There’s a feminist collective based out of Antigua and Barbuda called Intersect. Among the group’s work are published works surrounding the life and experiences of marginalized West Indians. One of those stories is a prose, written by Amber Williams-King, titled “Like The Sea Rushing In”, which details the author’s life growing up queer in Antigua and Barbuda. It’s a beautiful piece no doubt, but there was one line that resonated with me beyond others; one line that lifts itself off the pages and imprinted itself on my consciousness: “Teachers telling me I looked like Trouble, hours spent in the mirror wondering if it was my sun-dark skin or coarse hair that bore this brand. I think of how high-school made museums out of our changing, self-conscious bodies; to be pruned and preened and leered at, and rarely held. Really held”
I recall reading that line, pausing and rereading. Highlighting and unhighlighting. Exiting the page but going back in your search history to examine it. How was it that a few words could wind itself around you so tightly, that it forces you in the most unexpected moment, to confront your own mental state?
My inhibitions started at an earlier age. I, not yet realizing the colonial beauty standards thrusted upon black girls in Jamaica, decided to enter my primary school beauty pageant. For at eight years old, who doesn’t want to dress up and wear a crown? Still, when I arrive at the class to sign up, the teacher in charge said to me, “I don’t think you have the right look for this, young lady”. I remember her words and her smile when saying it, as if she had just revealed the world’s greatest secret. She followed up by sending me to another teacher, who sent me to another teacher, for my “looks” was ideal for a project she was working on. She needed a student to perform a rendition of the Joan Andre Hutchinson’s “Dat Buppy Head Gal” for a local arts and cultural festival. I would go on to win a silver medal at said competition and three girls with shades lighter than mine, curls looser than me, would be in the top 3 of the schools’ beauty pageant.
Sometime, around that time, 8, 9, 10 years old, I stopped looking. I stop looking at my body for the fear of finding out what’s the “right look” that I don’t have. I didn’t hate my skin colour; I didn’t hate my body size; I didn’t hate my hair; I just didn’t want to look at it. I couldn’t look at it. By the time I got to high school, my issue with viewing my naked skin, evolved into a much bigger issue. Swimming lessons become unbearable: legs, arms, chest, breast; there were too many on displays. The issue with going to an all-girl’s high school is that there exists a level of comfort among women, and nowhere shows that more than changing rooms. For a brief time, I thought I was developing a deep attraction to women, hence my apprehensiveness of viewing my classmates’ legs, arms, chest, breasts; but that was not the issue. It was a fear of their bodies and not attraction. Now after my diagnosis with gymnophobia, I realize that was my first time coming to grasp with my mind.
My hair was another matter. For what it’s worth, I never liked my hair. Not because of its texture or the patience with dealing with 4C hair; I just genuinely could not get it right. Attending a high school, where morning devotions were filled with “ladies act with dignity and decorum”, you really have no idea what that entails. Your mannerism, dressing, speech and your hair are always under scrutiny; and I had a 7-year long war with occupants of my high school’s staffroom. My defiance in not conforming to whatever idea of “dignity and decorum” manifested in a desire to see how far I could push the colonial laws of Jamaica’s high school students’ handbook without reprimands.
Thus, at 15 years old, I shave it all off - I went bald. In 2013/2014, I was the only bald woman in the school, and I developed a sense of confidence I never knew I had. I heard all the jokes, the sneers, the homophobic and transphobic comments, and it did not bother me. See when, your biggest fear is your own body and those around you, it takes a lot, really takes a lot, for persons to get under your skin, for your own skin is doing that fine on its own. It wasn’t until popular dancehall artiste, Vybz Kartel released his song “Do Di Maths (Wah Do You)”, where he instructed, “when you see a shine head girl you seh avatar” that it became bothersome. Taking public transportation, I was subjected to ‘Ang’ ‘Last Airbender’ and ‘Monk’ which brought on a new level of annoyance. Safe to say, I am not a big fan of Vybz Kartel.
