by Dean Atta
myself.
I don’t know where to
look with all the nearly
naked men’s bodies,
biceps, torsos, tiny
Speedos.
I think about my pink
Speedos. I packed them
secretly—maybe I could
come back to the beach in them later,
join all the men who know
who they are and don’t mind
wearing tiny Speedos.
Mum looks me up and
down from her sunbed
and says, “Maybe when
we get back to London
you could join my gym.”
Our second evening, we visit our great-aunt
for dinner. She points to Daisy first
and I can work out from Mum’s hand
gestures that Mum is explaining Daisy
is not her child, but Anna and I are.
She doesn’t speak any English but
she smiles and she feeds us. Black-eyed
beans and greens. This food, again, is familiar
but her words are not. Our great-aunt
refers to Anna and me as “ta mávra.”
Mum doesn’t want to translate it but I insist.
“It means ‘the black ones,’
but not in a bad way.”
I don’t know why Mum needed to say
not in a bad way, unless it was bad.
Daisy isn’t seen as black like Anna and me.
Daisy looks down at her plate and doesn’t
say anything.
Mum hardly speaks any Greek to us at home.
She has always said she wanted to fit in
and be British. Here in Cyprus, Anna and I
can’t access family conversations without
her translations.
Mum, Anna, and Daisy go shopping
the next day, so I stay at the house with my
grandparents.
Sitting out on the porch with Grandad
I look over my homework for the first time
since we got here.
Lighting a cigarette,
Grandad asks, “Are you studying hard?”
“Yes, Grandad.” Looking down
at my notes, which Daisy wrote for me,
I add guiltily, “Daisy usually helps me.”
“She’s your girlfriend?” he asks,
with a big smile.
“No, she’s my best friend.”
“This is the same thing?” asks Grandad.
“Almost.” I smile.
Grandad goes back inside.
He draws my attention
to the news: the story, a black flamingo
has landed on the island.
An expert on screen
explaining it is the opposite
of an albino. “Too much
melanin,” he says. Camera pans
the salt lake full of pink
but my eye is drawn
to that one black body
in the flamboyance.
The following evening.
My beach towel and shorts dry
on the balcony.
Couples on mopeds ride
past the house. Dogs walk
humans before dinner.
Grandad coughs violently,
then lights another cigarette.
Grandma calls us in to eat.
The black flamingo is on the news again.
I pick the dining chair facing the TV.
Grandad asks,
“Why does it matter if he’s black?”
Adding, “The other flamingos don’t care.”
And I am certain what he’s saying is:
“I love you.”
At Larnaca airport,
I see a pink flamingo stuffed toy in Duty Free.
Daisy makes fun of me but I ask Mum
to buy it for me.
“Why don’t I get that for Anna?”
“Fine, I’ll get another one.” I return
with a second pink flamingo
but Mum is holding a bottle
of Jean Paul Gaultier’s Le Male eau de toilette.
The bottle is blue, in the shape of a male body
with no arms, legs, or head, just a toned torso
and bulging groin.
Mum says, “I’m getting this for you,
the flamingo for Anna, and this for Daisy,”
picking up a pink perfume bottle.
I put down the toy.
When we get home,
I place the blue bottle on my desk next
to my Axe Body Spray, Vaseline, and cocoa butter.
I take a shower,
wash off the last of the Mediterranean.
When I return to my bedroom,
my sister’s flamingo toy
rests on my pillow.
In my dream that night, Kieran and I are
on TV together; we are a pair of black
flamingos.
The camera zooms out
and we’re just two of many black flamingos
standing in the salt lake.
Show Business
The weekend before I turn seventeen,
Daisy and I go to the cinema
to see Moonlight.
Even though it’s set in America,
I see something of myself
on-screen. I recognize what’s missing
for them is also missing
for me. I recognize the longing
for a man, a father, a lover.
As the credits roll, Daisy and I stand
and put our coats on. It’s dark but I recognize
Kieran, sitting two rows behind us.
I don’t recognize the girl Kieran
has his arm around. I don’t think he sees me.
I nudge Daisy. “Look, it’s Kieran.”
I think I’m too loud, as he looks our way.
Daisy and I link arms and scuttle out
as quick as we can without actually running.
We burst out laughing when we get outside.
Daisy says, “That’s cool that Kieran came
to see this film. Do you think that was his
girlfriend? It definitely looked like a date.”
