There is no exception. When Grandma\u2019s getting ready for church tomorrow, tug at her skirt hem and say Grandma, I want to come to church too. She\u2019ll scowl. She\u2019ll remind you that Big Reds said the same thing five years ago, but now he sleeps in every Sunday and had that seizure the other day from smoking weed. Stand your ground. Point out that you\u2019re nothing like your brother, and that it\u2019s her Christian duty to set you on the path of righteousness. She\u2019ll smile. She\u2019ll call you a mouthy little bitch.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Stick with it<\/em>. Go to church every Sunday. Every Sunday. Starch your white shirt. Press neat creases into your wool slacks. Save any little money you have for the collection plate and cherish the pocket-sized New Testament she\u2019d originally given to Big Reds. On the bus ride to town, ignore the other kids. Sit by your grandma and assume the stoicism of a proud martyr. This means no complaining about: the holes in the bus floor, the rents in the bus seats, the heat pressing in from all sides. Sweat will run into your eyes and pool beneath your butt. But Jesus endured much worse on the cross, so keep quiet.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Okay, this is a two-parter. So first off, don\u2019t make friends with the kids at church<\/em>. I know this is tempting; church is so damn boring (can you believe it? Jamaica in 1998, and part of Holy Trinity\u2019s church service is still in Latin), and these kids, they\u2019ll want you to catch butterflies with them at first, out back, in the churchyard, \u2019round where the tombstones are. It\u2019s a trap. They\u2019ll grow eventually (well, the girls you\u2019ll witness \u2014 the boys will start to disappear around 13). They\u2019ll grow somber, like those heavyset women in church with the lining of their slip always dipping below their skirt. They\u2019ll start to wear blouses that button at the neck, and fasten their hair in no-nonsense plaits. They\u2019ll start to invite you to summer retreats and choir practices and, when you politely decline, exhale gasps of frightened outrage that seem way too heavy for their flat chest. You\u2019re not here for all that work. So just keep to yourself from the outset. Sit by your grandma and shake hands with the ladies and the old men as they walk by.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n When your grandma dies (terrible loss, really), you can ditch that fancy church in Kingston and go to one in your own area. Don\u2019t go to one in your direct neighborhood, though \u2014 go to one on the other side of the gully where the roads are less formal (snaking through bushes) and the houses have a delicious ad hoc quality to them \u2014 zinced and planked and set atop cinder blocks. Notice how the roof of this church is flat. Notice how the windows aren\u2019t stained. Notice how the floor is dirty, how the walls are bare and how the pews aren\u2019t pews but fold-up chairs. Notice how the women here jump and wail and mash their faces into foregone ecstasy. Notice how, no matter what church you go to, the preacher\u2019s son is always tall and square-jawed and smiling at you in a way that makes you wonder if there\u2019s anywhere Satan doesn\u2019t have a house.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Speaking of your hometown, this brings us to part two of this section: don\u2019t make friends with the other boys in your neighborhood<\/em>. That\u2019s asking for trouble. Eventually, they grow into teenagers and confront the futility of trying to make it anywhere. They never know their fathers, and they never make it past the tenth grade. They spend time under the lampposts, by the gully bank, against the old trailer, slapping dominoes, shooting dice, slipping their hands under their girlfriends\u2019 skirts. They\u2019ll want to pull you in on it too. Seal the bands of brotherhood. The Christian defense won\u2019t work here. They\u2019re too basic, too disaffected. My yute, you doh see di girl a check fi yuh? Why yaa act like a pussy? <\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Trust me. Way too risky. Best to stay inside at all times. Except when you have to go to school, of course. Your mother will send you to good schools in Kingston, far away from the locals. That\u2019s good. After school, when you get off the town bus, head straight home. People will call to you. They\u2019ll say Brown Boy<\/em> or Scholar<\/em> or Preacher<\/em>. It will be out of deference. They\u2019ll admire your discipline. Still, don\u2019t call back to them. Nod politely or smile. Sometimes you can hold up a hand in acknowledgement. Carry around your bible for good measure too. They know you go to church, but it\u2019s good to reinforce this every once in a while.