The Other Side of Paradise: A Memoir (22 page)

He still does not look at me.

I had played this scene over and over in my head, fantasized about how he would be so sorry when I was done with him that he would go straight to my grandmother, fall down on his knees, and beg her forgiveness. In my fantasy I would be there to ensure that she refused his pleas. But his discolored false teeth look so pitiful smiling at me, I find myself wanting to be kind to him.

“What them tell you that me do?” I volunteer.

His head jerks up so fast, the perfect almost-smile nearly falls out of his mouth when he speaks.

“Well, they tell me you coming home late in the evening and reading all kind of big-people book. Them things dangerous, you know. You not ready for baby and man and all of that!”

I don’t remind him that Grandma was not far from my age when she had her first child for him. I wish I could tell him that I am not with any boys in the evening. I wonder what he would say if I told him I only visited my brother and April and Natalia and my almost-father after school. But I say nothing about that. I know Auntie would prefer to think that I am chasing a man than visiting people who allow little girls to wear pants and have helpers and look like me.

So I simply swallow the odd scent of his cologne, clear my tightening throat, and say, “I have never had sex with anybody in my entire life, so there’s very little chance of my ever getting pregnant. Don’t you know anything about biology?”

His eyes light up. His borrowed teeth break into a smile and I see a sparkle of the man who used to charm the ladies with gifts he bought with my grandmother’s hard-earned money.

“What! You don’t start them tings yet? You never do nothing with them dutty-foot bwoy from round the district here? Bless me eyes! So you is a virgin! A genuine young Jennings virgin! Well, me grampickney, Ah proud o’ you, keep it up, me chile.”

With that, he stands up, pats my knee, and walks away with the swinging stride of a man who has accomplished the job he came to do.

I want to shout at him. Scream my denial at the red stripes on his disappearing back. I wanted to call him back and shout in his ear until he is deaf too.
I am a not a Jennings. I will never be a Jennings and have no desire to be a Jennings or a Jennings virgin. I am a Chin and even though my father doesn’t want me I am always going to be a Chin! Even if by some miracle I get married I will hold on to my name. And I am glad that it has nothing to do with a man who is only a wife-beating, rum-drinking, cheating Black man.

I want to tell him all the things that are bouncing around in my head, but his white hair is gone before I can even open my mouth.

I
t is summertime and there is nothing for me to do. Natalia and Sandy have both gone away for the holidays. I don’t have school, so I can’t fool Auntie with an excuse about studying and slip away to visit Delano or April. The only place I can go is church. And the only reason I go is to see Troy, but I am getting a little tired of him. He wants to kiss me all the time and I don’t know how to tell him that I don’t really like it. I am just waiting for a good excuse to break up with him.

One day we are sitting on the wall and he tells me we have to talk about something.

“What happen?” I asked him.

“Well, we have been girlfriend and boyfriend now for quite a while and I think it time we make our relationship even more serious.”

“What you mean by that?”

He sighs and chews on a blade of grass. “Well, most men would leave already under this condition.”

“What you mean? What condition? And who you calling a man?”

“You know what I mean, Stacey. Why you always have to make things so difficult?”

“Troy, I would really appreciate it if you would stop talking in parables. Leave that to Jesus. If you have something to say to me, just come right out and say it!”

“All right. I think is time we do something serious—something that will take our relationship to another level of seriousness.”

“Troy Christie, are you saying you want me to have sex with you?”

“Is not just me want it, you must be wanting it by this! You think all that kissing is just for nothing?”

“Let me tell you something, Troy. I don’t have one living soul who really care about me or what I want out of life. The only person who can really do anything to save me from being worthless is me. Sex equals baby! And baby equals no school. And no school equals worthlessness! And I am not going to have sex with anybody and turn worthless!”

“But you don’t have to get pregnant! We can use things like—”

“It doesn’t matter what you say! Condoms can break. The pill is not one hundred percent safe—and my bio book says that I am too young to take the pill anyway. If you had any respect for what I want in life, you wouldn’t ask me that.”