It’s my seventeenth birthday
and, even though it’s a school night,
Mum is taking me, Anna, and Daisy
on the Bakerloo line to Piccadilly Circus
to a theater in the West End
to see a musical called Kinky Boots.
Mum tells me it was a film first. I’ve not seen it.
I’ve never seen anything like it.
Coming out of the theater,
I ask Mum, “Were there songs in the movie?”
“Yes, there were songs,” she says.
“And was the drag queen black in the movie?”
“Yes, the film was mostly the same.”
“Mummy!” I exclaim. “Why did you never
show me this movie?”
“I don’t know why, Michael, but did you
enjoy the show?”
“I loved it, Mummy!” I hug her and I never
want to let her go.
Anna interrupts: “Mummy, why do you say ‘film’
but Michael says ‘movie’?”
Daisy laughs, putting her arm around Anna,
and says, “You notice a lot for a nine-year-old,
don’t you?”
Anna replies, “I guess.”
I reach out my left arm in their direction
and pull them both into the hug.
“Would you ever do drag?” Daisy asks,
her arm in mine as we walk ahead
of Mum and Anna down Shaftesbury Avenue
toward Piccadilly Circus.
“What, for Halloween? You know I don’t do
Halloween,” I reply.
“Not for Halloween,” says Daisy. “In general,
for fu
n.”
“No, I don’t think so. But watching it tonight
was the best thing ever!”
We squeeze into a Bakerloo line carriage.
A skeleton and a vampire
give up their seats for Anna and Mum.
Daisy and I stand surrounded
by a whole convent’s worth of zombie nuns,
giggling and swigging from wine bottles
with handwritten sticky labels:
“Jesus Juice.” One of them offers
us her bottle and I look toward Mum,
who is looking at her phone, with Anna
already asleep tucked under her other arm.
I take a swig
and offer it to Daisy, who swigs, giggles, and
says, “Thanks.”
“Where are your costumes?” asks the Undead
Wife of Christ, taking her wine bottle back.
“I don’t do Halloween,” I say.
Daisy chimes in, “Today’s his birthday.”
“What, really?” asks the wine giver.
Without waiting for an answer,
she turns to her companions. “Girls, girls!
We’ve got a birthday boy here.”
They let out a cheer and she turns back
and asks me, “What’s your name, sweetie?”
Daisy answers for me, “It’s Michael.”
The nuns begin to sing “Happy Birthday,”
and the whole carriage of merrymakers
and plain-clothed homegoers all join in,
including Mum and Anna, who is now very
awake.
“So, how old are you, sweetie?” our nun asks.
“I’m seventeen,” I reply.
“And how about your girlfriend?”
“She’s not—” I begin.
“—I’m sixteen,” Daisy cuts in.
“Baker Street. Everyone out,” shouts another
one of the nuns.
“Good night, kids,” says my nun. Then
she leans into me and whispers: “I think she
likes you.”
Christmas Day it’s me, Mum, and Anna,
but Mum’s made a lot for just three of us.
She’s done a nut roast and a turkey
with roast potatoes and vegetables.
There’s vegan stuffing, normal stuffing,
pigs in blankets, vegan cocktail sausages;
there’s vegan gravy and normal gravy.
“You’ve made too much, Mummy,” I say.
“That’s good. Then Daisy can have some
when she comes tomorrow.”
I haven’t invited Daisy round tomorrow
but she’s come round on Boxing Day
for the past four years so Mum’s assumption
makes sense. I’ve started to feel like
there’s something between Daisy and me.
An obstacle.
I don’t think I fancy her, I don’t
think she fancies me—but there’s something.
In the middle of dinner,
Mum bolts up
and across the dining room.
She grabs the house phone,
which we never use. She dials
and hands it to me. I tut
and mouth, “Who is it?” to Mum.
I hear his voice: “Naí?”
which means “Yes” in Greek.
“Merry Christmas, Grandad.”
I smile at Mum.
“Kalá Christoúgenna, Michalis,”
he replies.
Grandad asks me,
“Are you studying hard?”
“Yes, Grandad,” I say.
Then he asks,
“How’s your girlfriend, Daisy?”
“She’s not my girlfriend, Grandad.”
I laugh.
After dinner, Anna calls Trevor.
I call Uncle B,
who is just ten minutes
down the road
with Granny
and the Brown family.
He gets the whole family
to shout, “Merry Christmas, Mikey!”
