by Naomi Holoch
And it was another of those days. And more and more women are having them—days that is—snatched from drought and the torrents of life. More and more women riding about footloose, tongue loose, and fancy free, crossing the river when they come to it: the deep, rushing tide, keeping their heads and well above water and gaining the bank; they lie down where the grass lies green and growing in wait all round, lie down where the yellow iris waves in wait, the wild poppies blow, and a cuckoo—yes, it was unmistakably from over the heather—a cuckoo calls.
Makeda Silvera
In “Caribbean Chameleon” (1994), from her collection Her Head a Village, the Jamaican-born Makeda Silvera makes use of the fragmentation of language and structure to embody the ultimate loss of home and self. Influenced by the strong, independent women of her childhood, Silvera has used her fiction to penetrate the shrouds of silence that surround the dispossessed, whether they be the “man royals” and “sodomites” of her early memories or a woman struggling against loss of home and self as in the following story. Editor of the ground-breaking Pieces of My Heart: A Lesbian of Colour Anthology, Silvera is one of the many exciting voices exploring the complexities of lesbian culture in the Caribbean. Now living in Canada, Silvera uses “Caribbean Chameleon” to depict a clash of two worlds.
CARIBBEAN CHAMELEON
YARD. Xamaica. Jamdown. Jah Mek Ya. Ja. Airport. Gunman, mule, don, cowboy, domestic, refugee, tourist, migrant, farmworker, musician, political exile, business exile, economic exile, cultural exile, dreadlocks, locks-woman, fashion-dread, press-head, extension hair, higgler.
Leaving the Caribbean for the North Star.
Tourist with straw baskets, suntan, skin peeling, rum-filled stomach, tang of jerk pork Boston-style. Lignum vitae carvings, calabash gourds, a piece of black coral, earrings out of coconut shell. Not to forget the tonic juices to restore nature—strong-back, front-end-lifter, and put-it-back. A little ganja, lambsbread, marijuana, senseh, collie weed, healing herbs, mushrooms; you can get anything, no problem, as long as there are U.S. dollars.
Dried sorrel, fried sprat, bottles of white rum, mangoes, gungo peas, coconut cakes, scalled ackee, cerasee bush, and single Bible. Reggae on cassette tapes.
Travelers dressed to kill.
Woman in red frock, red shoes, red extension hair, black skin. Dreadlocks, Clarke’s shoes, red, green, and gold tam, smoking on last spliff.
Cowboy in felt cap, dark glasses, nuff cargo round neck to weigh down a plane.
Woman in black polka dot pantsuit. Black winter boots high up to knees, drinking one last coconut water.
Tourist drinking one last Red Stripe beer inna sun hot.
Leaving the Caribbean for the North Star.
Back to work, to winter, snow, frostbite.
Theater, live at the airport. Older woman bawling, young bwoy whining and pulling at woman in red frock. “Ah soon come, ah only going for a week. Yuh bawling like me dead.”
“Forward to di Babylon lights,” utters dreadlocks in Clarke’s shoes.
“Cho, a tru certain tings why ah don’t shot you. Yuh a push up life, yuh waan dead? Bumbo claat, watch weh yuh a go,” cowboy demand.
“I was in di line before you,” answer woman in polka dot pantsuit.
“So wha? Yuh want to beat me?” bulldoze cowboy. “No, but ah only asserting mi rights.”
“Cho, gal, a fight yuh want? Mi will box yuh down. Mi a di baddest man around. Step aside.”
“Gwan bad man, gwan before di plane lef you.”
JA customs officer has eyes deep in passport, behind desk, trying to figure out whether dis is a banana boat passport or what.
“Well praise the Lord for a nice holiday, tomorrow back to work.” Woman in black polka dot pantsuit talking to herself.
“Ah, a well-spent vacation. Why do they want to leave?” tourist wonders.
Airport personnel hard at work. Bag weigh too much. Too much clothes, too much food, too much herbs, too much souvenirs. Too much sun packed in suitcase and cardboard boxes.
Temper crackle in dis small island. Sufferation pon di land. Tribulation upon tribulation. Some cyaan tek di pressure. Chicken fat, pork fat fi dinner. Badmanism reign, rent a gun, like yuh rent a car. Gunshot a talk, cowboy, dons, police, and soldier tek over di streets. Woman have fi tek man fi idiot—learnt survival skills. Man tek woman fi meat—ole meat, young meat, sometimes ranstid.