Still, my hair and the lack thereof provided a good distraction of my bodily dilemma. Going through puberty without even viewing your body is a unique experience which only created more mental illnesses. By the time I moved on to university, I had developed a dressing style where my clothing was twice my body size. My unique high school experience provided me with a mental armor where homophobic and transphobic comments thrust upon didn’t register. I could not care less. But it’s one thing to control your dressing by wearing only men’s and unisex clothing, however, controlling others is excruciating. My first-year roommate in university was somewhat comfortable with her nudity, and I believe only after seeing me leave our room when she had to change clothes after bathing or when she wore certain clothing that showcased her legs, arms, chest, breast that she conformed her daily routine to make me more comfortable in our living space. That act of kindness towards my gymnophobia is the first I have received. She did it without question, without even consulting me, without even coming to a compromise, and I was grateful mixed with a great guilt.
Throughout university, I maybe attended less than five events. Social outings, parties, concerts, “limes”, sporting events, I was rarely seen. Of course, I wanted to see my friends; of course, I wanted to have fun and of course, I wanted to go to certain sporting games, but I couldn’t “bare” it. The thing with large social outings, persons show up unexpectedly; in clothing where you can see legs, arms, chest, breast, and I know I couldn’t bear seeing it. Having friends on the dance team and the swim team but never attending for even though I love my friends, I just would rather not see them.
My gymnophobia these days have become even more unbearable as I enter my Sza’s CTRL, era: those 20 Something. Turning down opportunities to take pictures of myself and having to ask friends to look at videos for me because I can’t do it on my own are good days. Having to bathe in darkness and having your phone on the lowest display light setting when scrolling social media are the worst. I love music for when your sense of sight is a fear, for some reason, your sense of hearing becomes more paramount. However, I don’t have the ability to listen as well I do in the past. So, between my bi-monthly Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) for my gymnophobia, other therapy sessions and sign language courses for the declining ability of my eardrum, how does one feel like a normal girl?
Forget having a normal sex life or one at all. It becomes extremely awkward to explain to someone that, ‘yes, I like you and of course I want to be intimate with you, but I can’t see you naked nor do I want you to see me as such’. The guilt that I developed after what I put my university roommate through is ever present and I can’t see myself putting a partner through that. Humans don’t really have a reputation of been the most understanding, the most sensitive, the most patient towards other humans, so when my idea of intimacy is ‘listening to a D’Angelo album or maybe Floetry’s Floetric” instead of what I termed “naked people activities”, I rather just read romance novels than participate in the visually baring act of romance. Explaining this is a delicate issue for I am not asexual. I do feel sexual attraction, I just can’t act on them in the same manner as my peers.
It took a while for me to muster up the courage to grow out my own hair and even longer to comb it without having the words “ladies act with dignity and decorum” echoing in my head. My gymnophobia: not so much. Almost two years into my diagnosis, and I’m learning to live with it; conform my daily routine around it, somehow. A phobia which has birthed anxiety and depression took a while to deal with. Prescribed medications are doing wonders, though. Recently, I briefly mentioned my gymnophobia diagnosis to a friend. His comment: “this girl got beef with seeing skin”. Of course, I was hurt, which is another reason why I don’t explain myself to people because usually there’s a joke implying immaturity, as a follow up. Still, he was right. I got beef with skin; a beef I didn’t even started. A fight, I am not winning. A problem, I did not ask for. Issues that I am reminded of every day because a primary school teacher told a dark-skin, coily haired, eight-year-old, that she isn’t the right fit for a stupid pageant.
I think of Kaia McDonald in Kei Miller’s Augustown. A six-year-old who had his trauma inflected upon him by a primary school teacher. A trauma that would follow him through his life. Just like Kaia and myself, how many more West Indians have their own trauma developed in primary school because of what was told to them by their teachers?
Then, I think of my three younger sisters who are all in high school currently. I think of them and their friends, and their friends, and their friends. In true Caribbean high school fashion, they would have their bodies, pruned and preened and leered at, by teachers who are clouded in colonial beauty standards. I hope, I really hope, that unlike myself, despite the trauma, they are held; they allow themselves to be really held.
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