The Other Side of Paradise: A Memoir (27 page)

The boys, however, are caught somewhere between livid and fascinated. My classmate Martin approaches me after class. “So, Stacey, since you say you are a lesbian, I have a friend who would do a little thing with you. I can hook you up if I can watch.”

“No, thank you, Martin. If and when I have sex with any woman, no man will be watching. This is not
Playboy
. It is a relationship between me and my girl. Would you like it if Allan were to watch you have sex with Cherise?”

“Stacey, I was just trying to help you. You don’t have to be so crude.”

“Martin, I am only being crude because you were being crude just now. How you going to invite yourself into my sex life? You think every time a woman have sex it have to include you and your little shrimp dick?”

“You know, Stacey, if I were you I would be careful how you move on this campus. One of these days that mouth of yours is going to get you into some real trouble.”

“Thank you for the advice, Martin. As from today I will refrain from
telling people that I am a lesbian.” I raise my voice and gesture to Martin. “You hear this, everybody? Because of Martin’s expert advice, I am never going to tell any of you that I am a lesbian, that I am choosing not to have sex with men—because of this lone cowboy I will now conduct myself in a manner that will keep me safe from the vigilante homophobes on this island.”

Martin pulls his cap down over his eyes and whispers, “Staceyann Chin, it looks like you just want something to happen to you. If I were you I would watch my step.” He bumps me with his shoulder as he walks away.

A tiny worry that I am in danger niggles at me. I become aware of the boys who watch me as I move across the campus. I comb the newspapers for incidents of violent homophobia. I become obsessed with the stories I read of gay men and lesbians who are attacked by mobs in rural Jamaica. Now that I am out, it feels like there are more of them happening. But I count the incidents and the numbers haven’t changed.

I remind myself that the University of the West Indies is the place where the intellectuals are. People like Martin may have their narrow-minded opinions, but this is a place of scholarship. People are not attacked here. I am definitely spooking myself. Nobody would be so stupid as to attack me here, I think. I laugh at myself for being so skittish. I tell myself that there is no reason to be so scared.

That night I decide to show everybody that I am not afraid. I sift through the lesbian magazines I bought in New York, fascinated with the women with very, very short hair. The shorter the hair, the more confident they seem. The next day I walk into the barbershop and tell the barber to take it all off. He slowly changes the head of his electronic clippers and asks, “You sure that is what you want?”

“Yes. Yes, I am very sure. Just shave it off clean.”

“Now, why you want to go and do that? You want to look like you have cancer?”

“You going to shave it or you going to question me? There’s another barbershop just down the street. My money is just as good there.”

The clippers are cold at the back of my neck. He hesitates for only a moment before he flips the switch. At first there is a buzzing sensation, then there is a rush of cool air tickling my naked scalp as he removes the hair. Halfway through the process I catch a glimpse of myself in the mir
ror. I look like a punk rocker. Then he spins the chair and the rest of the hair falls to the floor around me. When he is finished, there is a complete stranger staring back at me. I never realized how much my hair pulled focus away from my eyes, my cheekbones, my mouth—every feature looks more present, fuller on my face. I look more honest to myself.

“Now you look like a dyke,” I tell myself.

“What you say? You talking to me?” asks the barber.

“No. I was just saying that I finally look like myself.”

“All right, if you say so. You can pay the guy at the front.”

Everyone is shocked. Seranna asks loudly, “Why you do that to your hair? Why on earth would you want to look like a man?”

“No, Seranna, I want to look like a dyke. So I am wearing a dyke hairstyle. You have a problem with that?” She buttons her lips and looks away.

Racquel is worried that I am putting myself in danger unnecessarily. I tell her I won’t allow myself to be cowed back into the closet. She tells me that people are saying I sleep with a different girl every night and that I have sex with little girls and dogs too. She points out that it doesn’t take long for rumors about my close friends to join the circuit too. I tell her that if she feels like she is in any danger, I would understand if she wanted to conduct our relationship in private. She tells me that she is not really worried. “I am okay. Plus, people know that you and I are like sisters. And nobody suspects anything about me because I wear heels and lipstick. I just want
you
to be more careful. You never know what these idiots will do to you if they get the chance.”

