Christmas memory

I remembered colorful clips and ribbons added onto my plaits like ornaments on Christmas tree. Christmas time as a young girl in Jamaica were my favorite because I got to wear new socks with frills, shiny black shoes and dresses that twirled when I spun. I would wear these outfits to school fairs at my basic or primary school. It would be a nice change from wearing uniforms all year round. Of course, I would come prepared to see Santa Clause and get gifts donated by local business organizations like the National Housing Trust.

Every year, I got a new doll with long blond hair held in ponytails with a red ribbon. I would even get them by chance when I played those grab bag games where my classmates and I would feel for small gifts or candies in a bag. By the end of the day, we’d be happy with our new toys and ready for the long holiday vacation from school. We would fill our stomachs with cotton candies on our way to the bounce-about where we’d jump until our stomachs rumbled with laughter before we went home. My mother would take me to the holiday office parties at her workplace, and I would find a way to occupy myself as the grownups mingle over egg-nogs, sorrel, and rum cake. Usually I would have a favorite toy or another kid my age to play with. It was always fun.



In high school, the only thing that changed was my toys of interest. A Christmas class party after school dismissed for the year was often held after or in conjunction with St Andrew High School for girls’ sports day. We’d come to school dressed in our house colors of red, purple, orange, blue, yellow and that coveted green that won every year. This was a perfect time for girls to snag a boy toy to wrap around their fingers like the requisite family pet poodle dogs that were allowed on campus for the occasion of showing off class and patriotism. During sports day, the boys from all the prominent all-boy high schools would line the fence looking at our sports activities with mouthwatering lust. I secretly looked at one of the head prefect who was a year ahead of me. Brilliant and athletic, with a winning streak on the track & field team, she had all my attention and of course, the attention of all the boys who drew to the fence like nails to a magnet.

After sports day, the boys and girls would mingle, inciting our headmistress to throw a royal fit. Luckily by the time she ordered a detention for the entire school, it would be time to go home for the holiday vacation where we could continue our lust fests at Sovereign Center Mall (the most popular hangout spot for Kingstonian teenagers back then). Sovereign Center was a place to be and to be seen, and the perfect place to sneak kisses if you had parents who would rather allow you to venture to the mall with friends as opposed to a party “session”. If your boo happened to live nearby the mall (like mine did), then all the better. Unlike the gifts that awaited us under Christmas trees in our respective homes, pleasuring consequences of our raging teenage hormones were like loosely wrapped gifts that we enjoyed indulging, some more secretly than others. Some girls returned after the Christmas break glowing brighter than the bulbs used to decorate downtown Kingston.

Those were times that stood out in my fondest memories of Christmas. Looking back, I found that it wasn’t the location that I missed, but the time in my life when I was young and carefree and lived for dresses that twirled when I spun, Christmas eve spent walking the decorated plazas with family; and later in the evening, secret Clearasil-scented kisses under a misled-toe.

How I loved Christmas back then...and definitely now.

Nicole

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Our first Christmas tree

My partner and I bought a Christmas tree yesterday…the first one I’ve ever owned (a part from my family Christmas tree that comes out of the closet for the grand occasion each year). After baring the seasonal weather to get stuff for winter, we stumbled upon a tiny Christmas tree at Kmart on 34th Street. It’s about 3 feet tall and synthetic. We didn’t want to deal with all the hassle of having a real tree just yet with all the trimmings and the travel, lugging it behind on public transportation. Already, I’m excited to set up the tree in a corner of our living room and admire the sparkling lights. The ornaments will come when we get around to making personalized ones; and besides, they were sold out by the time we decided to get tree accessories. But that’s OK. This year, we’ll just celebrate our first Christmas tree together in our new home. What an accomplishment. Two years ago I didn’t know I would’ve found the woman who I pray to light a hundred more Christmas trees with. Moreover, last year this time I never knew I’d share a beautiful home with her, waking up next to her each day and witnessing the sunrise in her eyes. It is then that I realize that I already have my gift and I thank God for her each day.

