs me and tells me she has never been more proud to be my friend. Miss Tolloch comes over to say she is happy to see that I have come into my own. “I knew you could do it, Staceyann Chin! I knew you had it in you.”

  I feel as though someone has lifted half my weight away. I promise myself that as long as I live I will never tell another lie again.

  The next day I call my father to tell him that I have decided to enroll at the Shortwood Teachers’ College. Saying good-bye to everyone feels good. I am glad I have time to visit friends and let them know I am leaving.

  I save Delano for last.

  Uncle Charlie greets me at the door and tells me that my brother has moved away to Germany. I am so shocked I don’t know what to say. Delano has never even visited Miami. I can’t imagine my silent brother living in a place as foreign as Germany. “You sure is Germany, Uncle Charlie? Who him have in Germany?”

  “Stacey, I don’t know him business, you know. That is all him tell me. Him never say anything to you?” I am ashamed to admit that he did not tell me anything. I want to lie, but I remember the promise I made to myself. I shake my head and say, “No, him never say anything, Uncle Charlie.”

  “So how is everything with you?”

  I want to say how hurt I am that my only brother has moved away without so much as a by-your-leave, but I smile and say, “I am fine. I am going away to college in Kingston.”

  Uncle Charlie is genuinely pleased that I am doing well. “But that is very good, man! Congratulations! Me proud of you. Your father must be happy fi you, man.”

  I try to muster up some enthusiasm. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess that is good, Uncle Charlie.”

  “Well, I always tell you that if you ever need anything, you must come and ask me. I can see that you going to do big things with your life. And I am happy to help with whatever I can. Anything at all you need, just come right here and ask.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do need your help to go. I have to pay tuition and boarding and books and—”

  “How much you need?”

  “As much as you can give me. Only because c-college is a very expensive place.”

  “Yes, man. I know. I know these things. I never go to no college, but I know that these things is expensive.” He goes to his room and comes back with a wad of cash. “You think it is enough?”

  “Yes, man, Uncle Charlie! I think so. And if it is not enough, I will call and tell you.”

  He hands me the wad of money and hugs me awkwardly. “Put that in your pocket. For books and pens and so on.”

  I quickly extricate myself from his embrace. “Thank you, sir. And can you please tell my brother I said hello if he calls you from Germany?”

  Part III

  The Beginning of Knowledge

  The rules at the Shortwood Teachers’ College are simple enough. Don’t leave the property without permission and treat your flatmates with the love and courtesy with which you treat members of your family. At first it is easy to smile and say good morning and listen politely about Jesus and all he has done for me. But after a while I just want to be left alone. I am tired of hearing about the Lord and his blessings. Having been the recipient of an equal number of curses and blessings, I feel I owe the Lord very little gratitude.

  But I love that there are only girls in the bathroom, girls in the bedroom, in the living room, only girls. My roommate, Cynthia, is a devout Pentecostal Christian. She is a neat, pretty, early-childhood major who sits on the edge of her bed and reads her Bible every moment that she is not in class. I like Kayla, who lives in the room across the hall, because she is brave enough to wear her skirts shorter than the rules allow, and Judith, the resident cook, because she feeds those of us who are not inspired to use the kitchen. The double science group consists of seven devout Christians and me. It amazes me that we spend all day studying evolution, yet they still believe blindly in the creation story. I find myself biting my tongue in the most basic conversations with them.

  My favorite class is philosophy, because I can argue about everything—including the existence of God—without being looked at like something is wrong with me. And I feel like I am doing well with my decision not to make up any more stories about my family. I am not telling everything about myself, but I am not lying either. When people ask why my parents never visit, my answers are vague: my mother is away and my father works a lot, “but nothing is interesting about a half-Chinese transplant from Montego Bay. Tell me about cool, cool Mandeville. I hear you guys have to wear sweaters almost all the time.”

  I wish everyone weren’t so interested in me. But the less I say, the more questions people ask. Where in Montego Bay am I from? Where exactly is my mother? What does my father do? Every time someone asks me something, I quell the urge to tell a little lie. Finally, one day when my roommate asks me why I am so secretive about everything, I blurt out, “Well, Cynthia, I guess it’s because my mother says that this Chinaman in Montego Bay is my father, and he told me he never did the nasty with my mother. So I’m not really sure which penis exactly is responsible for my existence. To tell you the truth, I suspect my mother was trying to trick him and he was just trying to screw her. All in all, my paternity is questionable. I am only able to be here at college because my father loaned me the money to come. And by the way, my mother left me as soon as she pushed me out of her body. So, yeah, that is why I am so secretive about my family. Any more questions?”

  She never asks me anything again.

