The Other Side of Paradise: A Memoir (26 page)

M
y 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 dinner. 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.”

A
s 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.”

W
hen 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 dollar 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.”

There is something thrilling about the way he said fuck and dick out loud in public. In Jamaica I could get killed for talking about the things I want to do with women.

I am almost halfway through my trip when I discover the bookstores:
A DIFFERENT LIGHT
,
OSCAR WILDE
,
THE REVOLUTIONARY BOOKSTORE
,
THE PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF ANTI-IMPERIALIST LITERATURE
—the names on the signs draw me in. I find a volume of short stories with true lesbian love stories. I read and reread the stories. I am fascinated with people
coming out of the closet.
They describe how good it feels to be proud of their sexuality. I suddenly want to
come out
to my friends as a lesbian. Now I want everyone to know exactly what I am.

I buy psychology books about homosexuality and highlight sections I think will help with my coming-out process. I pack my books and head off to the airport.

I lift my overweight suitcase and hand my passport to the woman checking me in.

“What is it that you have in this bag? A body?”

“No, just books. Just books I picked up in the hundreds of little bookstores in New York City.” I smile and watch her struggle to heave the suitcase onto the conveyor belt.

I
decide to come out to Racquel first. Not just because she is my oldest friend, but because she may be the only person in my life who could accept this about me and still love me the same.

Racquel is set to begin her first year at the university this semester, so we arrange to meet the first day right after classes. That morning I wear my favorite sarong and pull my hair back into a tight ponytail. One of the coming-out books says that it is best to look as becoming and as “normal” as possible when delivering the news to family and friends. Looking good makes it harder for people you love to reject you. So I add perfume and put on some lip gloss. If she tells me she doesn’t want to be my friend, it won’t be because I look shabby.

I am happy that she is an English major because we get to see each other every day. Then I worry that that won’t be so good if she no longer wants to be my friend. Losing Racquel would be like losing my only sister. I hope she won’t think I suddenly want to convert her so I can have wild, crazy sex with her. In my heart of hearts I believe that Racquel will remain my friend, but all the nasty comments I grew up hearing about the sinful residents of Sodom and Gomorrah make me doubt my instincts. Maybe I should wait. Maybe I should tell her later on in the semester. But I am afraid that someone will say something to her before I do. It has to be now.

I spend the day searching the library for newspaper articles about homosexuality. All I find are stories about women who are caught having sex with their children or men raping little boys. The articles say that homosexuality is the most unforgivable sin. Almost all the reported incidents involve mobs. Many end in violence and sometimes, for the alleged homosexual, or batty man, death. I tell myself I have to stop reading these horrible stories, but hours later I have to drag myself away to go meet Racquel. I dash across the campus and arrive sweaty and on edge.

I can hardly concentrate on what Racquel is saying. “Staceyann, it just seems like the work is so much, and nobody seems to help you with anything. And every paper wants to know how I feel about this and that and whatnot! I am so tired of examining morality!”

I laugh nervously and tell her that she has many more years to go before she is done with arguments about morality. I wonder if a good
segue is to ask what her moral stance is on homosexuality. I try to open my mouth to ask, but the words are stuck in my throat.

When Racquel confesses that she thought the boys would be more mature at the university I see my opening. I gather my courage and blurt out, “Racquel, I think I have something I should tell you.”

She looks up from her rice and peas and pushes her plate aside. “What’s up, big sis?”

“Well, I—I think I know what you mean. Yeah, I think the boys are immature too—and I think—no—I
know
—”

“Staceyann, I think I am a lesbian.”

“What! What did you say, Racquel Antoinette Bremmer?”

“Just what I said—I think I might be homosexual.”

“Well I guess that makes two of us on the island.”

“No—no! You are pulling my leg! You cannot be serious! Really?”

The silence is long and filled with all our questions. I sip on my Pepsi and wait for her to put her ginger beer down.

Racquel takes a deep breath and leans in to me. “Stace, what exactly are you saying to me?”

“Racquel, are you deaf? I like girls. I think that they are sexy. I—I haven’t really had sex with anybody yet, but I sure as hell want to.”

“Wow! Wow! So why you just telling me now?”

“Well, I never wanted to influence you—and I thought you were going to stop talking to me…”

“You should know better than that. And don’t think I didn’t have my suspicions—but I bet you never even
suspect
anything with me.”

“Not at all. Wow! You’re not joking? You really like women?”

“More than I care to say out loud.” Racquel lowers her voice and confesses that she has had those feelings for years. “I have had crushes on my friends since prep school, but you know how it go in Jamaica…”

“Tell me about it! You think things would be different on the campus, eh?”

“Yes, but you learn quick that them not. Listen, when I came in for registration, a construction worker was cussing out a boy because he had in an earring—about how the university is the reason why
battymanism
is taking over the island. How this kind free thinking is why the dollar not worth anything—and everybody was just nodding, telling him that him is right.”