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Keep up at your studies. Otherwise, you won\u2019t have an excuse to stay indoors. Your mother will begin to think it unnatural that a boy is spending all his time in front of a television, atrophying his muscles, neutering his presence. Studying is an excellent pretext. It assures her you\u2019re determined to make the best of her sacrifices. It buys you some good bonding time with her too. She\u2019ll bring you milk sometimes, a whole glass. She\u2019ll put her arms around you. She\u2019ll say you\u2019re nothing like your brother (Big Reds\u2019 been disappearing for days at a time now) and squeeze a little harder. You\u2019ll feel her lips on the top of your head. You\u2019ll remember how soft they feel pressing against your skull. You\u2019ll wonder when will be the last time she holds you like this.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n This might seem random, but it\u2019s worth noting. Whether cricket or football or basketball, they\u2019re all the same \u2014 trouble. This won\u2019t be a problem where your schools are in Kingston; all the playing areas are walled off and\/or privatized. In your hometown, though, they\u2019re plentiful, cropping up in dubious makeshift forms in the most inconvenient places. Be vigilant. Keep abreast of the changes in landscape and avoid the main thoroughfares. Playing fields line them. I know it\u2019s tempting to watch the boys at play, but you\u2019ll thank me. What do you think will happen when a ball comes your way? Don\u2019t think it won\u2019t happen, \u2019cause it will. And those men, the ones you like to watch, will lean on their haunches and heave at the air, expecting you to throw it back. And, bless your heart, you\u2019ll try, but your throw will go awry (your wrist \u2014 always a bit too theatrical). Or you\u2019ll try to kick it back, concentrating with all your might on lining up the ball with the plate of your foot, but the ball sails wild. It goes clear over the light wires onto a rooftop or across the gully into the bushes \u2014 it will go everywhere but straight (Tee hee). The men will laugh. They\u2019ll call you skettel, Shelly-Ann<\/em> or Big Reds\u2019 likkle sister<\/em>. They\u2019ll ask you what color panty you prefer. Even though it\u2019s in good fun, it\u2019ll hurt. You\u2019ll develop an ironic fear of balls.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n On your walks home, best to take the long way through the back roads. Through the flimsy dirt lanes webbing through the groves and wild grass that cordon the town. Buck up, though; you\u2019ll make a friend. His name is Mr. Turner and he\u2019s a sweet old man. Grey sideburns dip from his bald head and line his weirdly smooth face. But he has such nice brown eyes, bright balls of coppery brown eyes. He lives in one of those wobbly wood shacks that crop up by the back lanes like monstrous weeds.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n He\u2019ll call you over one day and offer you butterscotch. You\u2019ll notice his house is not as ugly as the others; it\u2019s a confident little wood square set atop slabs of concrete. And, look, he has a little garden to one side \u2014 bright bunches of cherry bougainvilleas dripping from a trellis of a fence. He\u2019ll be sitting in a small wicker chair behind his front grill, the inside of his house dark behind him.\u00a0 He\u2019ll tell you how you look like his grandson, who\u2019s also about seven, and offer you butterscotch candy in a yellow-gold wrapper. You\u2019ll start taking that lane regularly; you\u2019ll tell him about your day at school in exchange for candy. When you get a little older, he\u2019ll start giving you plantain tarts and little patties he baked himself; he\u2019ll tell you about the daughter he hasn\u2019t seen since his divorce thirty-odd years ago. She\u2019s about forty now and has a son whom he\u2019s only seen in a few pictures she\u2019s sent. You look so much like his grandson, he\u2019ll say; he\u2019s probably growing a beard too. You\u2019re curious; you didn\u2019t even realize you were growing a beard. Come here, he\u2019ll say, you\u2019re growing some fine little hairs. He\u2019ll reach his hand through the grill and you\u2019ll move close. He\u2019ll sweep the line of your jaw with a shaking finger. Are those really baby hairs? you wonder. Or is his hand that coarse?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n When you go back the next day, he won\u2019t have any patties for you. His spatula fell behind the stove and his hands are too big to reach back there. Do you think you could reach back there and get it for him? He\u2019ll ask to see your hand. He won\u2019t be smiling. Still you consent, and he\u2019ll grab your wrist with a strength you didn\u2019t know he had. Will you come and help me? he\u2019ll say. His grip is hard, but his face is as still as dead water. You nod, holding his eyes with yours. He tightens his grip; his eyes are balls of thunder in the dark. Yes, you say again, and tick your mouth into smile. When he lets go to open the grill, run! Dart straight through the fever grass \u2014 tall, sticky fever grass slapping your wrists and scratching your neck.\u00a0 Cut into the burned-out clearing, then dash through the field of wild bush they call Deadman\u2019s Fall. Jump the gully. Keep running. Keep running. Run until you reach the guinep tree at the top of the hill that overlooks the Fall. Take a breath. Drop your book bag and take a breath. Laugh, boy, laugh. Throw your teeth to the sky and laugh.