I met my niece, my only sister’s daughter on January 18th. She was three going on four months. I took in her tiny toes, and fingers, her facial features and wondered who she resembled most. I saw my sister’s eyes and her father’s nose, my mother’s lips and my dad’s ears. As I looked at her I whispered, “aunty has been waiting for you AG,” and she looked at me like the stranger I was to her. AG are the initials of her first name Ava-Grace and also my initials before I got married and changed my last name. AG is what my friends called me and I resolved that AG was going to be my special name for her, this girl, my niece, my only sister’s daughter, who people, upon seeing her state, she could be mine.
I met AG in my mother’s house, the house that was passed down from her mother, my grandmother. AG lives in that house with my mother and her parents, her nursery, a room which was once mine. There are a lot of good and not so good memories in this house and the few days I spent with AG holding her, cooing, playing, caring for her, every time I looked at her face, the face the resembles in some small way mine, I was taken back to the not so good memories haunting this house, haunting me, memories of growing up on an island as a girl child, memories of my experience as a light skinned black woman – memories of abuse, guilt, anger, of how I learned to keep secrets, memories I hope AG will never have.
As I looked in her face the memory of the little me in my primary school uniform refusing to get off the school bus one evening, as instructed that morning, to go to my great aunt’s house because her son was touching me inappropriately at night and how I knew to lie about why I did not get off the bus even though I didn’t know why. I saw a preteen me, who to this day have never told my mother that her nephew fondled me as I was getting dressed for a birthday party on a Saturday evening, that was the first time. The second time was by our grandmother’s house, in the room now AG’s nursery, when he closed the bedroom door as he pretended to everyone that we were playing. I remembered a girl who never told because I didn’t want to bring a wedge between my mother and her sister – my aunt who I loved and who loved me, who helped my mother when my father refused to care for us. What I saw looking into my niece’s face made me panic. I panicked because I didn’t want her to grow up, she might experience these things, I didn’t want her to make the choices that I had while also knowing that statistically the ones who might hurt her could be her own cousins – my nephews and even my own son – and that is a bitter pill to swallow.
As I looked into the face of my niece, I saw the preteen me walking across the wharf bridge everyday hearing the vendors shout and whisper “browning, girl yah pussy fat” or “you look ripe and ready,” as my school uniform blew against my body, and get upset when I didn’t respond. I remember when a strange man walking toward me reached out and slowly ran his hand along the side of my right cheek, savoring his touch, chuckling as he kept walking, saying nothing to me, not addressing me, rubbing his hand against my face with such intentionality made me in those few seconds his to touch. Sometimes when I think about this long enough, I can still feel his hands slowly moving along my skin.
As I looked into the face of my niece, I saw the teenage me. When my mother had migrated to the US looking for work and left us in the care of her sister who took good care of us, who tried her best to make sure that the disruption of our mother’s departure wasn’t too much to bear. I remember the last family picnic we had in Folkstone park when all of my cousins went jet skiing but my sister and I had no money to pay. The jet ski guy said that the two of us could take a ride, my sister was so excited, as was I, not knowing that the price in lieu of money was to take the jet ski far enough out so he could fondle me as I sat in front of him and my sister held on behind. I kept it a secret too. I felt so ashamed, so stupid, how could my teenage self not have anticipated this.