“Yeah, but I don’t care what them say. This is how I am and I am not going to feel ashamed of it. But seriously, when did you know that you were, you know…”

I beg her to tell me every single detail about every girl she has ever liked. We make a list of the girls in Kingston that we think are cute. When we discover common crushes, we fall over ourselves laughing. I am relieved and happy that I told her. Now I’m not alone. I tell her about my crush on Seranna, my Shakespeare study partner. Racquel urges me to make a move on her. When I ask her if she has ever made a move on anyone, she tells me that she has already kissed the girl she likes. She describes it as the single most amazing event of her life. I decide it is time to do something about Seranna.

Seranna and I are only study partners because I asked her before anyone else did. We meet in her room because the air conditioner in the library is always turned up too high. The following week when she mentions that her neck hurts, I offer to massage it for her. Her skin is warm under my hands, and I let my fingers slip beneath the collar of her white silk blouse. When I unsnap her bra, she does not resist. Twenty minutes later we are both naked from the waist up and kissing. Though I do not have the courage to reach below her belt, making out with Seranna is the most exciting thing I have ever done.

As I am leaving, she leans her body against the closed door and asks what can I give her in exchange for my passage out. I offer her my next study session. She accepts and we kiss long and hard to seal the deal. On my way home, I inhale the scent of her perfume on my hands, reliving the evening and counting the hours till I see her next.

Racquel and I have an emergency meeting to discuss how things went with Seranna. When I tell her we took our shirts off, she high-fives me and points out that being a lesbian in Jamaica may not be so bad for me. “If women are taking off their clothes on the first date, our little island may be not be as
homophobic
as you think.”

She encourages me to tell Annabella and Brandt that I am not bisexual but lesbian. Annabella blushes and giggles and tells me that she knew all along. Brandt says he is proud of me for finally admitting it. I am so relieved I decide to have a real talk with Seranna about my sexuality. I wait until we are half-naked and snuggling to lean in to her neck and tell her that the rumors about my being a lesbian are true. She pushes me
away and reaches for her shirt. When she is dressed, she tells me to get out of her room. “You disgust me with your nastiness, Staceyann Chin! I can’t imagine why I let you in my room! I never, ever want to see you again.”

I move toward her, to hug her, to beg her not to speak to me like that, but she quickly opens the door and tosses my books out into the hallway. The girl who lives in the room next door pokes her head out to ask if everything is all right. I tell her to mind her own business. When Seranna tries to shut the door, I stick my foot inside and ask, “What do you think we were doing, Seranna? We were participating in lesbian sexual activity! You might be bisexual, but you were rolling around with a lesbian.”

“Staceyann, lower your voice! And if you ever speak to me again, I will tell everyone that today you came into my room and tried to put your hand up my skirt when I was sleeping. If I were you, I would forget you ever knew a girl called Seranna Laine Parker.”

I spend the days longing for Seranna. Until I notice that Cheryl, from my African Literature tutorial, is making eyes at me. I say hello after class and she invites me to spend the night in her room. Cheryl’s boyfriend has gone to Miami for the weekend, and she has always been curious about kissing women, she says. We spend the night groping at each other fully clothed. The following week, when she tells me her boyfriend wants to watch, I tell her I cannot see her again. Then Tanya, from social sciences, admits to me that she prefers women to men. After nights and nights of kissing, I ask her if she could ever partner exclusively with a woman. She points out that that kind of life is an abomination. We never see each other again. There are plenty of girls who allow for some sexual intimacy under the guise of exploration, but they stop talking to me when they find out that I want to be exclusive. The more it happens, the angrier I become.

Every day I complain to Racquel. “We really do live in a community of the most vile type of hypocrites! Imagine, all those intellectuals who talk about homosexuality in class—Racquel, I have heard them myself—they talk about freedom and progress and all that crap! Some of them have
friends
that everybody know for sure that them gay. Some of those girls have been in bed with me! And now they are acting as if I am some sort of pariah!”

“Yes, Stace, but I think people are just uncomfortable with you announcing it so loudly.”

“You mean to tell me that them don’t mind if I am a lesbian, but them vex with me for saying it?”

Racquel cautions, “Well, you can say it as much as you want, but changes like these take time. You can’t expect people to just accept your coming out so easily. Give them a few weeks, a week even.”

“No, Racquel—they are all hypocrites. If my friends cannot accept me now, them can kiss my ass! I don’t need any of their halfway friendships. And none of them can tell me how to act. I will say it as much as I want. I intend to tell every one of my friends so I can see exactly what they are made of!”

The girls are generally very clear about how they feel. One girl in my African Philosophy class threatens to pay somebody to kill me if I ever come near her again. Another retracts an invitation to her birthday party. Animated conversations end when I approach. And when I attempt to speak to anyone, the crowd disperses. Angry and defiant, one day I walk into the center of the hush and extend my right hand to the girl who sits behind me in Shakespeare. As she takes it I say, “Hi there, Kendra, I know you know I’m Staceyann, but I don’t think it’s been confirmed for you that I eat pussy and not dick.” I grin when she withdraws her hand and quickly shoves it in her pocket.