Jamaicans have always been able to identify anything that stands out from the norm. The mere acknowledgment of difference, though, is never enough. The tree whose branches seek sunlight in an organic way, must be pruned to suit the tastes of the farmer in whose orchard it grows. The regulations for gender and sexuality for everyone living in Jamaica are made painstakingly clear to all of us in childhood. In adulthood, each individual becomes a guard of this ‘code of conduct’, and it is socially and culturally acceptable to enforce it where the need arises.
A few days ago, I was walking with a sibling in town. Two men were walking by us, and one of them stopped, turned and said to his friend, “my yuut, a wich wan a dem ya a di uman.” I continued walking as if I heard nothing. I don’t respond to ignorance. You never want these people to actually think that they may have hurt your feelings with their ugly words. The following day, while walking in town, a friend and I walked by a group of men. They were staring at us as we approached them, and their peculiar gaze assured me that they might have something to say. As soon as we passed, some outspoken soul among them uttered the word “Fish,” and again, I pretended as though I had heard nothing. Still, the word stung like a poisoned dagger. This fish was pierced.
Two days later, I visited the town where I grew up, in another parish. Everyone knows me, if not by name, by face. I sat in one of the few green spaces in the town, far away from the other patrons of the park. As one young man headed toward the exit, he shouted, “Yow,” in my direction. I turned to face him standing about a hundred meters away. “Batiman!” he shouted. “Mi no hail no batiman!” Except, he had. He was not provoked, and I had not done anything to suggest to him that I might be gay. Somehow, I was different, and that was enough for him to go on his rant against someone he didn’t know. I would have been lucky if that were the only encounter I had with idle, name-calling guards of sexuality and gender.
A few hours later, I walked into the offices of a financial institution. The offices were filled to capacity. I stood by the door with my friend, looking beyond the crowd to find a friend who is working at the office for the summer. Disturbing the silence of the air-conditioned waiting area, a young man just next to me asked my friend, “My girl, a wa kaina go-go bwai dat yaa paar wid?” She ignores him, and he repeats his question; this time more loudly. At least sixty pairs of eyes were on me now. He calls out a third time, “Janis, a wa kaina go-go bwai dat yaa paar wid!” I was mortified. I am used to people staring at me, but to have an entire group of people scrutinize my appearance, judging for themselves whether I seemed to be a ‘go-go boy’, was embarrassing.
Alas, my adventurous day did not end there. I spend the afternoon at the beach, then headed home with my childhood best friend. This area is populated with men who don’t work. I would never walk here alone, because Jamaican men are particularly homophobic, and aggressive when in groups. Still, I was a bit apprehensive. I looked ahead of me at one point, and I noticed there were about fifteen men scattered at the head of a lane. Gulp. I looked straight ahead, avoiding their gaze as we passed. Ten steps away from them the word “faiya” started flying at us from what seemed like a million different mouths and innumerable cardinal directions. There were overlaps, and echoes in a cacophony. Faiya! Faiya! Faiya! I never turned to look back.
I hate being made to feel like I don’t belong in my own country. I hate feeling like it’s not safe to walk on the streets of my home town. However, I will not give credence to their ignorance, and crassness. Sticks and stones may break my bones, as do the words they say behind my back. Through reflection, and continued hard work, the broken bones will heal, and I will become a stronger, more self-confident person.
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