Uncle Charlie has become a deacon in his church. His eyes light up when he talks about his belief in God. He asks if I go to a good church in Kingston. I want him to keep giving me money for school, so I do not tell him that I am not sure I believe in God anymore. I tell him that there is a beautiful chapel on the university campus. As I nod and watch him pull out his tattered checkbook, I realize I have nothing else to say to him. He squints and adjusts his glasses when he writes. I feel funny just sitting there waiting, so I ask about Delano. He lights up when he tells me that Delano is still living in Germany. “Yes, man. Him having a good time over there. Him speak the German language and everything. And I think him say your mother is living over there too.”
“My mother? How come? She not living in Canada anymore?” It annoys me that I sound so eager, but I want him to tell me everything he knows about my mother. I want to know if Delano has seen her or talked to her, if she asked him anything about me. Suddenly I miss Delano. I ask Uncle Charlie what part of Germany he said he lived in and if we could call him there now.
“I don’t really remember what part exactly. And I don’t really have a telephone number for him. When him call again I will ask him for you.”
“Okay, Uncle Charlie. And thanks again for the tuition money.”
On the bus to Kingston, I think of my mother speaking German. I spent seven years studying French because Mummy spoke French in Montreal. Now she is not even living in Canada. Germany seems so far away from Jamaica. It makes me sick to my stomach to think that I may never see my mother again.
Gave Themselves Over to Vile Affections
My rented flat is small, but it is nice and just five minutes’ walk from the university. On the first day I arrive early. I spend the hour watching pretty girls jump from shiny cars dressed in long, loose skirts and very short shorts. I am very excited to be studying at the university, but by the end of my first class I am annoyed with the immaturity of the boys. I had expected them to be like Michael. But most of them act like eleven-year-olds, throwing paper missiles at each other and making farting noises when the professor’s back is turned.
The girls impress me with their focus and intelligence, especially the rebels for whom the rules of normal conduct do not apply. These girls are not afraid to show their bodies. And most of them have strong opinions about sex and God and whether Jamaica is backward for having a law that prohibits homosexuals from having sex with each other, which they have no qualms about voicing.
In my Introduction to Philosophy class, Dr. McKenzie, with his bushy eyebrows and deliberate speech, allows us to argue and curse and challenge each other without boundaries. For most of the sessions, Annabella Andersen, a pretty girl with short curly hair, chews on her pen and listens intently. She doesn’t say much, but when she does it is to challenge ideas of race, gender, or sexuality. I find myself wanting to be next to her.
One day Brandt, a Trinidadian boy, turns to me and whispers, “It’s a pleasure to be in the presence of a woman who is striking in both intellect and aesthetics.”
“I wouldn’t put it as Victorian as that, but I know exactly what you mean. She is soooo sharp and sexy at the same time.”
Brandt taps his pen against his forehead and raises his eyebrows. “I wasn’t talking about her. I was talking about you.”
I wave him away. “Oh, thank you very much, but you don’t have to play those games with me. She is the prettiest girl in here and you and I both know it.”
“I know you have very strong opinions, Miss Chin, but I think this is the arena where we are permitted to differ. Plus, Annabella is my buddy. We don’t have any pheromones floating around between us.”
Brandt invites me to eat lunch with him and Annabella. On the walk to the car they ask where I’m from, what my interests are, if I’m a fatalist or a determinist. Then Brandt jumps in with, “I saw you admiring our mutual friend here in class. Does that mean you’re gay and you want to jump her bones?”
“What!” My heart is trying to squeeze itself through my throat. I can’t tell if he is joking. I tell myself he has no right to ask me that, but I am not offended that he did. I try to look everywhere but at Annabella. But my eyes keep landing on her open wine-red mouth.
“No need to be shy,” he continues, “we are all intellectuals here. You are what you are and to us it is only relevant if we intend to move in on you ourselves.”