“Stacey—”

“Stacey nutten! I don’t even want to talk to you anymore. I don’t want to be your girlfriend! Go find somebody who will let you do as you like with her!” I get up from the wall and go inside the church building.

He sends letters and messages through Nellie. But I tell her to stop delivering them. Two weeks later when Nellie tells me he has another girlfriend I tell myself that she will be pregnant with three children by the time she is twenty.

I tell Nellie I am looking for a priest to be my boyfriend. She tells me she has just the right boy.

Randall, Nellie’s cousin, is in Montego Bay for the summer. He is a fifteen-year-old tenth-grader at Monroe College for boys. Nellie says he likes me. One afternoon he kisses me on my left ear and runs away.

All summer he sends me sweets and flowers. I never send anything back and if he smiles at me I quickly turn away from him. On his last day in Montego Bay he slips me a letter written on pink paper and smelling like perfume.

I am a little disturbed that he does not even
want
to do anything nasty with me. I hope he is not one of those batty boys who don’t want to have sex with girls. But just in case he is a normal boy, I pen my response on yellow paper. Sandy says that yellow is a neutral color.

Back at school, Sandy tells me she met a boy on her holiday in Westmoreland. His name is Robin and he has promised to write to her. If any boys write to us, we have to collect the letters from Mrs. Burnett, Nellie’s mother, who is also the postmistress for the Montego Bay Post Office.

Sandy and I race downtown to the post office. We go every day for three weeks. On Friday evening Mrs. Burnett hands me a yellow envelope. “A letter from Monroe College. My, my, somebody must like you a lot! You know how much a stamp cost these days?”

Randall’s handwriting is small and neat. And there are little hearts drawn in red in the margin.

I get my dictionary out in order to respond. I want to make sure our interactions are intellectual. I believe if he is stimulated mentally he will
forget about the feelings of the flesh. Still, I write my response on pale purple writing paper and draw flowers around the edges of the page.

“Good evening, Mrs. Burnett, any letters for Staceyann Chin today?”

“Stacey, you were here three days ago and you got a letter. You expecting another one again today? Is Randall writing you all these love letters?”

I turn red in the face and say, “No, Mrs. Burnett, they are not love letters. We are just pen pals. Is there anything for me today?”

“No, ma’am, and there is nothing from Westmoreland for Sandra either. Come back next week.”

A few weeks later another letter arrives. The envelope reeks of cologne. When I open it there are flower petals inside. And he has drawn little hearts and lips all over the back of each page.

I am shocked by the letter. I am also a little excited by its contents, but I know I cannot allow the relationship to go any further. If we keep writing to each other he will think that I am the kind of girl who will have sex with him before I am ready. I immediately tear a page from my notebook and quickly scribble the note on the lined white paper.

Randall does not write again. But Nellie tells me that he always asks about me when he calls.

W
hen Grace straightens Elisha’s hair, I am so jealous I tell Auntie that if she doesn’t give me permission to straighten mine she is cruel and unfair. She laughs and turns back to her Bible. The next day I remind her that Natalia’s mother will do it for free, that straight hair is easier to manage. The week after that I tell her that straightening it would give me more time for schoolwork. I am sure to get better grades. But no matter how much I beg, the answer is always no. Almost every girl in my class has had her hair straightened, I whine. Her response is quick and without apology. “Them other girls don’t live here. And as long as you live under this roof, what I say go. Your hair is fine as it is. You have good hair. Not like them other children. Leave your hair the way God give it to you!”

Frustrated and angry, I complain to Natalia.

“So why don’t you just do it?” she asks.

“You mad, Talia? Auntie would kill me!”

“Don’t be dramatic, Staceyann! She cannot
kill
you. Think about it. If you went ahead and straightened it, she couldn’t do anything. The most she can do is beat you. And then what? Your hair would be straight and that would be that. You can’t just reverse the process overnight.”