Nicole

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Random thoughts: my first snow

I was ten years old. Me and my family were visiting America for the first time. We were guests at a house in Queens, New York which was owned by old friends of my grandmother—Mr. and Mrs. West. They had know each other for years after being neighbors in the same tenement yard in Kingston, Jamaica before the Wests migrated to New York. I remembered running down the two flights of stairs of the two story house in my pajamas when I saw the snow. It was falling from the sky and landing on the lawn. I was barefooted but I was too happy to care. For the first time, I was able to feel the white flakes that I only used to see in the Christmas movies on television. I screamed with delight as my bare feet touched the cold white carpet which was spread all over the front yard. I rolled around and jumped up and down as if I had just opened up my gift--new Barbies from Toys R'us on Christmas day. “Chile, get yuh backside back in di house!” My grandmother screamed as soon as she realized what was happening. "But Jesus lawd, savior, pilot thee! What has gotten into dis chile!" All the adults in the house ran downstairs to admonish me. They stared at me in horror—little me twirling and rejoicing barefooted in the snow, dubbed in nothing but a pajama with pink hearts.

Looking back at that winter, I laugh. I remembered the hours it took for the numbness in my feet to thaw. My feet had felt like it had been in a refrigerator. The only feeling I got were the tingling sensation of nerve endings trying to shoot life back into my constricted veins. “You’re crazy, Nikki,” my younger siblings had jokingly admonished, tickled with joy of always living vicariously through my antics. I knew then that I was simply expressing my gratitude for finally being able to see snow. Unknown to me at the time was that years later, I would go off to college in Ithaca where snow would cover the hills and the small college town like a thick blanket for months; that I would go off even further to graduate school in Ann Arbor, Michigan where the blanket of snow would be twice as much. I would grow to accept it as a mundane occurrence. I would use it as an excuse to stay inside and let another day pass without ever seeing the sky...just lines in another text book as I cram for exams. I didn’t know these things at the time when I was ten, because trapped in that moment of my childhood; I enjoyed the freedom of my imagination and my curiosity that got the best of me. It made me into the woman I am today, constantly trying new things, not fearing the possibility of failure.

It was then that my zest for life and adventure became evident. With maturity, common sense sets in and curbs my desire to try things that would be harmful; however, when it comes to going off to school in another country or cross country, traveling to new places, trying different foods, dating different people before finding the one, trying new hairstyles without fearing the worst, reading new books by different authors, and writing my own which has been inspired by this openness to life and adventure, I was already prepared.

Today as I look outside on this cold December day, seventeen years later, I still welcome the season with open arms. I still love the snow, but only when it doesn’t stick and when everyone isn’t skidding and sliding all over the place. I love to see my footprints in it and feel the flakes brush my face like a lover’s wet kiss. I love to look outside and see the white backdrop like a winter painting from the vantage point of a window pane with velvety curtains drawn for the view, decked with Christmas lights. I love to bundle up and relish the thought of hot chocolate and cider while snuggled on the couch with my partner. I also enjoy the make and design of the ugg boots sitting in a corner, which probably would’ve been my saving grace years ago, had I gotten enough sense to wear shoes in the snow.

Nicole

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Sisterly love---My sister is a stranger

art by LARRY PONCHO BROWN

We traveled parallel but distant plains. She being born six years later had a lot to do with it. For the most part, we were strangers from the beginning: She trying hard to fit into my cliques, me shooing her away; she trying on my favorite dresses after I migrated and left them, me marveling at how she enjoys getting second-hand; she calling to tell me her social activities in high school, me working hard in graduate school wondering if she’d ever consider college. We are sisters, yet we feel more like distant acquaintances. For years we tried to fill the gap between us with perfunctory chit chats, carefully chosen topics to nibble on without pushing each others' buttons, and celebrity gossip that always seem to quell the misfortune of our own pathetic relationship.

As soon as a fragile bridge forms between us, it quickly erodes with the slightest wind of offense. Looking at her, sometimes I see a complete stranger. However, now with my nephew here, I will try my best to be a good aunt regardless. Hopefully this will mend our relationship, building a more solid bridge between us.

Nicole

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Memory of friends

The one that was...

She made me try my first sake. With eyes tightly closed, I swallowed the Japanese liquor, hoping not to gag at the bitter taste. “There,” she said, “Now you know what sake tastes like. I challenge you to treat life just the same…embrace the unknown and you’ll never regret having done so.” Since then I never stopped embracing the unknown. It was her who allowed me to finally take flight without considering the gravity of my own doubts.

