I tell Mum I’ve decided to loc my hair.
Mum doesn’t mind; she says: “Do whatever
makes you happy, Michael. As long
as you focus on your exams.”
The hairdresser says,
“Because your hair is so soft,
I have to wrap it up with synthetic hair
and it will loc up underneath.
People won’t be able to tell to look at it.
Every day you must keep twisting
the roots—as it grows, the synthetic
hair will fall out and you’ll have locs
underneath. It will look like locs
straightaway and it will become
real locs over time.”
After the hairdresser,
I go to visit Granny B
to show her my locs,
hoping she will see me
as more Jamaican.
She says, “Me nah like it,
Mikey. Back a yard only Rasta man
ave dis. Yuh tun Rasta?”
I don’t answer. I don’t know much
about Rastafarians but I like how
the hairstyle looked on Bob Marley.
Granny B kisses her teeth
and puts a plate of food down
in front of me.
Curried goat and rice and peas.
Then she places a twenty-pound note
next to my plate.
She says, “Tek dis fi de barbershop.
Cut it off, Mikey. Cut it off.”
I eat my dinner silently and accidentally
on purpose elbow the twenty to the floor,
hoping Granny will vacuum it up.
Dear Bob Marley,
What’s it like to be mixed but accepted
as black?
What’s it like for your work to be known
around the world?
What’s it like to survive death through
your work?
What’s it like to not know your father
but still know yourself?
One lunchtime in B24, Daisy and I
share cold but tasty shepherd’s pie
from my black Tupperware box.
I ask Daisy, “Why do you say you’re white?
Are you ashamed of being mixed?”
Daisy snaps back:
“My mum is mixed
but she doesn’t even say so.
She’s only talked to me about it once.
I’ve never met her Jamaican family.
I’m not ashamed but I have nothing
to claim, nothing handed down to me.
It’s not something people can see
to look at me; maybe if I’m with my mum
but I never am. On my own
I just look like a white girl with a tan
and that suits me just fine, I don’t want
to explain myself to people. I’ve seen
how you have to do it. How people ask
you questions like they have the right
to see your family tree. I don’t want that.
I just want to be me.”
I don’t want to make her any more angry,
so I don’t say, You’re hiding
a part of yourself.
Coming Out
Dear Rowan,
I’ve liked you for so long.
You’re always so smiley.
You seem so carefree.
I don’t know you very well
but I really like what I see.
I like your ginger hair, your freckles.
You’re cool but kind of goofy.
You’re so confident in drama.
I wish we had more classes together.
Maybe we would know each other better.
In drama we’re always pretending
to be someone else.
Maybe that’s school in general?
I don’t want to pretend with you.
I like you.
Although I don’t really know you,
I’d like to.
So please write back
or tell me when you see me,
will you go out with me?
Michael
With letter in hand,
I look for Rowan.
He’s easy to find.
The only ginger boy
in the whole school.
He’s a constant flame.
A candle always lit.
I call out his name.
He turns, flicking his red mane
out of his eyes.
I’m reminded
with the long hair
at my last school.
Were we picked
and made to fight
because those bigger
boys saw something
we hadn’t realized?
Rowan is facing me
now and I feel that
familiar feeling.
No one is chanting,
Fight! Fight! Fight!
But I hear it anyway.
I don’t want to fight,
I want the opposite.
It’s a smiling standoff.
I’m smiling and saying
nothing. He’s smiling
but his smile is fading.
I think of our almost-kiss
and it gives me courage.
I hold out my hand.
“This is for you,” I shout,
and kids have started to stop
and stare but I don’t care.
“What is it?”
“It’s a letter asking if you’ll go out with me.”
Shit! Why did I say that so loudly?
The onlookers giggle.
“Oh, right,” he says. “This is awkward.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, realizing
I’ve got it completely wrong.
“I’m sorry,” says Rowan.
“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s okay,” I repeat,
even though it’s not okay.
And the letter drops to my feet.
I look down but don’t pick it up.
Instead I pick up speed
and head to my next class,
thanking God it isn’t drama.
In the corridor,
after double Religious Education,
Mr. Casey asks if I’m okay—
I don’t seem myself today, apparently.
I tell him about my letter to Rowan
and that I think I’m gay.