I remember myself as a young adult just before my final year of law school, a 22-year-old training to become a member of one of the oldest and most patriarchal professions. I had already completed four years of training and with the horizon looming larger I had only a few more months and requirements to complete. From day one I was warned about the “professional climate” maybe looking back it was code for “this is a man’s domain”, but it was during my required internship that I really fully understood the extent of the climate. Black feminist Christina Sharpe in her 2016 text In the Wake: On Blackness and Being, describes what she calls the weather, that is, pervasive anti-blackness, “as climate.” Sharpe states “[t]he weather necessitates changeability and improvisation; it is the atmospheric condition of time and place; it produces new ecologies.”[i] I extend Sharpe’s description of weather and climate to also encompass one that is sexist and misogynist. Sharpe asks, “[w]hen the only certainty is the weather that produces a pervasive climate of anti-blackness [and I would add sexism/misogyny], what must we know in order to move through these environments”?[ii]
Moving through the climate of the legal profession in the Caribbean as a young, ambitious woman meant knowing with a quickness that I was always in danger. This became very clear in the summer of 2002. That summer I did a mandatory internship at the solicitor general’s office under the immediate supervision of a prominent political figure, chief cook, and bottle washer of a small country not my home. He called me into his office one early afternoon and as I walked in, gestured for me to sit across from his desk, picked up a book from a stack behind said desk and started to read poetry aloud. My naïve 22-year-old self, paid the most rapt attention to the recitation and even commented with what might have been (I cannot recall exactly, but I know I would have wanted to seem intelligent and to impress with my comments) a brief analysis of the poetry. As I was commenting I remember this man walking around his desk and taking a seat in the chair next to me and from what I could observe listening intently to my words for what seemed like a few minutes. I remember him suddenly moving toward me pulling me in tight to his person, and then violently kissing me by prying my lips open with his tongue. I have played this moment over and over in my mind over the years since then, to try to understand why I never saw it coming. Each time I can still feel his tongue wriggling around in my mouth and the absolute shock and horror I felt back then comes over me like it was just yesterday.
I remember hurriedly jumping up and backing away to the door and of him coming after me and again drawing me toward him, pulling me so tight and asking whether I could feel his erection hard through his pants. I could, and it was such a shock to me, my body and my mind completely froze. I cannot remember how I escaped his unwanted grip, or how I got out of his office, whether I ran or walked, I believed I must have ran but then I am not sure because I believe there were staff members outside his door and I must not have wanted to raise alarm, but I cannot think if I had the presence of mind to have contemplated that at the time. Was the expression on my face one of shock and horror, of complete steel, or was I tearing up? I cannot remember those few minutes as much as I try. All I can recall is saying in my complete realization of what was happening but non-comprehension of why is, “but you are the Prime Minister.” I look back at my 22-year-old self, thinking there were so many more profound things I could have said. But also knowing in reality that the pure innocence of that statement was an indication that I had as a young woman expected, wanted, believed, hoped, for better in our Caribbean leaders. “But you are the Prime Minister” today I know meant “I expected better from someone like you.” I remember the Prime Minister, this man with so much power, calling my mother after I left his country for a brief visit home where I flew to recollect myself, calling my home, taking to my mother and asking her to make me go with him to the regional signing of the Caribbean Court of Justice CARICOM treaty in Jamaica since it would be a great experience. I remember that because I never told my mother what happened she asked aloud several times why I was refusing this amazing opportunity. But after a litany of prepared excuses she dropped it – we have never spoken of it again but I still wonder today if my very perceptive, almost clairvoyant mother knew. I flew home because, only a few days before that call to my mother, which was several days after he assaulted me in his office, this man had called my office, an office of which he was in charge, inviting me to Jamaica not to have sex but just to take a shower with me.
The climate is pervasive and palpable. That same Prime Minister has been accused multiple times by multiple women of sexual assault. Years after my experience in his office, a policewoman in his country accused him of rape and the Director of Public Prosecutions (DPP), who he appoints and who is responsible for deciding which cases the state will prosecute, refused to bring up her case for a hearing. The publicity and public shaming ruined her reputation. I still think about her and her bravery and sometimes feel guilty for not speaking up when that policewoman came forward to say me too, knowing that he had sexually assaulted me. I did not speak up because I came from financial struggle and learned early on to keep my head down and my mouth shut to ensure a better life in a prestigious profession that was his first.
At 25, newly called to the BAR in my country, married to my partner and working in the High Court, a senior male attorney, with a reputation as a force to reckon with in the courtroom, saw me at a conference and threatened me to be careful, because every time he saw me he was aroused. He said to me “you is a red woman with sexy bow legs that does drive men crazy.” That same year 2005, a High Court judge called me into his chambers to ask me if I was sure my partner, who at the time was living in the US, wasn’t cheating and asked how I knew I could trust him. He told me he would like to take me for a ride in his car to a famous park out lovers’ lane spot on the island. Before I met this judge, another judge had warned me to “be careful” around the judge who wanted to take me on that ride. He knew this judge had a reputation and while warning me privately was publicly mute. I learned to avoid him and eventually left the profession altogether.