K. Nicole

Her smile lit up the club during my first month in New York City. I knew she could be my friend, smiling at a complete stranger. “Who are you?” she asked. “Care for a dance?” I obliged, joining her group of friends. They all seemed to embrace me like we had known each other from before. Recent graduates with budding careers, we connected. She introduced me, asked what I do, and who I was there with. I pointed to my roommate at the time and she said, “I know her too!” But by then we already knew we had other things in common. Her sense of humor and subtle sarcasm made me realize that friends in New York weren't hard to find after all.

Charmaine

Met her on my way out of a relationship. I was bored and she was sitting there in the realtor’s office where my ex worked. I was there to kill time as my ex caught up with a few clients. Charmaine was with a friend who was mulling over which brownstone to buy in the up and coming Clinton Hill area of Brooklyn. We made eye contact and she spoke. Her accent was modulated and plain, but something about her decorum made me press for more. “Where are you from?” I asked. “Jamaica.” She replied. “What part?” I moved closer. “Kingston…I went to St. Andrew High.” I immediately got up out of my seat, eyes wide with excitement. “Really? Me too! I went to Andrews too!” We became fast friends after that. Meeting up at hot spots in Brooklyn and trading stories about finding the right partner out of the crazies that were swinging from branch to branch in the New York City jungle.

Nikeisha

She waited for a bus in Ann Arbor Michigan where I was a grad student. With headphones in her ear, she was in her own world. At first glance she looked unapproachable, but when I saw her hooded sweatshirt of the Jamaican crest with two Arawaks standing by a shield, I had to say something. “Wow…where did you get that shirt?” I asked. I hadn’t seen the crest since I left Jamaica years before. She smiled and said she got it at a store in her hometown. I asked if she’s from Jamaica and she said, “yeah, my family is from there, but I was born here.” Of course, we talked and exchanged information. She was my first Jamaican connection in Michigan—a place where I thought no Jamaicans existed.

Tracy

I thought she was an older woman when I spoke to her via email. She was the coordinator of the Black Psychology conference at the University of Michigan and I called to make accommodations. She got me into a hotel last minute and had even arranged for my packets to be sent. On arrival I called to thank her and she said no problem, she’d see me at the conference. At the conference, I scanned the room looking for the woman who helped me. It wasn’t until I sat at a round table full of psychologists that we were introduced. At first I thought I was imaging things, but the woman who smiled at me was my age and not much taller than I was. I had expected a graying middle age woman with a bright shawl and a penchant for South African bracelets (like the artsy professor types that I met in Michigan). “But I thought you were older!”I later exclaimed to Tracy when we went out for drinks after. We were 22 then, and would start the Masters in Public Health that fall. We never lost touch since then.

Sheri ann

I found her beautiful, strange and exotic. With long limbs and the statuesque built of a model, I pictured her living in France or on the Upper East Side of Manhattan married to an aristocrat. Not at a Black Psychology conference with a passion for HIV research. The more we talked, the more I realized that her intelligence spanned way beyond the ability to complete a doctorate at NYU; it consisted of passion that I rarely saw in doctoral students who had been washed up and destroyed by the dissertation process. We went two years without keeping in touch until one day; I met her again at a bus stop. Her Jamaican accent was stronger than I remembered it the first time. “Nicole? Ah you dat?” she asked. I blinked. There she was standing there, looking the same. It was then that we became closer. She introduced me to her world in New York, took me out to dinner in her lower west side neighborhood, and introduced me to Soho art showrooms, which I later frequented as a model. Like I had guessed when we first met, she was very eccentric after all.

Alex

Our first meeting felt more like business than pleasure. She flung back a beer at a bar in Dumbo and I watched in awe. Weird characters paraded around her, hugging her shoulders yet she still looked lost, displaced—or more like an intellectual thumb sticking out from a throng of coked-up artists. Her roommates were driving her up the wall with their orgies and it was getting to her. She confided this to me as if we were friends before…as if she had already known that we would be friends. I nodded my head, pretending to understand what it was like to live in a coke-infested environment where I could walk in on my roommates having sex on the couch. The sight intrigued and repulsed me at the same time. “You poor thing,” I said genuinely, “I’ll look around to see if there’s something better.” Her eyes lit up. They examined me, seemingly for the first time; weighing my worth, penetrating my motives, scanning for ingenuity, conjuring a memory, a place, a person who I reminded her of. Then she smiled. We remained friends after that.