In the climate of the nasty rumors, Annabella and Brandt begin to avoid me. Annabella explains that she doesn’t care that I am a lesbian, but she thinks I am being overly offensive. “Some of the things you say to people are really uncalled for. Gay or straight, Staceyann, in these last weeks, being around you has been very unpleasant.” Brandt nods in agreement.

The tears sting my eyes, but I take a breath and will them away. I say that I am disappointed and angry, that I had expected some people to move away from me, but not them. “You guys have known about me from the very beginning. In a funny kind of way, you knew before I did.”

Brandt looks away, but I can see that he is still siding with Annabella, who has her mouth set in a way that lets me know she has already made
up her mind. I decide right then that I don’t need them. I tell them they no longer have to worry about what I say to people. “I’d really appreciate it if you guys started pretending that I’m dead.” I push past Annabella and swat Brandt’s hand from my shoulder.

Lisa, my study partner in philosophy, slips me a note explaining that she really, really likes me as a person, but people in her dorm are asking what we do together when we study in her room. She wants to stop studying together. I read the note, crush it, and toss it back to her. It feels like I am losing everybody. I button my lips and look away, taking deep, even breaths and clenching my teeth to keep the tears from starting. Lisa looks nervously around, leans in toward my desk, and whispers, “Staceyann, you have to understand, I don’t have anything against your business, but somebody wrote the word
lesbian
on my door last night!”

“Are you a lesbian?” I ask out loud.

“What?”

“Are you a lesbian?” I repeat.

“No! What kind of question is that?”

“Lisa, if you are not a lesbian, then it doesn’t matter what a stupid backward-thinking bigot writes on your door, now, does it?”

“Is not as easy as that, Stacey.”

“It never is, Lisa. Some people will stand up for friendship and some people won’t. But since we were never friends, I guess none of that is relevant, now, is it?”

“Staceyann—”

“You know, Lisa, I really would like to hear what the teacher is saying. I would appreciate it if you would let me.”

Pretty soon, the boys make a game of trying to guess which of my friends I have already had sex with. That makes the girls avoid me altogether. I tell myself that I do not care. I simply put on my headphones and crank up the volume on Melissa Etheridge’s
Yes I Am,
trying my best to look like it doesn’t bother me that I have lost all my friends.

One evening, the West Indian drama lecturer, Miss Archer, beckons me into her office. “Staceyann, you seem to have a lot of time on your hands, you want to help me with a theater production?”

I am so grateful to have something to do with my evenings. Miss Archer is mounting
Passages,
a theatrical interpretation of Kamau Braithwaite’s poems from
The Arrivants.
My job is to run lines with the players
while they learn them. The cast is loud and jovial and no one seems to care about who is dating whom. Everyone talks passionately about
the work.
Emette Hicklingworth, a heavyset, effeminate boy, says that he only began
living
after he discovered the stage. “I was a corpse before that, a walking, talking, depressed corpse. The Creative Arts Center changed my life. Here there is no Black and white, no rich and poor, no outcast or member—here there is only the show!”

And it does seem as if the center is a home for misfits. The more outrageous characters seem to be indulged by everyone. People sing at the top of their voices on the steps of the center, and all throughout rehearsals they mutter and scream lines at each other. There is no room for self-consciousness on the stage. For the first time since I came out, I feel like I belong. I am ecstatic to discover that Racquel is also in the cast. Because of the production I can see her every day without people gossiping about us.

I work at pleasing Miss Archer. I throw myself into the process. Often I step into the part and explore it with the players in order to find better ways to express the lines. One day I am working with Racquel when Miss Archer walks in. “Oh, Staceyann, I didn’t know that you were such an actress. You look like you should be starring in this production, man.”

At first I protest and say I am not an actor, but she insists that I will be a wonderful addition to the cast. She says she will not take no for an answer. Miss Archer does a little dance and says how delighted she is to have me on board. “You really seem to have a knack for the stage, Staceyann. I think it is a good idea for you to try it.”

To conceal my swelling pride, I open the script and shout to the cast, “All right, everybody! Run the lines again, from the top—and absolutely no mistakes this time.”