Destination America. Destination Britain. Destination Europe. Destination Canada. Destination foreign land.
Fasten seat belt. Iron bird tek off. Fly over di Caribbean Sea. A site of Cuba, di Cayman Islands. Plane get cold. Goose bump rise. Blanket pull closer to skin.
Approaching the North Star. Atlantic Ocean, flying high over sea. Good-bye May Pen Cemetery, good-bye gunman, murderers step aside, good-bye dead dogs in gully, rapist, womanbeater, police, soldier, cowboy, Northcoast hustler, good-bye.
Fly higher, iron bird. Away. Good-bye.
Good-bye sunshine, warm salty sea, music with di heavy drum and bass. Good-bye mama, baby, little bwoy, good-bye, no tears, a jus’ so. Wah fi do?
Woman in polka dot black pantsuit. Work tomorrow. Department clerk. Live-in domestic to work under North Star. Praying that in five years, no more kneeling to wash floor, no more scrubbing clothes, replace that with washing machine, vacuum cleaner. Lady in red to seek better life, telling Immigration is holiday. Send for little boy and older woman when life tek. Dreadlocks leaving the sunshine, collie weed, “just for a time, just for a time, Babylon force I,” him tell himself. Cowboy cool, cowboy determine, “Foreign land, north light, fi me and you, anyone, land of opportunity, to buy di latest model gun, to slaughter di baddest bwoy.”
Good-bye slave wage, stale food, ranstid meat, tear-up clothes, rag man, tun’ cornmeal, dry dust.
Music soft, no heavy drum and bass. Missing home already. Complimentary drink sweet, though, another Chivas on the rocks, another Courvoisier, cyaan buy dem a Jamdown. Plane get colder. Drinks warm up body.
Woman in black polka dot pantsuit close eyes, shut out her job in di North Star. Walk baby in pram. No matter what weather. Snow high. Shovel it. Walk dog. Feed the baby. Feed the mother. Feed the father. Clean up after. Wash the clothes. Iron some. Fold up the towels and sheets. Vacuum the carpet. Polish the silver, All in the name of a honest day’s work.
Plane fly low. North Star light pretty, shining all over di land. Immigration. Line long. Which one to enter. Woman or man. White or Asian. Black or white.
“Where have you been?” “Where have you been?” “How long was your stay?” “Purpose of your visit?” Tourist, white, safe every time, unless foolish to take a little collie weed, a little spliff. Woman in red pass through, safe, can’t touch it. Dreadlocks just coming to play music at stage show, no rush to live here, in a Babylon. Safe. Cowboy visiting mother, polite, nice smile, dress good, stamp in book, gwan through. “Three weeks you say?” Safe. Woman in black polka dot pantsuit. “Where you been to?” “Jamaica.” “Reason?” “Vacation.” “Vacation? Family?” “No. I stay in a hotel.” “Why a hotel?” “What yuh mean, sir?” “Why a hotel if you were born there?” “Because, sir, I go on a vacation. What yuh saying, sir? Black people can’t tek vacation in dem own homeland?” “What items did you bring back?” “Two bottles of rum, sir, di legal amount, fry fish and cerasee bush for tea.” Officer slap ink stamp in the passport. Conveyer belt. Round and round. Lady in black polka dot pantsuit pick up luggage. Show stamped card. Over there. Same questions. “How long were you out of the country?” “Two weeks.” “Purpose?” “Vacation, mam.” “Where did you stay?” “Kingston, mam.” “Did you stay with family?” “No mam, I visit dem, but I stay in a hotel.” Suspicion. “Hotel?” “Yes mam.” “Take off your glasses, please.” Officer look lady in black polka dot pantsuit up and down. “What date did you leave Canada for Jamaica?” Woman in black polka dot pantsuit start breathing hard. “I have me landed papers right here.” “Open your suitcase, please.” Suitcase get
search. Hand luggage search. Handbag search. Sweat running down woman black face. Line long behind her. Officer call for body search. Woman in black polka dot pantsuit trembling. Head start itch. Line longer. Black and white in line. Woman in black polka dot pantsuit sweating with embarrassment.