As I look at my niece nearly 15 years after being warned to be careful by this senior attorney, I hope that she never has these memories, but I can almost certainly predict that she will. These memories haunt my life and affect my relationship with my partner even today as I grapple with issues surrounding physical intimacy.
Leading Caribbean feminist Eudine Barriteau stated in her 2012 book Love and Power: Caribbean Discourses on Gender, that in the Caribbean there are “intense negotiations and accommodations of power… The situation with young girls is starker, they are indeed economically and socially powerless …”[iii] Barriteau’s statement indicates that there is a problem for women and girls with regard to their encounters with men. DeShong and Haynes in their 2016 article write, “[t]hree Caribbean countries figure among those with the top 10 recorded rape rates in the world, and all Caribbean countries are shown to have a higher rate of rape than the world average.”[iv] These figures and as demonstrated by DeShong and Haynes, the anemic response to this type of violence by Caribbean governments, puts my AG in danger.
But I am hopeful that in writing this essay, I can warn my niece. Not the type of warning that terrifies her to a place of stasis, but that emboldens her to live her best life even as she remains vigilant within our patriarchal society. I want my niece to never have similar experiences to mine, and instead of violation my deepest wish is that my AG can experience relationships “rooted in recognition and acceptance … combines acknowledgement, care, responsibility, commitment, and knowledge … [and] the strength to oppose domination.”[v] And if she does experience sexual assault or harassment, I want that by sharing my story with her, she feels empowered to tell her own. I am not alone in wanting this for my niece. Many of us survivors of sexual assault know what it means to hold these stories inside, how they impact the deep intimate spaces of our lives. On November 24th 2016 the #LifeInLeggings movement which rocked the Caribbean, underscored this. The movement began with a hashtag that was created as a safe space for women who had experienced sexual harassment and sexual assault. Women, encouraged by solidarity, were empowered to speak out on their social media platforms about their experiences. This hashtag went viral – making an appearance in countries all around the globe. #LifeInLeggings was purposely created to dispel the myth that only certain types of women are harassed and are deserving of their assault/abuse because of the way they are dressed.
While telling our stories is crucial, the onus cannot be on survivors alone to do the work. Caribbean feminist organizations like Womantra for example have been making tremendous interventions to publicize the stories of women and gender expansive folx and continue to call for accountability and justice. But holding the perpetrators accountable is still proving difficult and prevention work still needs to be done. In this climate, while I recognize that telling her my story alone is not enough to protect my AG, like many other Caribbean women who have shared and continue to share their very personal stories whether it is through #LifeInLeggings or otherwise, I speak out publicly about my experience with violence and advocate for other women and girls so AG and many other nieces, daughters, sisters, and friends will not have to grapple with the memories I carry. All Caribbean women and girls deserve to live their full lives, my AG included!
Author Biography
Andrea N. Baldwin is an associate professor in the Divisions of Gender and Ethnic Studies in the School for Cultural and Social Transformation at the University of Utah. She is an attorney-at-law who holds a master’s degree in international trade policy and a PhD in gender and development studies from the University of the West Indies, Cave Hill campus in Barbados. Dr. Baldwin’s research interest includes Black, decolonial, and Caribbean feminist theorizing.
Notes
[i] 1 Christina Sharpe, In the Wake: Of Blackness and Being, (Durham: Duke University Press, 2016), 106.
[ii] Sharpe, In the Wake, 106.
[iii] Eudine Barriteau, Love and Power: Caribbean Discourses on Gender (Kingston: University of The West Indies Press, 2012).
[iv] Halimah DeShong and Tonya Haynes, “Intimate Partner Violence in the Caribbean: State,
Activist and Media Responses,” Global Public Health 1, no. 1-2 (2016), 83.
[v] bell hooks, Feminism is for Everybody: Passion Politics (London: Pluto Press 2000), 104.