A
fter rehearsals I walk across the campus to visit Anya, who pretends she does not know I have a crush on her. Nobody knows that we are friends yet, and I am working very hard to keep it that way.

My headphones are blasting Sarah McLachlan’s
Fumbling Towards Ecstasy
into my ears. So immersed am I in the music, I do not hear the boys until they have circled me. By the time I look up, they have herded me through the open door of the bathroom. I take off my headphones and stuff them into my pocket.

My heart hammers a hole through my chest. I try to calm my nerves by counting.

One.

Two.

Three. I can’t remember what number comes after three.

The lock clicks comfortably into place as the handsome boy in the red shirt turns around to face me. “You don’t have no mouth now, eh?” His voice is raspy. Almost sexy. It makes me think of ginger cookies to hear him speak. But I am disappointed by his diction.

“Pussy have you tongue under lockdown, eh?” The circle of boys all grin.

The question confuses me. This strange pink mouth shouldn’t be whispering those words against the side of my face. The bouts of laughter are melding and separating, melding and separating—I can hear the air in their lungs. They are excited. If I look at them with my eyes squinted, they are all a blur of eyes and teeth. All laughing. I am so distracted by the moving faces I can’t count straight.

Focus, Staceyann.

You can escape. But there are too many of them for me to get away. No matter, escape is in the mind. But I’m only one hundred and five pounds. Maybe one hundred six
…

Focus.

How many? Count them! Count, and stop being so afraid! And focus. Think. Think and count! Count!

One by one, look into their faces and count them.

Okay, first the one with the shaved head. His scalp is darker than mine. My head is shaped better. No bumps in sight as the clippers glide uninterrupted over the smooth yellow of my scalp. I have a better head. I am certain of it. Bumpy-head, number one.

Big pink lips. Number two. I prefer such thick lips on the smile of a woman; on the rugged face of a man, fleshy lips seem vulgar. Was that number three? No, still number two.

Blue shirt with gray buttons, number three.

Red shirt with a butterflylike collar, number four.

White T-shirt, needs bleach, number five.

Facial. Features. Particular.

“We nah promote your kinda slackness ’pon de campus, you know.” Blue Shirt. Dirty fingernails digging into his armpits as he speaks.

“No, man, all Sodomite fi dead. Nuff fire fi bun fi dem, yes.” Red Shirt.

White Shirt grabs his protruding crotch and pushes his pelvis in my direction. “Unless, of course, them come to the Holy Temple of the Royal Wood to repent and worship.”

His lack of taste disgusts me. His language is coarse. Some people should not be allowed to speak. His eyes narrow at my scornful expression. “And who is you to look down on me? You who commit the worst sin that can be committed against God!” He suddenly throws back his head, grabs his crotch, and laughs.

The harsh laughter unsettles me. Andy and Shappy had that laugh. The raucous rush of sound scares me even more in this moment because number six, the large copper-colored boy in a bright yellow shirt, stands between my body and the only door.

“Is why you don’t want no man? Why you ’fraid o’ the rod of correction, eh, baby?” Blue Shirt’s tone attempts the seduction of Red’s. If I weren’t here, it would be hilarious to watch.

“Yes, why you so frighten a de big bamboo? You think it goin’ hurt you? It not goin hurt you, you know. Just make you get better quick. Come feel it, nuh.” White Shirt moves closer to me. Blue Shirt follows him. The circle moves in.

I tell myself to stay focused.

How many times have you negotiated men in this scenario?

Not like this, though, not like this!

This is real, this is real—oh, my God! These boys are going to—oh, my God! They are really going to rape me! Oh, God! I haven’t had sex with a man in—I don’t even know how long. Oh, God! What am I going to—But pay attention to the faces! And features, now. Features. Particular. Facial. Features.

Okay, Red Shirt has a cleft in his chin. No—that’s the boy in the blue shirt. What if they take off their shirts? How will I remember? And what color is the shirt directly behind me? And how many shirts are there in all? Count them again, Staceyann. Two, four, six—

One large-muscled arm wraps itself around my middle. The unexpected intimacy spreads nausea throughout my entire body. Another pair of hands pulls at my navy blue tank. The gentle fingers deftly unsnap the slender bra strap. These fingers have to be Red’s. The left breast drops lower than the right. His hand snakes into my tank top. The surprising smoothness of his palm is silky on the loose breast. I can
hear
my heart jumping under his hand.