I hear Granny take hold
of the phone. “Mikey, darling,
yuh uncle say
nex year he gon pay
fi us all to go Jamaica
fi Christmas.
Yuh muss cum wid us.”
People Like Me
I’d love to go to Jamaica
with Granny, Uncle B, Aunty B,
and the rest of the family
but I’ve looked it up
and you can go to prison
for having gay sex there.
I’m old enough here;
why would my equal
rights not travel with me?
It doesn’t seem fair
for people like me in Jamaica
to hide, to live in fear.
Conversation with Myself
I’m eighteen now. An adult. I feel like
I should know what I’m doing.
Like, do I really want to go to university?
I weigh up my options in my head.
Maybe I could get a job? Doing what?
I could take a gap year? With what money?
I could ask Uncle B for money?
No, it’s time to be your own man.
I could go to drama school?
You’re not talented enough.
I could do a vocational course?
As if you can do anything practical.
Maybe I could publish a book?
Who would want to read that?
I guess university makes sense.
Yes, university makes sense.
Reasons to Go to University
Moving to a new city,
Brighton, the gay capital of the UK
and meeting gay guys my age.
Making new friends.
A chance to be a new me,
not having to hide
anything from anyone
—what I’m doing
and who I’m doing it with.
Living on campus
and having an en-suite bathroom.
African Caribbean Society.
LGBT Society.
Open mic night. A reason to write.
I’m put in a group with Rowan
for my advanced drama performance.
Our teacher suggests
the play Beautiful Thing.
It’s annoying that Faith
and Destiny are in our group, too.
I’ve been lucky to go through school
without any classes with them.
But they had to go and pick drama,
didn’t they?
They stopped being mean
when Grace got expelled
last year but they never apologized.
I can’t say I forgive them
but I want a good grade for drama,
so decide to take charge.
I say, “You’re gonna be amazing
in this; I’ve watched the movie so many times.
I know exactly who everyone should play.
Faith, you’ll play Sandra, the mum.
Destiny, you should play Leah, she’s a singer.
Ben, you’ll be Tony, he’s Sandra’s boyfriend.”
Ben winks at Faith and Destiny laughs.
I know Rowan would suit Tony more
but Ben has the biggest crush on Faith
and I still have a little crush on Rowan.
“Rowan, you’ll be Ste, and I’ll play Jamie.”
This means two things.
One: I get to give Rowan a massage.
Two: I get to kiss Rowan.
I tell Daisy at lunchtime:
“My day has arrived—I’m gonna kiss Rowan
in the play.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s just acting—
he’s still got a girlfriend, you know?”
I don’t appreciate her
sa
ying any of this when
I’m this excited for a kiss.
In rehearsal, we play out the massage
but agree to save the kiss
for the real performance.
I think of nothing else for weeks.
In a way, it’s more pressure
to have this big buildup to the day.
After a rehearsal, Faith and Destiny come over.
“Michael, can we have a word with you,
please?” Faith says. Destiny looks serious.
Ben and Rowan are leaving. Rowan
turns back and waits by the door.
Faith notices me smiling at Rowan
over her shoulder and says sternly, “In private.”
“Sorryyy!” Rowan says.
“What’s this about?” I say, annoyed I can’t
leave with Rowan, and ready
for an argument about the roles I assigned
them in the cast.
“Destiny and I want to say sorry
for how mean we were before.”
I can’t believe they are apologizing.
Am I imagining it?
Destiny speaks. “Can you forgive us?”
“What exactly are you sorry for?” I ask.
“The little comments,” says Destiny.
“The dirty looks and”—she gets choked up—
“the notes in your bag.” She starts crying.
Faith puts an arm around her.
“I’m okay,” says Destiny,
smoothing down her hair.
If this is an act,
I wish she was this good
in our rehearsals.
“Someone in my family came out to me
recently and I’ve realized . . .” continues Destiny.
She looks to Faith to finish her sentence.
“We’ve realized . . .”
“We were complete bitches,” says Faith,
“and we feel so bad and so awkward
doing this play with you without knowing
if you hate us? Can you forgive us?”
“If we get an A, I’ll forgive you.” I wink.
After our dress rehearsal,
Rowan says, “It’s been special
doing this play with you.
The other three are great but
you know how our scenes together
are just so intimate, it almost
feels like I’m really falling for you.”
I could have broken that line
in so many ways. Take what I want
from it. I could have latched on to
“feels like I’m really falling for you”
or “I’m really falling for you.”