The next day I tell Auntie Bamsey that Auntie finally said I could straighten my hair. As I sit in the swivel chair and watch her separate my hair in four equal parts, in my excitement I try not to think about Auntie and what she will do to me when I get home. Auntie Bamsey applies the sticky cream and leaves it in for about ten minutes. My hair smells like it is being roasted. When she combs through the messy paste, my scalp
feels like it is on fire. I am glad when she washes it all out. Little sections of the straight hair are smoothed onto curlers and pinned into place. I sit under the burning-hot dryer for an hour and a half, wondering why anyone would do this every six weeks. But when the curlers come out and the hair is blown into smooth waves, I understand.

I stare into the mirror at the new me. Long straight hair, with just a hint of a curl, hangs past the back of my brassiere. Perfectly formed large loose curls frame my face. If I shake my head, the curls move individually. My hair looks just like Andrea’s blond-white hair, except it’s black. I look almost exactly like April and Natalia. For the first time in my life I feel beautiful. Now I really look like my father could be Uncle Hartley or Uncle Charlie or Junior Chin.

I step through the front gate with my heart in my mouth. I know I am going to get the biggest beating of my life tonight and I am not certain that I am ready for it. Auntie watches me as I make my way carefully up the stairs. She does not respond when I say good evening. And she does not take her eyes off me either. Elisha also watches me from across the room, but she does not say a word. We are both waiting for what Auntie is going to do. I stay in the room and read until it is time to go to bed. For most of the night I lie awake waiting for her to come and say something, but she doesn’t. The next morning when I am leaving for school, she tells me, “Stacey, I see that you are a big woman now. And since two bulls cannot reign in one pen, it is time for you to move out of this house.”

“What? What you mean by move out, Auntie? Where I must move to?”

“You should have think about that before you go out there and do what you want. Please to collect your things together and take them out of this house.”

“But, Auntie—”

“No but. Just get your things and go. You are a big woman. Go and live by your own rules.”

I ask if I can take enough things for the weekend and come back to get the rest later. I just need some time to talk to Uncle Hartley. He will help me figure it out.

She says, “No. If you take anything, take everything today.”

I promise to come back for my things later that day. At school I tell
Sister Joan Claire what has transpired. I ask her to call Auntie Ella in Kingston for me, but when Mrs. Bremmer answers, she tells me that Auntie Ella has emigrated to America. And no, she’s sorry, but she doesn’t know where Grandma is living now. When she asks what’s wrong, I hang up. Sister Joan Claire sits with me while I cry. She might be able to find someone to take me in, she assures me. But I am not sure what she means when she says
take me in
. I know I don’t want to be a charity case anymore. I don’t want to go to someplace where I am a burden to anyone. I am tired of not having a home. I try not to panic as it dawns on me that I have nowhere to live. Natalia is sure that Uncle Hartley will let me stay with them until Sister Joan Claire finds me a place, but I am not so sure. My experience is that people are nice until they have to take me in.

I am quiet as Natalia fills Uncle Hartley in on the ride home. He listens and nods and taps the steering wheel as she tells him that nobody in the world seems to want me, that I have never really done anything to deserve my situation, that I get such good grades in school, and that I won’t be any trouble. Uncle Hartley nods and nods and nods. It is only when Natalia says she knows I will repay him for his kindness that he interrupts her. “No, Natalia, no.” His tone is serious as he continues, “When you do something kind for someone, it is not something to be repaid. You do it because it is necessary, not because you expect something back. And Stacey, let me tell you something. You are welcome to stay in the house, but no thank-yous are necessary. This is a critical year in your life. It is your second-to-last year in high school. You have final exams next year. So if you are without a place to live and you are my daughter’s very good friend, it is my duty to take you home. You hear me?”

I nod because I cannot find any words. Natalia gently pats my arm while I wipe the tears from my eyes and blow my nose into my tie.

T
wo weeks pass before Sister Joan Claire finds me a room with a woman named Mrs. Lyn. Mrs. Lyn’s husband died last year and her only daughter is away at college in Miami. Sister Joan Claire gives me the address and tells me to go there after school on Monday. Mrs. Lyn’s house is on the nicer side of Paradise. That side is called Paradise Acres. Uncle Hartley drops me there after school. Paradise Acres is just a short
walk from the taxi stand at Blood Lane, but the neighborhood feels like a whole other country. The houses are all concrete. And everybody has metal grilles over the windows and doors.