  I begin to tell everybody everything about my life. I decide that if everyone knows everything about me, then I won’t have to spend so much of my energy trying to hide anything. I soon learn that Christian girls do not like to know everything. I spend most of my time without company. The weekends are the most unbearable. With no classes to help pass the time, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling until it is dark enough to go to sleep. Going to bed that early means that dawn finds me wide awake with a whole day of nothing stretching ahead of me.

  One Saturday I call Annmarie, who invites me to spend the weekend at her apartment. She lives with Auntie Ella’s Christian mentor, Desi, on the other side of Kingston. Desi’s house has more rules than Shortwood. No swearing, no VH1 (on account of the demons in the music videos), and no talk of sex. I suggest we take the bus to vis
it Grandma, who lives in Braeton, about forty minutes outside of Kingston. The ride there is long and dusty, and the bus is full and noisy. I cannot imagine what Grandma’s life is like in Braeton. I was glad when I heard that she had moved to Kingston to live with Auntie Ella. Now she is living somewhere else, with someone else. She must be so tired of moving. I wonder if she is happy.

  We walk through the tiny streets, past little look-alike houses, until we find the address Annmarie has in her little red notebook. Grandma is as still as a rock on the veranda. And she doesn’t move when we approach. It is not until we are almost right in front of her that she looks up. She looks older and smaller than the last time I saw her. She wrinkles her brow, trying to figure out who we are. When she recognizes me, she whoops, “Lord Jesus Christ in heaven! Stacey? Stacey, you going live long, you know. Me was just here wondering if me was ever going to lay eyes on you before me dead! Come in, come in out of the hot, hot sun.”

  Her hearing is much worse. And her eyes are so bad she can’t read lips anymore, but she can still talk the same. She is happy to hear I am attending college. She hopes Annmarie’s job is not too hard, that they pay her enough to buy food. She nods, and smiles, and pats my knee. But there is little for me to say. Her son and daughter-in-law are away at work, so she is at home alone. I ask her what she does all day. She reminds me that though she is too old for work, she has Jesus, so she can pray.

  Annmarie and I sit on the veranda and watch her while she eats one of the beef patties we brought her. She hugs us both and cries when we leave. “This might be the last time me see oonu. We never know when Jesus go take the breath of life from me mouth. So take care and God bless oonu as oonu travel back to Kingston.” Annmarie and I say nothing to each other on the ride home. I get the feeling that if we spoke, we would both start crying.

  At school the weekends are one long stretch of solitary reading. Hot and miserable from the heat, one Friday night I dial Racquel’s number. Auntie Pam answers and immediately invites me to come over. When I arrive, Racquel is waiting at the gate. She is tall and as lean as a beanpole. And excited to see me. She still has the smile of that three-year-old runaway coming to save me from my tears.

  Auntie Pam tells me that she is very happy to see that I have made it out of my difficult circumstances and to college. Chauntelle smiles tentatively at me and disappears into her room.

  After dinner, Racquel and I head out to lie under the mango tree. Though she is five years younger than my almost-seventeen, I feel like I can tell her anything. I tell her about life at Shortwood. She listens quietly and rubs my back when I tell her how lonely I am on campus. At nightfall we shift to her bedroom with snacks. Before I know it, I have told her all about my father and Delano and how much I wish I could have stayed with Grandma after Mummy came and left.

  We end up chatting for the whole night. It surprises me that after so much time we still have so much in common. But Racquel says she knew we were soul sisters from the very first moment she saw me. She confesses that that first summer I spent in Kingston she’d overheard her mother saying I had no family but Grandma. From way back then she’s wanted to give me her family so I wouldn’t have to be without people who loved me. And now she can. She offers me the use of her family for as long as I need it. I want to cry, but I laugh and ask what she would do without her family, after she had given everybody away. My throat tightens and my eyes fill up when she says that it doesn’t matter, because I seem to need them more than she does.

  Soon I am spending every weekend at the Bremmers’. Racquel and I do everything together and we tell everyone that we are sisters. When people ask why we look so different, we say we have different fathers. Auntie Pam tells her colleagues that I am her adopted daughter. Only, the tiniest things still remind me that I am an outsider. Auntie Pam buys socks for everyone when she goes shopping in Miami. The girls get a pack of six. I get a pair from each of the packs. And they both move in and out of the pantry all day. They eat what they want, whenever they want. I know that I can’t just take anything I want from the pantry. I have to ask if it is okay. No one says so, but I know it is better for me to ask.

  For the most part, life ambles pleasantly along in Kingston. Every now and then I wonder how Delano is finding life in Germany, but most days I don’t think of him at all. Nothing of my old life in Montego Bay seems to have survived the transition to Kingston. I have no idea what is happening with Elisha and Auntie. They have no phone and I never go back to see them. I have not spoken to my father since I left. I hear nothing of him, until one day I read an article in the Montego Bay newspaper, the Western Mirror, reporting that his house has burnt to the ground.