I lean my lower half away from the bulge pressing against my hip. Blue Shirt licks on my left shoulder. Red’s chest is beating urgently against my face. His sharp cologne tickles my nose. I recognize the sharp smell of Cool Water by Davidoff.

Start over, stupid. You will need the exact number later. Later when all of this is over.

One, two, three, four, five—oh, my God!
Red’s fleshy tongue is deep in my mouth; the sharp taste of Red Stripe stings bitter on his breath. Why was he drinking beer at two in the afternoon? He was probably playing dominoes before he came in here.

I like dominoes. The full lips are behind my ear. I used to play dominoes with Glen and Elisha in Montego Bay. The rough stubble prickles my neck. We always played…cutthroat. Every man for himself. Cutthroat, we called it. I watch, body strangely relaxed, as they push and pull at my breasts, my belly, the back of my neck. They are not doing
this to me, I am thinking. It must be some other girl collapsed and silent against them. This is not me. Not me at all, at all, at all.

“Why you cut off all you long, long hair, eh, baby love?” Red mutters the question, petulant, against the nape of my neck. I am surprised at his even breathing.

“It was too long,” I mouth back, soundless and apologetic.

“Answer me, you little raas-claat cunt!” He did not hear me. His fingers rake forward over the shaved crown, down over my face, down to cup my chin and tilt my head back against his shoulders. His fingernails bruise my face. He should be more careful, I think. If he wants to get away with this, he shouldn’t leave any marks.

The ceiling is white and flawless. They must have painted it recently. I can smell the acrid tobacco on his breath. Craven A. Legal ganja, the foreigners call it.

“Answer me when me talk to you. You must try and make things easier for yourself, you hear me?” He pulls my head all the way back. His face is now touching mine but upside down. “I will break you neck, you know. Now, why the fuck you cut you hair?”

“It was too long!” I shout back. “Jesus Christ! It was too long, it was too long, it was too much to deal with…” The warm tears mark a trail from right eye to right ear. Why the fuck am I crying?

His chin rests easy against my pounding jugular. He licks the salty tears seeping slowly into my cochlea. I wonder what color his undershirt is. I can’t see it, but I can feel the thick seam lines pressing against my scapular.

Red’s manicured fingers struggle with the simple knot at my waist. He has the most beautiful hands. “Is what happen to this bloodclaat skirt?”

“Bus it off, man,” Blue prompts.

“No, man, she go need to put it on back.” Red turns my body around to face him. Why am I so grateful to this monster?

He fumbles again with the knot. Surer fingers reach out and undo the flame-colored sarong. The folds fall caressingly at my feet. Why can’t I match the faces to the shirts? What if I can’t remember any of the faces? I can imagine me telling the police officer that it was a red shirt, and a blue shirt, and a white…

The perfect hands slide down into my panties. I pull up one knee and slam it into his crotch. The fingers suddenly become a fist. I am thrown against the wall.

“What kind of nastiness you a promote over ’pon Seacole Hall?” The flat of his palm connects with my left jawbone. The sound of it is miles away. The pain slowly extends to the inside of my lip. I savor the trickle of blood spreading over my tongue.

Red is now pressing his pelvis into mine.

I swallow hard. I have no idea what he or I will do next. I can see the reflection of my body in the shiny square above the sink.
I look slimmer in this mirror,
I am thinking,
not so chunky in the waist.

But why can’t I look at their faces?

Someone slides a hand between my legs again. I stand up on my tippy-toes and look away. I do not want to know whose hand is kneading away at my vagina. I jump when Red moves his body even closer. The familiar cackle of men hunting game fills the room.

“Shut up, you fuckers,” Red commands. The room is immediately silent.

His large hand explores the medium-sized mound that is my loose breast. He roughly throws my body against the wet porcelain sink. The cheering starts again. The rough red fabric itches my nose. His crotch is pushing—

The metal lock of the bathroom door clicks as it opens. Everything goes completely still.