Annabella is dying with laughter. There is something beautiful about the way she lets herself go when she laughs. I quickly look away before she notices me watching her. Brandt narrows his eyes at her until she quiets down. “But seriously,” he continues, “is there room for a lone academic from the eastern Caribbean, or are you solely enamored with the half-Swede, half-Jamaican beauty Miss Andersen, here?”
Annabella kicks him with the longest leg in the world. “Brandt, could you please leave her alone? Anyways, Staceyann, if you can stand this idiot, we could meet this weekend?”
“Oh, he’s no problem, and funny as hell.” My face is hot, and my voice sounds high. “And I am completely available on the weekends.”
“Okay, I’ll pick up both of you. Brandt is just at Hope Pastures. Where are you?”
I don’t trust myself to speak again, so I write down my address and hand it to her. I am not sure what is wrong with me. Every time I am around Annabella I start feeling funny in my stomach.
Brandt is relentless. “But seriously, are you one of those men-hating lesbians? Or are you a freaky bisexual who can’t make up your mind? Because the Bible (which I don’t happen to always follow) tells you, You cannot serve two masters. You are either gay or straight! Everybody has to choose.”
Anna chews on the poor pencil and wrinkles her brow. “I think it is so much more complex than that. She could be attracted to both sexes. Should she deny one of them just because…” I am no longer listening, but watching her mouth work its way around the wooden pencil.
“Staceyann, you still have not answered my question.”
Brandt’s voice jolts me from my reverie. “What? I’m sorry. I was…”
“Well—”
I jump in, “I don’t think I am anything.” Anna looks at me dubiously. “I mean, I think that these questions are interesting, but who can say what you are, really? You are only a product of your environment. Who can say what we would be without these artificial social constructs?”
“But, Staceyann”—Annabella’s fingers are gentle on my arm—“those social constructs do exist, so you have to be something.”
“True—true, hmm, but—but…” I move away from Annabella’s touch and clear my throat. “Because I can’t distinguish what is constructed and what is not, I would rather not try to say. I believe what I am is as elusive as what I could have been if I…” I am rambling, but I can’t help myself. I wish Brandt would just go away and leave Annabella and me alone.
Annabella is serious as she responds, “Well, I believe you can choose an identity, but I am fully aware that it is not entirely a matter of choice. I am what I am in terms of biology and experience. But I still have the capacity to change my allegiances or to be influenced by society or religion or even desire.”
Something about the way she says the word desire makes my stomach flip. I am suddenly afraid that one of them will notice me looking at Anna’s mouth. I get up so quickly my books and pencils fall to the floor.
“You okay, Staceyann?” Annabella looks at me.
“Yeah, man, I am fine—it’s just that we don’t seem to be getting anywhere and I am getting hungry. Can we pursue this line of argument when my stomach is full?”
“Okay, but, guys, I have to confess I am running a little short on cash, so can we eat lunch at my house today?” Her bottom brushes against me as she bends to pick up her backpack.
Annabella’s house is the most elegant I have ever seen. There are large wooden chests and armoires and carved furniture everywhere. The dining room is a giant hall with the long table set formally for din
ner. The maid, silent and uniformed, anticipates your need and meets it before you ask. The bedrooms upstairs are spacious and comfortable. Standing in Annabella’s room, looking out over the garden, I know that when I have a home I want it to be every bit as grand as this.
“Hey, Staceyann, you wanna spend the night here tonight? My mom says it’s cool.”
I turn around, startled. I thought I was alone. “Oh, ah—I didn’t—”
“If you have plans it’s okay.”
“No—no, no plans. I just don’t have any clothes with me.”
“I can take you to get clothes, or you could borrow some from me. Just wash your undies and sleep without. They should be dry in the morning.”
I quietly take a deep breath to conceal my excitement.
After dinner we read Lorna Goodison. I know half her poems by heart. I can’t stop talking about how the poems make you feel.