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n You\u2019re such a tease, you\u2019ll think to yourself. You\u2019re such a motherfuckin\u2019 tease.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Yes, that\u2019s right. When you\u2019re in high school, you\u2019ll want to make up a girlfriend. Your classmates are from a different type of environment from yours. Their houses have carports, and they use summer as a verb. Thankfully, they\u2019ll have some amount of decorum. They\u2019ll not expect you to share sex stories, as they know you can quote Ephesians. Still, being Christian doesn\u2019t exempt you from having a girlfriend. It\u2019s convenient to make one up. So here goes: Her name is Rachel. She goes to your church in your hometown, and her favorite show is Step by Step<\/em>. If they ask why you never bring her to one of the formals, just say that Kingston frightens her. They\u2019ll believe you.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Be sure to have more interesting tidbits about Rachel so that she sounds like a human being. Keep cryptic notes on the inside cover of Wuthering Heights<\/em> at home. Things like: R was born on May 6, 1988<\/em>. R likes pink hibiscuses<\/em>. R does not get the appeal of video games but has a brother who plays constantly so doesn\u2019t mind it so much<\/em>. In the unlikely event that your older brother (he\u2019ll be back from jail around now) finds these notes on the inside cover of your book, tell him they are notes you\u2019ve made on the novel\u2019s protagonist, Romeo. He\u2019ll believe you.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n All this work is wearying I know, but think, an American college is right around the corner. And I swear to you, there, you will have reached the promise land. There are, of course, practical matters of concern \u2014 Where do you do SATs in Jamaica? \u2014 Where are the American college applications? \u2014 What is your<\/em> story? And how do you craft that into a compelling narrative? \u2014 Do foreigners qualify for need-based aid? What\u2019s your mother\u2019s salary like in US currency?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Daunting? No doubt. But now that the exit is so close you get to indulge in a bit of fantasy as a reward. Actually, it will be a good form of motivation. That\u2019s right! You can finally start to imagine what type of boyfriend you\u2019re going to have. Can you believe it!? B.O.Y.F.R.I.E.N.D.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Okay, so let\u2019s see, he\u2019s going to be your roommate \u2014 tall, broad shouldered, athletic build but not too hard. Blond hair, parted bangs and a baby face with a smile so earnest you\u2019ll be convinced he still drinks milk with dinner. Hey! He\u2019ll look just like James Van Der Beek. Yes! And he\u2019ll wear flannel, and be from some outside-sounding place like Montana. He\u2019d have played football in high school and, like you, had to work very hard to bury his difference. You\u2019ll realize he likes it when you mistake American football terms. He doesn\u2019t get to correct you often, so you give him this opportunity. \u201cOh my god, it\u2019s end zone<\/em> not field zone<\/em>!\u201d He\u2019ll find this ignorance charming, and sometimes chuck you on the shoulder. He likes your accent too. You\u2019ll sometimes catch him mouthing a word you\u2019d just said, slightly in awe. And that is how it will happen, in the dark of your dorm room one night. You\u2019ll both be sitting up in his bed against the wall, your head rested on his shoulder, his arms scooped around your back. It doesn\u2019t matter how you got there, just know you\u2019ll both be slightly drunk. He wants to know how you say \u2018hello\u2019 in Jamaican. Hello<\/em>. And now he wants to know how to say \u2018what\u2019s up.\u2019 Whaa gwaan<\/em>. Whaa gwaan…he\u2019ll contemplate it in a heavy whisper, gently rubbing the curve of your side. Your hand is now across the barrel of his chest, and you\u2019ll marvel at the contained force of his heat. And even more, you\u2019ll marvel at the exquisite realization that you\u2019ve finally found your first friend.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n So this is where I take my leave (for further tips on navigating the complex identity issues related to race and alienation within the American queer scene, please see Yes I Lacan: Dislodging the Pane of the White Gays<\/em>\u201d). But before I go, just a word about your return trip to Jamaica: don\u2019t bother with the coming out thing. This trip won\u2019t be about you. Plus, your mom will be in a weird space with Big Reds\u2019 death and all. She\u2019ll look different when you see her, inching instead of walking, and her eyes will have sunken in. There\u2019s something unmoored about her \u2014 this wild hair and rumpled skin. Was your mother always this ugly?