I ask him if I’m going to Hell.
He tells me about relationships
between men in the Bible.
He tells me that male friendship is natural.
I tell him I’m not talking about friendship.
He says I shouldn’t have sex yet.
He has a point, I guess: I’m only fifteen
but sometimes it feels like
everyone else is doing it.
Anyway, that’s not what I wanted from Rowan.
I just thought maybe he might like me.
But I was wrong.
I’m in B24, waiting for Daisy at lunchtime.
Rereading the first line of The Color Purple:
“You better not never tell nobody but God.”
We’re studying the book for English.
I’ve watched the movie seven times
but I never get past the first line when
I open the book.
Kieran knocks at the door, even though
it’s open. I feel that fight-or-flight feeling.
He walks in toward me
and my heart is racing.
“I saw you drop this,” says Kieran,
placing my letter to Rowan in the open
palms of the book’s pages.
“And I didn’t think you’d want
anyone to read it.”
He pauses. “I read it, though—
it’s really sweet.”
I’m emba
rrassed and confused
and still a bit afraid.
“Are you okay?” asks Kieran.
“Yes, I’m gay,” I say, ready for him to hit me.
He laughs. “No, idiot, I said are you okay?”
“Oh. Yeah. I think so. No,” I say.
Don’t cry, Michael. Please don’t cry,
I say to myself, but it’s too late.
I don’t know why he’s being so nice.
He puts his arm around me and says,
“Don’t worry, you can’t score every time
but you still gotta take the shot.
Respect for taking the risk, bro.
I’ve got a question for you: Why did you
ask out the whitest boy in school?
Why not give a brother a chance?”
I laugh, through my tears. “You’re funny.”
“Yeah,” Kieran sighs, “so are you.
I should go but if anyone gives you any trouble,
you let me know.”
He squeezes my shoulder,
walks to the door.
He turns back. “Did you know
the first openly gay professional soccer player
was Justin Fashanu? He was the first
black soccer player to get a million-quid
transfer fee, which is nothing today,
but in the eighties it was a really big deal.”
Kieran hovers at the door for a second more,
then leaves.
I take out my phone.
I Google: “Justin Fashanu.”
What Kieran said is true
but it looks like life was hell
after he came out. He killed himself.
I wonder if Kieran knows that?
I have English after lunch
and when I walk in, I’m sure
people are talking about me.
Daisy’s chair is empty.
I haven’t seen or heard from her all day.
When class starts, I resign myself
to the fact that Daisy’s not here today.
But then she bursts in.
“I’m sorry I’m late, sir. It won’t happen again.”
When she sits down next to me,
she whispers, “This is for you.”
She slides me
a folded sheet of paper with my name on.
Dear Michael,
I hope you’re okay.
I’m sorry I didn’t get to read your letter.
When you left, Kieran picked it up.
He told me I was coldhearted.
I’m sorry.
I was taken by surprise.
If it helps you to know,
I’m bisexual. Are you?
I thought you and Daisy were together.
I’ve got a girlfriend.
She’s at a different school.
I reckon I love her.
You seem wonderful.
And brave.
I’m sure you’ll find someone.
See you in drama.
Rowan :)
Daisy wants to hang out
after school but I want to go straight
home. I’m thinking about what it means
to be out to my whole school.
I’m thinking about Rowan.
I’m thinking about Kieran.
I’m thinking about going to Hell when I die
and a living Hell on Earth.
I never wear gloves when washing
the dishes. I use more Fairy Liquid
than I need to. I stare into the bubbles.
My bare hands in the water; it’s not
scalding but hot enough that I feel
something. My hands. Nothing else.
My actions are automatic. I don’t
realize I’m crying until Mum comes
in and asks, “What’s the matter?”
“I asked someone out today,” I say.
“What did she say?” asks Mum.
“He said no, Mummy. HE said NO!”
It’s gloriously dramatic, the way
I throw myself to the floor and begin
to sob. Mum is the only audience
I need for this moment. It’s the rejection,
it’s the relief, it’s a rejoicing of sorts.
Mum kneels down next to me
and I curl onto her lap
and she rubs my back,
and she says, “It’s okay,”
and I shout, “I know it is!”
and she silently rubs my back,
then she says, “You have to be careful.