Daniel

He seemed to burst into my life like a ball of flaming energy. It was 2003 and I had just found out that Jamaica had a large population of lesbians and gays. I was intrigued by this and began to frequent the university campus there to see for myself. I was visiting my friend Kerryann, when she introduced me to Daniel. We instantly hit it off, starting with a summer I would never forget. We went to gay parties, swopped stories about gay suspects, and basked in the entertaining, youthful realm of college gay drama. What started off as a surreal summer experience, ended up as friendship for a lifetime.

Soraya

She brushed my neck with her fingers, touching the tiny knobs on my head that would someday grow into dreadlocks. At first, I thought she was flirting, but then I realized that she was staring at my hair in horror. “My gosh, who does your hair?” She asked. I told her that I went to a woman in Harlem. She vigorously shook her head and said, “No, no, no honey. She’s doing your hair the wrong way. She uses too much gel. Your locks will grow dry and ugly if she continues to do this.” She continued to run her fingers through my scalp. I liked the touch. “Oh really?” I asked, suddenly worried. “But the woman insists on using the gel. She said that’s the only way my hair would lock.” I replied. Soraya shook her head again. This time, she got very serious. “Here, take my number. I can re-do all this for you. I’m a loctician.” I took her number and sure enough, my hair improved in weeks. Week after week, I went back to get my hair re-twisted. Not only did she operate as a hairdresser, but a therapist of some sort. I told her everything and she opened up and shared as well. Suddenly, my new city never seemed as daunting after all with a new friend. Today, my hair still thrives as if marking my personal growth as well.

Maryann

She listened to my woes and encouraged me to write it all down. Before I knew my talent, she saw it. "Why are you not doing a masters in writing?" she would ask, or most times she'd ask, "When is your book coming out? I showed my father your work and he wants to read some more of your stuff." I never ignored those words although I continued to work hard towards my public health career. Now I tell her how I'm taking her up on her advice and she simply laughed. "I told you," she said. "This writing thing is so you." She continues to be supportive.

Dahlia

She glided into the biology lab in high school singing "I'm so pretty, I'm so charming, I'm so gaaaaay!" I instantly took a liking to her. She made me laugh on days when I could hardly conjure up a smile. At 16, she still sucked her thumb, but I didn't mind that she was so overly dramatic, often commanding an audience even in the most grim situations---exams, devotions, SAT prep courses, advanced chemistry classes, where ever she felt the needed to perform. I loved this about her; loved her boldness and her ability to make me enjoy my last year of high school. She introduced me to poetry by black poets and often recited her own poems and songs that she wrote. "Wow...you're a great writer!" I'd often marvel. "Thanks," she'd say,"That's a compliment coming from you!" We never lost touch since.

Emma

She was the one I fell in love with. Upon first sight, I was afraid, terrified of seeming too awkward. Surrounded by people, she was constantly engaged. I never dared to say hello. I just kept it moving, hoping that someday I could conjure up the courage to talk to her. Then one day, I got her attention. A friend introduced us and I saw the look she gave me. It seemed to have said, “Who are you and where have you been all my life?” I responded to this look with a smile and an offer to do lunch. She agreed, suggesting dinner instead. We talked while roaming the lower west side trying to find a great place to continue a four hour date. I came out to her, telling her that I’m gay. I didn’t really know if she was too (although the look she first gave me said it all), and decided not to assume so. She seemed more interested in me after my revelation and proceeded to make plans to see me again. We hit it off, and the rest was history. She later revealed that she too was intimidated by me.

Nicole

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What do lesbians look like?

Ten years ago, I would never have thought that a lesbian looks like me: black, Jamaican with dreadlocks, loves dresses as much as I love to be wined and dined in them, loves red wine and hates piercings, loves words but will never get one tattooed on my beautiful mocha skin, loves art but will rather it be on my walls, loves short hair but would rather see it on other women, loves women but believes only one represents the sunshine illuminating my earth.

So what does a lesbian look like? Today, this is a ludicrous question, but a decade ago when I asked myself the very same question, I was eluded by the answer. I had just moved to the United States for college, knowing that I was free to chase previously suppressed desires. The only problem was, I didn’t know how and where to approach women. In my mind, a lesbian was a white butch dressed in baggy jeans, a loose shirt or a razor sharp suit. She would have her head nicely shaven or tapered at the sides in order to achieve that page-boy haircut like Ellen DeGeneres. She may also have a tattoo or two with piercings, one of which I may see on her tongue as she ferociously chews her gum.