North Star cold. But sweat running down her face. Line behind long-long. People tired of waiting. Impatient wid her, not wid di Immigration woman. “What you looking for, mam?” Question to hands searching. Ripping through suitcase. Disorder among di sorrel. Rum. Fruits. Fry fish. Routine, routine. Passenger behind getting vex wid her. Too much waiting. Lady in black polka dot pantsuit try to calm nerves. Think bout work. Up at 5 A.M. Feed di baby. Walk di dog. Put out garbage. Cook di breakfast. Clean di house…. Anyting … to take away dis pain. Dis shame. But not even dat can take it away. “What you looking for? WHAT YOU LOOKING FOR?” Woman in black polka dot pantsuit gone mad. Something take control of her. Black polka dot woman speaking in tongues. Dis woman gone, gone crazy. Tongue-tie. Tongue knot up. Tongue gone wild. “WHAT YOU LOOKING FOR? Yes, look for IT, you will never find IT. Yes, I carry through drugs all di time. But you will never find it. Where I hide it no Immigration officer can find it. Is dat what yuh want to hear?” Woman in black polka dot pantsuit talking loud. Black people, Jamaican people in line behind. Dem close eyes. Look other way. Dem shame. Black polka dot woman nah get no support. Hands with authority. Hands heavy with rage. Tear away at suitcase. Throw up dirty drawers. Trying to find drugs. Only an extra bottle of white rum. Polka dot woman mad like rass. Madwoman tek over. Officer frighten like hell. Don’t understand di talking of tongues. Call for a body search in locked room. Black polka dot woman don’t wait. Tear off shirt. Tear off jacket. Tear off pants. Polka dot woman reach for bra. For drawers. Officer shout for Royal Canadian Mounted Police to take madwoman away. “TAKE HER AWAY. TAKE HER AWAY.” Take this wild savage. Monster. Jungle beast. “AWAY. Arrest her for indecent exposure.” Woman in black polka dot pantsuit foam at the mouth. Hair standing high. Head-wrap drop off. Eyes vacant. Open wide. Sister. Brother. Cousin. Mother. Aunt. Father. Grandparent. Look the other way.
Jesus Christ. Pure confusion at Pearson International Airport.
The cock crowing once, twice.
Mireille Best
“Stéphanie’s Book” (“Le Livre de Stéphanie”), by the French writer Mireille Best, makes its first English appearance in the excerpt below. Published in France in 1980, the story reflects both the progress made and the ground that remains to be covered before women can freely choose to commit themselves to other women. In a lively, direct style filled with quirky humor—even omitting punctuation in some places—Best captures the poignant subtleties of “ordinary” existence while illuminating the complex forces shaping individual choices. Born into a working-class family in Le Havre, Best now lives in the south of France with her life partner, Jo.
In the following pages, the narrator, a married woman with two sons, is “liberated” for a few days from family life and obligations, free to spend time with Stéphanie, her youngest son’s teacher who has become her friend.
from STÉPHANIE’S BOOK
WELL Stéphanie says here you are single It’s time to take advantage of it We could celebrate my new name We could … I let her unweave an endless carpet of possibilities on which I am afraid to tread. Because while Bernard is in Marseilles and the kids at their grandma’s who lives on the way—Oh! said Bernard, they’ll only skip school for a day and a half…. Anyway, they are not doing anything anymore….—I had promised myself I would do my spring cleaning. I even took Friday off to have three full days with the weekend. If I listen to my beautiful mermaid, all is lost…. Three days to put things away, worries Stéphanie, that’s how you can’t find anything anymore! What about us going to the beach.
—At this hour?
—But Stéphanie says, at this hour it’s more beautiful There is no one, and it’s still warm.
Three days’ vacation Stéphanie says Take it or leave it. And in a big gesture of her arms that hit the roof of the car, her wrist still tied up in the strap of her gym bag, she recites: The first night They went to the ocean to baptize Stéphanie The water was dark and the sky clear and the sand white under the moon…. Suddenly serious, she nestles her hands in mine.
Don’t be a chicken…. Say yes to me We may never be able to do this again.
