The Other Side of Paradise: A Memoir Read online

  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 g
et 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.

  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 mirror. 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 d
anger, 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.