Mrs. Lyn is a tiny half-Chinese woman who speaks very softly. She opens the door and motions me in. She points to the big plush red couch and I sit down. “Good afternoon, Stacey—or is it Staceyann? Which do you prefer?”

“Ah—I—I like to be called Staceyann.”

“Okay, Staceyann, Sister told me about your situation. She told you what the room and board will be?”

I nod and reach into my pocket, but she shakes her head. “No—no, you don’t have to give it to me until you come with your things. We just have to go over some basic rules. First thing is first, I will not touch anything that personally belongs to you and you will afford me the same courtesy, right?”

I nod again.

“Second, if you are not coming home you have to call and let me know before ten. And if you forget, please call first thing in the morning. I am an early riser, so it doesn’t matter how early you call, okay?”

“Yes, Mrs. Lyn.”

“Another thing. All the boarders who have stayed here have called me Aunt Lyn. Mrs. Lyn sounds so formal for people who are sharing a house, you agree?”

“Yes, Mrs.—I mean, Aunt Lyn.”

“Don’t worry, it will take a while before it becomes habit. Now, you can eat what you like as long as it is not without consideration. The helper cooks every day, but she leaves at three, so you have to share out your own dinner when you get home. It will always be there in the fridge. Eat it if you like. Leave it if you don’t. Come with me.”

We leave the living room and head to the back of the house.

“This room in here is yours. The bathroom in there is yours alone. The helper will clean it once a week. If you want it cleaned more often, you will have to do that yourself.”

I follow her to another room with a concrete sink.

“The washing machine and dryer are in this back room. Sheets and towels go in the laundry basket back here. You will be responsible for your underwear, and that includes your brassieres too. If you make a
mess—for example, if you spill your period on your sheets—don’t put them in the basket. Just drop them in the machine and run a cycle. This is not a nursery. I expect you to take care of yourself. Understood?”

“Yes, M—Aunt Lyn.”

“Those are the general housekeeping rules. Now, no sex in this house. None at all. And if I catch you, the consequences will be considerable. No boys when I am not here. And if you have friends over, they have to leave by eleven, okay? Oh, and no phone calls after eleven. And try not to give the phone number to people who will make crank calls. You think you can live with those rules?”

I don’t think I have absorbed everything, but I nod anyway.

“When would be a good time for you to move in?”

“Aahm…I think—I think Uncle Hartley will give me a ride over here tomorrow.”

“Okay, ma’am, I guess I will see you tomorrow. Let me give you some keys. This opens the front grille, this silver one is for the front door…”

I walk from Aunt Lyn’s to Natalia’s in a daze. I feel sort of giddy with freedom. I tell Natalia everything Aunt Lyn said.

She can barely contain herself. “Wow, you are lucky for real. It seems like you hit the jackpot with this one. How you feel about everything?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“You guess? You know how many people would kill to have that kind of freedom? You can spend the night with your boyfriend and not get in trouble! You have the life that every teenager want to have, Stacey! Why you look like something is wrong?”

“I am happy to have all me freedom, but guess I feel sort of sad too, to know that I can do anything and nobody would care.”

“I guess I understand that, but it must be cool to be able to do anything you want.”

“I suppose so. But make us do our homework before Uncle Hartley come check on us.”

That night in bed I lie listening to Natalia’s even breathing. The sheets are clean and smell like lemon. The room is kept cool by a silver overhead fan. I wish this room were
my
room. The room at Aunt Lyn’s is nice, and it is quite an unexpected luxury to have my own bathroom, but I know it is not really
my
room—not the way that this room is
Natalia’s room
. Uncle Hartley took her to the paint store to pick out her own paint.
Even when she is married and living somewhere else, this room will still be her room.

I think of Elisha and Grace stretching out in the bed I used to sleep in. I know that Grace is glad to see the back of me. She will throw out the few clothes I left there. By next week there will be no sign of my having been there at all.