I notice that it’s still daytime and to see the moon we’ll have to wait a little while longer. And so what Stéphanie says, and taking her hands away from mine, she gently turns the ignition key. The engine submits with a sigh. Me too. This is kidnapping.
Indeed Stéphanie says whose eyes suddenly light up like a room where you just opened the blinds.
I haven’t even prepared my meal for tonight….
Shush! Stéphanie says Tonight we don’t eat, we drink.
Stéphanie’s studio resembles her. It has Indian hangings with mellow tones, wicker chairs that are warmed by pinkish beige sheepskins thrown on them, small cushions piled up haphazardly on the floor….
Leaning out the window we watch the evening unfold for a long time, and the silence around us spreads like a puddle of water that overflows endlessly.
It’s incredible how nice the weather is Stéphanie sighs finally. Then I turn toward the inside of the apartment full of ashtrays filled with cigarette butts, books spread all over the place, records askew on the shelves, notebooks piled on a table….
There’s a roll of drawing paper on the bed and a slipper all alone in the middle of the rug. This is a mess, isn’t it, Stéphanie says. If I had known that I was going to kidnap you tonight I would have made some order But this is irreparable. She picks up the slipper, which her fingers fold and unfold mechanically. Her breath, curiously, is short. I … I’m not used to having people who keep their house in order Don’t stand there like this Andrée you hear You make me shy. Sit down. Don’t stay there like a signpost.
I feel like I’ve lost my sense of direction since I have nothing to do and I sit down obediently. And of course, Stéphanie says, you chose the wrong one. I feel the strength of the armchair with my back and hips. What’s “wrong” with it, I wonder. That’s not it, Stéphanie says. I was imagining you in the other one I’ve never seen reality tie so many knots as it has with you. It’s upsetting Stéphanie says as she turns on the lamps, whose slightly myopic luminosity dilutes itself in what’s left of the day….
Stéphanie is a bit strange at times.
Fleetingly, I struggle against that kind of vertigo that grabs you in some dreams where everything seems normal but where something is out of place and you wonder with some anxiety what it is, because it might be you.
And Stéphanie laughs in my face with something pathetic, which I may be inventing because absolutely nothing comes across in the words that she says. Don’t mind what I’m saying I’m silly.
It may be because of this theatrical gesture that she uses to hold her hands out to me But I understand very well that it is to abolish the distances and I confiscate the slipper that she hasn’t stopped torturing and that she held out to me with her hands.
I put the slipper on its original carpet. I take her hands, little and cold, in mine, and following her hands that I am holding, she bends toward me against the light and I hurry to say that I’m going to die of thirst if she doesn’t do something about it right away.
With Stéphanie’s laughter finally bursting out, several pounds of atmosphere jump out the window.
We shouldn’t become depressed Stéphanie says as she goes to the kitchen to get some ice cubes. While the evening draws the sky like a watercolor. A sky with a liquid transparency that becomes paler and paler and spills over.
I’m trying to remember when the last time was that I was able to stay like this to watch the twilight while someone was preparing something for me to drink or eat. Maybe at the maternity hospital twelve years ago, when I held Pitou’s little head and felt his little silky hair slightly humid w
ith sweat Under my hand a tiny heartbeat was going through his clothes and I was falling asleep against my warm baby not yet dissociated from my own body To me Inside me Around me Like Grandma’s chest when I was so little…. The young nurse dressed in blue has come in The baby must sleep As if I had never had a baby before As if this kid didn’t sleep better on his mother’s body than on a cold mattress And took my kid away. You must go to sleep now Grandma would say and she’d gently pull me away from her and the cold would tear apart our warmth that had joined us together just a moment earlier I don’t want to go! The same revolt The same primal scream of the flesh that is separated The same distress, each time And to say nothing because you’re grown up and reasonable and that to grow up is to learn to shiver alone.
Whenever Didier or Pitou, screaming and stamping with rage for a whim, would finally stretch their arms out to me, I could not refuse shelter Bernard would shrug his shoulders and mumble some things that were very relevant about child-rearing And I would have bitten him. Because when you are faced with a sign of distress, you don’t oppose it by reasoning You run You hurry. To learn to live Bernard said…. You must have neither a heart nor a belly to witness this succession of little agonies endured in indifference without a reaction.
I caught you Stéphanie says
Doing what, my God
Escaping through the window.
