New Spellings of “Our” Caribbean(s)

Our Caribbean is one of the first extensive collections of writings about gay, lesbian, and same-sex experiences in the Caribbean and the various Caribbean diaspora, with writings from the Dutch-speaking, Hispanic, and anglophone Caribbean(s) and the diaspora(s). In the introduction, the editor Thomas Glave acknowledges the timely and much-anticipated release of the collection, adding that it is only part of the ever-increasing discussions of Caribbean sexualities worldwide.

The rich variety of material, and the mix of well-known authors—such as Audre Lorde, Michelle Cliff, Reinaldo Arenas, José Alcántara Almánzar—and lesser well-known and less-circulated authors are some of the most striking features of the collection: at a glance, there are excerpts from literary novels such as In Another Place, Not Here by Dionne Brand, as well as short stories, critical and literary theory articles, poems, oral history narratives, and pieces that challenge the fiction-nonfiction divide and the personal-political binary, such as Glave’s own “Whose Caribbean? An Allegory, in Part.” Glave’s is an imaginative non-fiction piece that employs magical realism to question gender and sexual binaries in Jamaica, and to demonstrate the imaginative possibilities that exist for those who seek—or for those who can imagine—a Caribbean that is not rooted in colonial, heteropatriarchal, and neocolonial power structures.¹

Glave’s piece is engaged in a dialogue with the other writings in the collection, and reading the collection from cover to cover reveals the complex histories of same-sex experience in the Caribbean(s). The volume challenges the facelessness that often characterizes hegemonic discourses on the Caribbean region and Caribbean (homo)sexualities—discourses such as HIV/AIDS representations and the prepackaged tourist view of the region from the perspective of the Global North—by showing that sexuality is one of many factors informing the subjectivities of those in the Caribbean(s) and the diaspora(s). In his introduction, Glave explains that he decided to include a lesser-known piece by Lorde, “Of Genera tors and Survival: Hugo Letter,” which does not deal with same-sex issues per se, alongside her germinal piece “Zami: A New Spelling of My Name” because he wants to highlight how “even in the most integrated, humane world possible, none of us can afford to indulge in single-focus politics, irrespective of how we name ourselves or are named by those who have the power to do so” (6–7). Glave and most of the authors in the collection have been influenced by Lorde’s life and work, and the inclusion of Lorde’s essay on Hugo Letter widens the traditional scope for understanding same-sex experiences.

The collection’s diversity cannot be summarized, but a particular favorite of mine is Rinaldo Walcott’s article “Fragments of Toronto’s Black Queer Community: From a Life Still Being Lived.” His piece is an articulate and critical discussion of the complexities that black gay Caribbean men have to juggle while living in between the often rigidly heteronormative Caribbean diaspora and the predominantly white Canadian queer scene. Walcott dispels the myth that the wider Canadian queer culture is not influenced by those from the Caribbean(s) diaspora(s) by showing that same-sex experience in Canadian queer culture is informed by the presence of queer Caribbean people.

In the introduction, Glave highlights his editorial decisions to re-present the collection in English and English translation and to call the collection gay and lesbian writing. Such reflections are important, as Our Caribbean will be a precedent for future writings on same-sex in the Caribbean(s) and the diaspora(s). As a whole, the collection is a much-needed contribution to both queer studies and Caribbean studies, and we may hope that future discussion of same-sex experience will build on the engaging and multifarious writings in Our Caribbean.