You have to use condoms.
You know?”
“I know, Mummy,” I say. “I know.”
I look at Kieran differently, appreciating
his looks and soccer skills for the first time.
He becomes my imaginary boyfriend.
It’s comforting. We don’t have
any classes together but at lunchtime
he waves at me from the soccer cage;
at least I think he’s waving at me—
he could be waving at Daisy.
“Do you fancy Kieran?” I ask Daisy.
“No,” she says. “I don’t fancy black boys.”
It’s another one of those things she says
that I don’t know how to respond to.
If we weren’t friends I’d think she was racist.
Can you be racist when you’re a quarter black?
How could anyone not fancy Kieran?
He has a perfect smile; the fade in his hair
always looks fresh. He never looks scruffy;
even after a whole lunch hour of playing
soccer, he doesn’t even break a sweat.
I imagine standing at the entrance
to the soccer cage, watching Kieran play
and when he scores a goal he runs over
to kiss me, in celebration. And it’s normal.
I imagine sitting at the back of the bus
with him and all the other black boys
on the way home from school,
and not in the middle, with Daisy.
Nothing changes about their laughter
and banter as Kieran puts his arm around me.
Our PE teacher wears
rainbow laces
on his soccer cleats.
The two things I enjoy
about soccer
are watching Kieran play,
and how our teacher’s laces
say to me:
“It’s okay to be gay.”
If Kieran was my boyfriend,
would Mum let him stay over?
Would we wait until sixteen?
Would we wait until marriage?
How Christian is Kieran?
When God made Kieran,
did He make him for me?
I imagine us in Eden—
two black boys in Paradise,
naked, no fig leaves.
Adam and Eve are long gone,
so Kieran and Michael
inherit the garden
and the serpent is forgotten
and the fruit on the tree
of knowledge has gone rotten.
Sweet Sixteen
Sometimes I find notes in my schoolbag.
They are quotes from the Bible.
You shall not lie with a male
as with a woman; it is an abomination.
(LEVITICUS 18:22)
If a man lies with a male as with a woman,
both of them have committed an abomination;
they shall surely be put to death.
(LEVITICUS 20:13)
I don’t tell Daisy or anyone about them.
I never let my bag out of my sight
and yet the notes keep turning up.
They shout, “Batty bwoy!”
And again, “Batty bwoy!”
I’m on my own street
in Wembley. I’m afraid
but I look toward
them
for a second.
Four laughing kids:
two Asian boys,
one black boy,
and one white girl,
around my sister’s age.
I don’t recognize them
but I recognize this patois
so carelessly/violently
flung in my direction.
“Batty bwoy!” Meaning
less-than-man who is
penetrated by or penetrates
another less-than-man.
I realize this phrase is sexual.
This phrase is about sex.
It’s like shouting out,
“You have bum sex!”
I’ve heard it in music,
in songs from Jamaica
that call for gay men
to be killed.
When I get home
I’m shaking. I tell Mum:
“They were much younger
than me, probably Anna’s age,
but it was scary.
How do they know I’m gay?
Can people just see it?”
Mum puts her hands
on my shoulders and
looks me in the eyes.
“People are cruel, Michael.
Kids are cruel. Adults are cruel.
It’s just a part of life.”
I thought she would tell me
how awful what they said was.
I thought maybe she would call the police.
Instead she quietly asks,
“Have you told your sister?
Does Anna know that you’re gay?”
I assume Anna knows
from how we dance
to Beyoncé together
and watch RuPaul’s Drag Race.
I guess I could be straight
and do those things.
I call her downstairs
and say:
“I need to tell you,
I’m gay.”
She laughs. “I know.” Then asks,
“Have you got a boyfriend?”
DAISY: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
Let’s go out after school?
MICHAEL: I can’t. Sry
DAISY: I know you’re funny about your birthday but it would be nice to hang out. Cinema?
DAISY: My treat. There’s a really cool-looking film I want to see called The Lobster
MICHAEL: I’m going for a drive with Uncle B
MUM: I’m making shepherd’s pie tonight as a birthday treat
MICHAEL: That stopped being my favorite years ago
MICHAEL: I’m going to the cinema with Daisy