“I really, really love her work. She just makes the women jump off the page. This poem about her mother reminds me of the grandma I knew as a little girl. I always cry at the part when her mother breaks down. I can feel her passion and her loneliness and her joy in every line.”
“Yeah. I know what you mean. She makes Jamaica seem like paradise. Sometimes I read a line and I just feel so lucky to be Jamaican.”
“I don’t know if I feel lucky to be Jamaican, Anna. It really depends on what side of Paradise you’re from.”
“I suppose.”
“I mean, you can’t imagine that your helper feels lucky to be Jamaican.”
“So you think money is all that matters? What about her children? I think we can’t make the assumption that she is unhappy because she is poor.”
I think about the people who live in Paradise Crescent. Life would have been different there if we hadn’t been so poor. But I don’t say anything to Anna. Those memories have no place here. She looks too beautiful sitting by the window with her feet tucked under her bottom.
“I have to tell you that I think you are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.” I can’t believe I just said that.
Annabella chews her pencil and sighs. “Thank you, but I am not sure what to say to that.”
“You don’t have to say anything else. I was just paying you a simple compliment. All you have to do is say thank you.”
“Yes, but that is not all you are saying when you say that. And it’s not like I am not flattered. If Jamaica was a different place, I might feel differently, but I don’t think I have the freedom to even consider that as an option.”
“Annabella, I did not ask you to consider anything. I just said that I thought you were beautiful. And you are. So just accept the compliment and let us move on. I am going to get some juice, do you want some?”
“That would be nice, thank you.”
As class provocateur, I read ahead and take notes so I can pick arguments with the girls I find attractive. Most of them ignore me—except for Tanya, who giggles when I tell her I’m not sure that she’s as smart as she is pretty. One evening after class she invites me back to her dorm room. The walk across campus is tense, with neither of us saying much.
When we get to her room, she locks the door behind her and asks me what I want to do. I don’t know what to say, so I tell her whatever she wants to do is fine with me. I sit on her bed and watch her change into a T-shirt and shorts. I get the feeling that she is flirting with me, but I’m not sure. Then she sits next to me and puts her hand on my leg. I pull her to me and place my lips against hers.
I spend two hours in Tanya’s room. I want to make love to her, but she tells me that she is not a lesbian. When I try to tell her how much I like her, she laughs and says, “I’m just curious, Stacey. This is an experiment. I chose you because people say that you are that way, but please, don’t get too attached.”
During class I fantasize about having sex with Tanya. I keep hoping she will invite me to her room again. But she doesn’t, and I spend the nights crying and writing love letters I will never send. Then I wonder if I am just curious also. Maybe I just want to sleep with a girl so I can say I tried it. But I’m not so convinced when I spend the days hoping that Tanya or Belinda or Francine will take a chance and invite me up to the dorms to “experiment.” But everyone seems a little afraid or disgusted, even the ones who start out flirting with me.
When Brandt catches me watching the pretty English major Seranna, he pokes me with his pencil. “I see you have transferred your ardor again, Miss Chin. It’s a good thing I am not too attached to you, you are so disloyal in love!”
“Oh, shut up, Brandt Benetton!” I’m much harsher than I intend.
“I’m just teasing, Stace. No need to get your knickers in a bunch.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Brandt. But you are not the only one saying things.”
“It’s okay. I know, but you are only acting like an adolescent boy because you are frustrated.”
“Frustrated is not the word! I am going stark raving mad here. Everybody wants to flirt, but nobody wants to deliver the goods.”
“So you are really considering this lesbian thing, eh?”
“Not lesbian. Bisexual.”
“If you so bisexual, how come you aren’t attracted to boys?”
“I have been. I am just not attracted to any right now! And I don’t even know if this bisexual thing is serious, but I am interested in exploring it. I thought that that was what university is all about. Exploration.”
“What about Tanya? I thought you were exploring that. What happened?”
