This is how to get your Jamaican guy friend’s Jamaican girlfriend to like you:
1) Show up to a party severely underdressed when she is dressed to the nines.
2) Make self-abasing comments about how ridiculous you look, and how fantastic her shoes are.
3) Watch the smiles and hugs roll in.

I will never understand the all the subtleties and nuances of Jamaican male-female relationships. Gender roles are not as starkly defined as in many places around the globe, but for the most part, men and women stick to their own kind. Certain times of day, and places around town tend to belong to one group or another, and I rarely see husbands and wives in the same place together. Boyfriends and girlfriends don’t act ‘couply,’ as we in the States think of it, which makes it really difficult to tell who is off the market and who is fair game.

Add in to that a strong cultural tolerance for promiscuity and extra-marital affairs, and seriously, I can’t keep it straight.

Navigating these subtle eddies of daily gender politics is extra hard for me. Not only am I an outsider and prone to missing certain nascent cues, not only are there loads of baggage associated with my skin color, but back a farin, I am used to spending alot of my social time in the company of guys.

In the US, platonic relationships between the sexes is normal, and I don’t think anything of being the only girl in the group for a night out with the guys, I really enjoy the company of all my male friends, and that is something I miss terribly here in Jamaica.

As I’ve said before, I’m not really harassed much anymore at site, and I’m really enjoying it. Leaving the house to get matches at corner shop or to go for a run no longer requires 15 minutes of mental armoring up. Those same young men who called out are now what I might tentatively call friends.

Now, this does not mean that I’m running around all over my parish with a pack of rowdy idlebwois. But it means that my walks are pleasant, running errands takes even longer as more people stop to chat, and waiting for a taxi to fill up means bumping along to the latest Movado with the drivers.

I wish I could take all the credit for this, that I could pat myself on the back and say “Well done, Taylors, you are a master of integration.” Certainly, it has taken months of hard, hard work to make it clear to my community that I respect myself, and damnit, they’d better respect me too. From the way I dress, to the way I speak, to whom I speak with and where I go (and DON’t go, which is more important), I have declared where I stand, take it or leave it.

Now, that doesn’t mean that I lecture every man who makes a vulgar comment on post-modern feminist politics. That is a battle I will never win here, and really one that should be fought by Jamaican women, not some white girl from the States. When I need to, I get aggressive, mostly, I’ve come to learn not to react too strongly one way or the other, and jokes help alot. Most of the young guys who say things to me say them because they don’t know what else to say and they just want to talk to me, get to know me better. Anyone would feel that way about a stranger in their midst, especially one so long term as me. I think the secret to my success is that I give them the time of day- but no more.

The reason I say I can’t take all the credit is my friend Steaka. Or Wingea (Wingey? no idea.). He seems to be more or less officially in charge of the young men of my district, and he took a shine to me early on. Hearing his voice emerge from the depths of a bar on a hot afternoon to call “HEY!” to me when I walk down the street is a highlight of my day, and he’s one of the few people I’ll cross the road to talk to. I help him with his garden at the end of the lane, and he in turn, apparently is my staunchest defender, even when I’m not there. “Wingea nuh let no one disrespect yuh, Miss Taylor” is something I hear from alot of people. I feel that there is a mutual liking and respect between us, and the community sees that, and appreciates it for what it is. (Last week someone saw me and shouted out “Wingea wife! Waguaan babes!” “Mi nuh him wife.” “Wingea girlfriend!” “Nuh man, mi nuh him girlfriend.” Fortunately, one of the girls I know came to my rescue to yell “She him friend, man, nuttin else!” I’m glad that’s mostly common knowledge. )

ANYWAYS. So sorry for the long build up, but I feel it was necessary for the story I’m about to relate.

So I was out Friday evening at a big community event, the aforementioned kite festival. Standing talking to some of the older women from my lane I heard the familiar “HEY! TAYLOR!” and next thing I know there is a lanky brown arm draped across my shoulders.
If you know me, and how territorial I am with my personal space, you’ll be suitably impressed that I allowed this to continue for a minute before gracefully dodging away (“NEED a drink, soon come back!”). Says ALOT, really. Just loads.

Drink in hand, I make my way back to the group, where I get berated for not coming to look for him sooner, I’d promised we’d hang out, didn’t I? Lots of attention paid to the Brown Girl, as people like to call me, and I’d be a liar if I told you it wasn’t insanely flattering. I was feeling very Jamaican.

Right, so arm around me, lots of talking to me, he’s showing me how to fire this little cap gun, and then, this girl stands up. “Taylor! This is my wifey!” The “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck” that went through my head is hard to convey to anyone who’s never socialized in Jamaica. The girls here have, yes, progressed from ignoring me, to tepid, to sort of friendly. Sort of. But Jamaican girls are SCARY. And as territorial about their men as I am about my personal space. Their nails alone, fantastic neon acrylic talons, are enough for me to NEVER, EVER, under ANY circumstances, get on their wrong side.
And then, Steaka delivers what I thought was the final nail (hah!) in my coffin: “Taylor, I tell her about you EVERY DAY!” Uhm. Wow. Because I don’t even have something to say about myself everyday. So, thanks, Steaka?

I awaited a gory death. None came, instead, I was “preed” within an inch of my life, and then studiously ignored the rest of the evening. I tactfully retired to a different crowd.

Last night, I wound up “a sport” (going out) again, much to the amusement and surprise of everyone, not least my host mom. I hadn’t planned on it, so I was looking less then my best, and I was grateful that I’d taken the time to at least put on mascara.
“Downtown” at the local ‘lawn’, I walked in to hear that most familiar of greetings. There is the crew, posted up in their own VIP fashion on the stairs behind the bar. And you can imagine my astonishment when the Wifey, dressed to kill, lit up and gave me a huge hug. “Its GREAT to see you!!” In rolled up jeans and dirty flip flops, I am clearly no threat, so when I told her I felt underdressed, she waved it off, telling me that my ‘prettiness makes up for it all’.

And so it came to pass that yours truly spent a Saturday night with people her own age, and no one got up in my business. Easter in Jamaica is a marathon of partying, so when 2am rolled around, the group decided to relocate to a dance in Moneague, two towns away. One of the other guys invited me along, but Steaka, looking out for me as usual, was adamant I stay in Claremont. (Not that I would have gone anyways. Seriously. Just going out in my own community is a big enough step for me, I’m in no hurry to rush things.)

Right now, I’m still sort of recovering from the shock of all of it. Partly because I fell asleep around 5am, but mostly because I feel that several major shifts have taken place in my relationships throughout my community. There is, yes, ANOTHER dance tonight by my house, and yes, I do believe I’m going. I plan on dressing up. I’ll let you know how it goes.