  I drop to the ground, shaking. There is a picture of the burnt-out brick shell that remains. The article says no one was in the house at the time, but nothing could be saved from the blackened ruins. A shock of glee courses through me; I am glad that Junior has lost his home. I laugh out loud. Then I think of Miss P.’s beautiful curtains and I feel guilty for laughing. The wicker chairs and the office windows and Junior’s gym equipment are all gone. The book with my dated signatures to prove that the money Junior gave me was a loan is nothing but ashes. It’s like I have never been there. I am sick to my belly. I want to throw up, but the walls of my stomach won’t contract.

  I don’t even realize I am crying until I feel Racquel shaking me. “Stacey, what happened? Why are you crying? Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, ah—I—I’m fine.” I fold the paper in two. “I was just reading some stupid sob story in the paper. Nothing to even talk about.”

  “Okay. I am going downstairs to say hi to Michael. You want to come and meet him?”

  I fold the newspaper again. “Okay. Who is Michael?”

  Michael is the tenant who lives in the downstairs apartment. Racquel knocks on the door. “Michael! Michael! It’s Racquel! You want to come out and meet my new-old sister, Stacey?” A handsome young man in a white dress shirt steps outside. He smiles at Racquel but doesn’t say anything.

  “Michael, this is my sister, Stacey. Stacey, this is Michael. He plays Scrabble with Mummy all the time. You should play with them sometimes.”

  “Yes, man, we playing later.”

  “Michael is a very good player; he beats Mummy all the time.”

  That evening, as I place the wooden tiles on the board, I am thinking of my father and Miss P. and my little brother, Ruel. Then I am angry with myself for being concerned about them. They have never really shown any concern for me. The feelings of guilt return, and I force myself to concentrate on the game at hand. I want to impress Michael by winning my first game, but both he and Auntie Pam are seasoned players. Scrabble is a game that requires a vocabulary of small, unusual words and a whole lot of bluffing. I keep a straight face and put down a word I know is misspelled. No one challenges me. And I win by a significant margin.

  Michael looks at me and laughs accusingly. “I thought this was your first game! Where you learn to play like that?” His voice is gravelly but kind.

  “What that supposed to mean? Can’t I just be naturally talented?” I smile up at him. His face is serious, but I can see that he is trying not to smile.

  The next weekend when we play alone he asks why I was so sad the week before. I am surprised and pleased that he noticed. I tell him about Miss P. and my father and the burnt-down house. While I am speaking he doesn’t say anything. After a comfortable silence, he clears his throat. “Wow. That must be complicated.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” I say.

  “Well, maybe you should tell me about it while I whip you up the best cheesecake in the world,” he says.

  It’s both strange and wonderful to sit on the floor of the kitchen and watch a man make a cake for me. He carefully adds eggs and sugar to the bowl of whipped cream cheese. He crumbles graham crackers for the crust. It’s easy to tell him about Mummy and Delano and Grandma as he stirs and folds and tastes. He offers me a spoon of the sticky sweet mixtu
re before he scrapes it into the crust. I know I would be the envy of every girl in school if they could see Michael with his hands covered in graham cracker crumbs.

  When the pan is in the fridge he tells me about his mother, who is away in America, and his father, whom he says is unpredictable and distant. I tell him about living at Auntie’s house in Paradise. His voice is low and angry when he tells me that men who want to do those things to little girls should be killed. If he could kill them and not go to jail, he would. I tell him that when I have children I would never leave them with anyone. I confess to him that I hate my mother and that some days I pray for the death of my father. It’s scary to tell him everything, but he hugs me and tells me not to worry, that everything will be okay after I eat his magical cheesecake. I don’t really believe that things are ever going to be okay, but it makes me feel good to hear him say it. I want him to kiss me, but he just holds me while we watch Love Connection on his nineteen-inch TV. I wish I could stay in his apartment with him forever.

  After that I spend most of my free time at the Bremmers’ playing scrabble with Michael. Auntie Pam teases us about spending so much time together. She says that we had better be careful of Cupid and his flying arrows. I get hot in the face and giggle when she asks if we have had our first kiss, but Michael gets serious and firmly denies that there is anything between us. He would never take advantage of me like that, he adds. One afternoon, in the heat of a close Scrabble game, she asks if he is scoring low because he is distracted by being so close to me. He snaps at her, saying it is time to stop making that stupid joke.

  I am so tired of him denying there is something between us that I turn my rack of tiles over and walk away. When he follows me to the mango tree I ask, “Is that what you think of me? That I am stupid? That I am a joke? You couldn’t be interested me?”

  “Well, Staceyann, it’s not that. You are just too young for me, and if not, then you are certainly too young for the law in some countries. Seventeen is almost illegal in Jamaica.”