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n There\u2019ll be no words between you. She\u2019ll squeeze your wrist and turn to the cab then stay silent on her side of the back seat. Her hair used to be sleek and jet black, and her nails were always polished in a ripened pink like the insides of a guava. But her hands look cracked and dead now. You\u2019ll think to take one of hers into yours, but what kind of a gesture is that after 15 years? No, better to think about the flurry of e-mails Big Reds had been sending you, the ones that would be irritants before his disappearance and a torment after: Hey bro, how are you?<\/em>; hey bro, do you think you could help me with something?<\/em>; I promise I\u2019ll pay you back<\/em>; How\u2019s teaching going?<\/em>; Please, I wouldn\u2019t ask if it wasn\u2019t serious<\/em>; Hope you\u2019re well, bro<\/em>; Let me know when we can talk<\/em>. Consider that he probably begged your mom for help too. Ponder the possibility that she ignored them as well.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n As the cab turns out of the airport and onto the Palisadoes, it will hit you like a brick of cold that it happened here, somewhere in the crevices of this wiry road snaking through the ocean. Or maybe they didn\u2019t do it here. Maybe they chopped your brother up elsewhere, loaded the parts in the trunk of his car and left it at the lip of the airport in a whip of theatrical irony. Well, that\u2019s assuming Big Reds was trying to get away from something. And that\u2019s assuming \u201cthey\u201d knew what irony is anyway. Oh dear, look at you, trying to construct a narrative.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Look out at the city, across the maw of dark water to the clump of small buildings huddled by the waterfront. This is Kingston. There\u2019re more buildings, you\u2019ll remark.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Yeah, the Chinese, she\u2019ll say.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n When you move to hold her hand, she\u2019ll stare back at you from the plane of another world.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Mum, how did this happen?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n How you expect me to answer that, son?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Simple. Just tell me what you know.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Her mouth too looks old, limp in a mesh of wrinkles.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I don\u2019t know what. Maybe it\u2019s the IMF.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The IMF killed Big Reds?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n She\u2019ll shake her head, raking the air with the teeth of her tin-gray hair, and you\u2019ll remember, you\u2019ll remember, she had grown ugly right in front of you. She\u2019ll be saying something about the murder rate and the state of emergency, but you\u2019re trying to remember your mother as a pretty woman, when she used to kiss you on the head and her hair would fan about you like a sheet. Why did she stop doing that? Maybe it\u2019s because you stiffened when she started growing ugly. When was that? Maybe when grandma died. All her powders and creams had disappeared around then. Or maybe it was around high school; there was talk about her hairdresser money going to your monthly lab fees.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n She\u2019ll be talking about some riots. Do you remember the riots after the Free Zone got shut down? You won\u2019t remember any riots. You\u2019re trying to remember your mother\u2019s hands, the way you witnessed them putrefy because of the clothes washing she started doing on the weekends. Whose clothes were they? It hadn\u2019t concerned you to ask. But the money you remember going to Big Reds\u2019 first bail because of\u2026the riots?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Was Big Reds in the riots?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n She\u2019ll look at you, concerned.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n No baby, Big Reds wasn\u2019t in the riots. He\u2019d already moved to MoBay, trying to find another job. Remember?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Why can\u2019t I remember any of this? You\u2019ll ask.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Maybe you were focused on the wrong things, she\u2019ll say.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Become a Christian: There is no exception.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":3632,"template":"","categories":[9,48,49],"tags":[6,540,1089,1090],"class_list":["post-3631","article","type-article","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-aquifer","category-fiction","category-literary-features","tag-aquifer-the-florida-review-online","tag-jamaica","tag-kedon-willis","tag-no-problem-mon-the-batty-boy-adolescents-quick-survival-guide"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nDon\u2019t Make Friends<\/h3>\n
Avoid All Types of Playing Fields<\/h3>\n
Make Up a Girlfriend<\/h3>\n
Near Final Note<\/h3>\n
The Return Home<\/h3>\n