More mind-boggling to me at the time was the question, what does a lesbian do? Today, this is an extremely ridiculous question, but back in the day as I scoped out the spots where I thought I could find a girlfriend during my freshman year, I was baffled. I knew lesbians looked too “unconventional” to be doctors, lawyers, or bankers with all those piercing and tattoos, so I went to the bars and joined the lame campus lgbt groups instead. There, I only saw the white butch ones with piercings, which were certainly not my type. So I went home, alone, again. It was then that I re-assessed my closet, telling myself that I’m not a lesbian. No, I thought, if that’s what lesbians look like (white, butch, and tattooed), then I’m certainly not one.

The reason why I’m writing this blog is because I encountered many young people (and adults) who I’ve heard express to me that if they come out; they won’t be welcomed in certain groups because of “the look” associated with lesbians. I tell them that being “out” is an individual process. Surely as individuals we’d like to be accepted regardless of who we are, but don’t be deterred if the group that we see (at first) is not a representation of how we feel inside. If I were to have stayed in the closet fearing that I looked nothing like what a lesbian should look like, then I would’ve been one unhappy person. So what did I do? I became active in my search. I began to ask around and even googled a few groups that I thought would've had a more diverse lesbian sample (thank God for technology). I was successful in finding groups with different color hair and different types of piercings, but not different types of complexions. However, I still remained hopeful that black lesbians existed.

My search ended as I threw myself into my school work. Yes, I was sexually and emotionally frustrated, but I still had to graduate. In my journal, I would just scribble short stories about the women I want to meet and be friends and lovers with, hoping to write them into existence. By sophomore year, I broke down and dated one of the many white butches on campus. Then on October 11, 2000, something happened that I would never have guessed would happen in my then nineteen years on earth. I met a black lesbian. She definitely wasn’t the typical "lesbian". She wore a large afro and a push-up bra (at least from my vantage point). Had a drop of Asian blood and spoke with her hands. When she opened her mouth, I could tell she had an accent…one sounding the exact same as mine. Who is this woman? I asked equally baffled students as I sat in the back of the crowded auditorium at my school. For an hour I listened to this loud, very petite woman rant in perfect, lyrical prose how she fled Jamaica (gasp..where I’m from!) to live in New York City because she was (drum roll here…) a lesbian! Oh. MY. Halellu-jah-Gawd!

My eyebrows shot up and my mouth flew open. Did I hear her right? Was I hearing doubles? Right before my very eyes, I witnessed this afro-wearing black woman proclaiming to be a lesbian in broad daylight on stage with a Jamaican accent. I later found out after the poetry slam was over that her name was Stacyann Chin. I immediately dumped my white butch girlfriend (who by the way had asked me two weeks before if people wore clothes in Jamaica) after I found that Stacyann had a huge black and Jamaican lesbian following. It was then that I realized that there were lesbians who not only looked like me, but sounded like me as well.

By senior year, I was no longer pre-med, but was definitely on my way to graduating and applying to graduate school. I had since then learned that lesbians belong to different professions too, and are not just merely bartenders with piercings and tattoos like the ones I encountered in Ithaca. Contrary to what the Pride parade has narrow-minded conservatives believe, being gay is not about debauchery decked in rainbow costumes; being gay is not white; being gay is not butch; being gay is not men dressed in leather and spandex; being gay is not Rupaul or Rosie O’Donald. Being gay is embracing your own individuality. One can be gay and be a chemist, a doctor, a lawyer, a woman with a long perm and a penchant for dresses, a man with a nice fade and a penchant for Brooks Brother’s suits; one can be gay and be a portly teacher who carries a briefcase, an usher at church, a janitor, a chef, the cleaning lady, a professor in another department other than women studies, and a thug with pants below the buttocks; one can be gay and be in a beautiful, long-term monogamous relationship on their way to building a family.

In other words, there is no image associated to being gay. Similarly, there is no lifestyle associated with being gay. You are who you are regardless of what the labels may incite you to believe. It’s up to the individual to feel entitled to their own personal happiness and successes. More importantly, it’s up to the individual to embrace who they are and actively seek groups of people who they think can support them in their journey. I’m very grateful that I learned this early rather than later in life.

Nicole

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