A tall slender boy steps into the bathroom. His piano fingers hold on to the silver door handle, unsure of what he has walked into. His unblemished brow wrinkles his confusion.

I am so relieved I start sobbing.

I know him! I am saved! I know him! I know him! His name is Orville Duhaney!

My chest dances its recognition as I sum him up in memory. I can’t remember how I know him, but I know he likes Broadway musicals and soap operas. I know he is gay. So I know he would not let these boys rape me. That means it is over now. It is over.
Oh, my God! It is over now. Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Jesus. It is over.

Nothing happened and it is over. The muscles in my gut loosen as I stoop to pick up my sarong. I am so tired. I just want to go home and sleep. All I want now is a long—

“Ease up, there, baby love, don’t go nowhere.” Red grabs my right arm and pats my back. “We soon come back to you.”

He then turns to face Orville. “All right, my youth. If you not for the
cause, you must be against it. What you sayin? You leaving, or you coming? You with us or against us?” He poses the question quietly, as if it is the most logical query in the world.

Orville’s hips swivel as if to exit, and the rage rises up hot and white through the cistern of my constricted throat. I can’t believe the little faggot is going to leave me!

I find my voice and lunge toward him. “Yow, Orville, if you leave me here with them I will make sure you won’t live to see another sunrise!”

The sound surprises me and Red’s fingers tighten around my arm. He laughs and jerks my body back to his. The movement jiggles the loose breast. I am now looking straight into Orville’s eyes. He meets my stare for a second. Then his gaze drops to the floor.

It’s now or never.

“Listen to me, Orville, I want you understand what me sayin to you, now—listen to me, and listen good.” The words spill from me without forethought or reason. “If you leave me here with them—I do things, say things to make sure you will never be safe in this country!”

I shouldn’t be so angry with him. He is only scared of what they would do to him if they knew that he liked boys. The boys around me shift. Red is still behind me, one hand on my right arm, the other holding my left elbow. I can feel his erect penis pressing against me through his jeans. The little fuck is not going to leave me here! He is going to help me.

Red laughs again. He is not even worried about Orville’s presence in the room. I have to do something to make him help me. “Orville, you want me to tell you how I will do it?” I push my ass against Red—to remind me that this is necessary. “I will tell everybody everything I know about you. I will tell everybody what you do when—”

“What you want me to do?” he cuts me off. “You think me one can fight all of them?” He stands straight and faces me. “And furthermore, this is really none of my business.”

How can the little prick be so spineless?

“I really don’t give a fuck, Orville. You have to—you can’t leave—you don’t see what they going do to me?” I raise the crushed sarong in testament.

“What I going do, Stacey? I really can’t do nuttin.”

Red is no longer amused by our conversation. He points a finger at Orville’s nose. “Hey, pussyhole, you can talk to her after we done with
her. Right now big man have business fi deal wid. So get the raas outta here—before we start beat you fi the foreplay!” His armpits are dark red from sweat.

“I am sorry, Stacey, I really don’t think I can do anything…” Orville steps away from the raised arms. “What I must do?”

My response leaves little room for negotiation. “If you leave me now, I going fuck you up later.”

I am sorry for him. But I need his consideration more than he needs mine. He hangs his head again.

“Orville, if you leave me…”

“All right, all right, Stacey! I hear you the first time. I hear you the first time.”

Orville is almost crying as he turns his body from the door and toward the rainbow of schoolboy shirts. He begins with a painfully feeble attempt. “All right—All right, now—make us look at the situation—make us see what exactly we can—”

I almost laugh out loud at his ineptitude.

“Why you don’t want to join in? You is a batty bwoy or what?” asks Red Shirt.

Blue steps forward and pushes Orville in the chest. “Yeah, what is that? Free pussy and you refusin—you must be a sodomite or a priest—and I don’t see no Bible in you hand. Sonny bwoy, we beat faggot just fi fun, you know.” He pushes him again. “Is mus bloodclaat batty you love! Is that why you don’t want to fuck her? Because you prefer to fuck man?”

Orville is almost hyperventilating.