“Same thing that happen with Annabella and Lesley and Kemora and all those girls who would jump to sleep with another girl if their boyfriends wanted it but won’t even let themselves admit that they might like it without him. I suppose it is hard to ignore the fact that you could get jumped or raped or killed if somebody suspect you could be serious about a woman. Maybe I might have to leave Jamaica.”
“Where would you go, though?”
“New York, I guess. I like how James Baldwin describes New York in Another Country. I can’t imagine being in a place where you can just be everything that you want to be. Imagine, Brandt, having the freedom to bleed and obsess and be concerned with the tragedy of your life, your chosen life!”
“But didn’t the guy in the book kill himself?”
“Yes, but that is not the point. There is a line in the book—you read it?”
“I fully intended to, but—”
“Well, there is this line in it. The train shot into the darkness with phallic abandon. I had to read the line again. Brandt, I want to see the train shoot into the dark with phallic abandon!”
“Well, for a lesbian, you are very impressed with that phallic reference.”
“Brandt, I am not—”
“I know, I know. I’m just teasing. New York sounds cool. And I am sure you would have some kind of lesbian—I mean, bisexual experience in New York. I hear that if you throw a stone into a crowd in the Village, you are bound to hit at least three lesbians.”
“Very funny, Brandt. But this is serious, I really want to go somewhere for the summer.”
“So don’t think about it anymore. Just apply for a visa and go visit your New York.”
Love as I Have Loved You
When the plane lands, the New York City lights blink in code, as if they are welcoming me to the city. I am staying with my mother’s older brother, David, in the projects of Red Hook in Brooklyn. The dim hallway reeks of urine, and the noise of boys fighting and sirens outside the window is unbearable.
One night, when I am taking the garbage to the incinerator, a tall fat man with a runny nose offers me twenty dollars to give him a blow job. I drop the garbage in the hallway and scream for Uncle David, who comes barreling out the front door with a knife. The fat man ambles away before I can find the words to say what happened. Uncle David hugs me and warns me to avoid the people who live in the other apartments.
I spend the hot and humid days roaming the city. A d
ollar twenty-five takes me anywhere on the subway. And I love to stand on the platform and watch the gigantic metal structure squeal to a halt. Then I hop into the middle car and attempt small talk with the other passengers. “Hey, there. My name is Staceyann Chin. What is your name?”
People look at me like I am crazy. Only other tourists talk to me. In Union Square, I meet a man who was born in South Africa of Dutch parents and raised in London. His wife is Somalian and they are both moving to Italy after their summer vacation in New York and Toronto. I feel quite cosmopolitan just talking to him. The chic Asian girls in Banana Republic jackets rush quickly by me. Caribbean restaurants, slim dark men in leather suits, pornographic bookstores, Black girls with Afro-Mohawks, and white girls with pink hair line the streets.
One afternoon I venture into a bar called Stonewall. A white man dressed in a blond wig and women’s clothing offers to buy me a drink.
“So where are you from, honey?”
His voice is husky and his mascara is running, so he looks like a raccoon in sequined eveningwear. I sip my ginger ale and whisper, “Jamaica.”
“Oh, I had a Jamaican lover once. He had the biggest dick I had ever seen. I always had to stay in bed after we fucked. I couldn’t walk. You shoulda seen me, honey, I would be laid out like a dead body for days! I finally had to leave him when it got ridiculous. He wanted to fuck every day. I think I would be in a wheelchair if I had kept on with that big ole Jamaican dick.” He turns his rheumy eyes to the side and runs his finger down his cheek. “Now me? My dick is the most itty-bitty thing in the whole wide world. Not that you would care—aren’t you a lesbian?”
“Ah—I—I—really don’t know. I think I am. I know I like girls, but—I—I don’t—”
“Sweetie, you ain’t gotta know just yet. You young, you’ll figure it out. Whatever it is, just go with it. Fuck, this is New York City! You can be anything you goddamned wanna be. Now run along, little maybe-dyke, I see a nice little tidbit I need to go swallow up.”
The Other Side of Paradise: A Memoir Page 27
