Antiman

by Rajiv Mohabir

  Right after the NYC Teaching Fellows interview I flew out to Oakland, where I would be staying with Prahlad. He’d wanted me to visit ever since YSS. I also heard that Ryan would be coming and that we would all be hanging together.

  I was excited to see Prahlad again, to sleep in his bed again. I didn’t want to spoil it by telling him what happened with my extended family—at least not yet. When he greeted me at the door we hugged and kissed. His energy was different. Was he dating someone?

  He walked me into the room and introduced me as his “friend” to his older, white roommate, who welcomed me. On the porch Ryan was smoking a cigarette. We hugged and laughed and hugged. The buildings on the hills outside whitened in Greek-like radiance. The sun was gold and felt like joy in the cool air of San Francisco spring.

  I don’t recall much about what happened at the interviews other than the interviewers asking me why I wanted to teach math when my marks in the subject were so poor.

  “I only put it down because we needed five options for the application. Truth be told I haven’t taken a math class in ages.” Did I answer this wrong?

  The one woman who asked this question took off her glasses and smiled at me. “It’s perfectly fine for you to want to teach what you feel are your strongest areas.” This comforted me, and I was glad for her warmth.

  Back at Prahlad’s apartment, Prahlad, Ryan, and I smoked and drank, listened to music, and went to several gay clubs. Queen Harish was performing in San Francisco and we decided that we absolutely had to go.

  Arriving at the club we all wore our YSS T-shirts that read Resistance Is Fertile and made out. Our energy was unquenchable. We danced and sang and watched with giddy tummies as Queen Harish performed move-by-move Rekha’s Kathak to “Dil Cheez Kya Hai.” The crowd of brown faggots sang along.

  Aap meri jaan lijiye. “Why just my heart? Take my life.” And then in that moment, to these two men I offered my love. I looked at Ryan and then at Prahlad. I was home with these two who could see me. Finally. There were people who could see me.

  Prahlad and I had only a moment together alone and I explained some of what happened to me in New York with my family. I didn’t want the drama to eclipse our last moment together before returning to Florida, where I was invisible as a brown body.

  Prahlad lay on top of me, breathing on my bare chest. Time slowed to two hearts beating against each other in dissonance and harmony. His long curls tickled my neck. I could feel him harden. We were just our whole complicated selves without explanation. He smelled like musk and coconut oil.

  I kissed him for a moment, wanting to be with him, but wanting so much more to be part of something big, something brown, something queer as fuck. When I left we promised to keep in touch forever.

  I was accepted to the Teaching Fellows program and would be teaching ESL to K–12 students in the city. When I received the letters of acceptance from both Oakland and New York, the choice was clear: New York City all the way. I could be a free brown West Indian queer in Queens rather than remaining almost invisible in a city without a sizable Guyanese population.

  Even though Prahlad was in Oakland, I longed for New York—its grit and its community of West Indians. The organization was glad to have a Hindi speaker onboard, since there were so many immigrants who spoke it; I was glad to be able to use this skill to help offset the sadness of a devalued home language that wasn’t English. I was excited to go and make a community of badass brown folks.

  “Mom, I got in!” I ran to her room, where she was sitting up watching television in bed. She held a small plate with buttered saltines. “I got into the New York City Teaching Fellows program!” I repeated.

  Mom was trained as a teacher herself—having gone to school when I was in middle school. Now she was working for the district with Title 1 funding while studying for her PhD in educational leadership in a remote program from the University of Florida.

  “Apparently this means that I will have to go in early summer and take summer classes to begin teaching in my own classroom in the fall. I found a way out of Florida!” My words were clumsy.

  She put her plate on her bedside table. “That’s great!” she said. “You’re actually going to New York.” She choked on the words New York. Her eyes sparkled with tears. “You’re going to be so far away,” she trailed off.

  “If anyone could understand why I would leave home and go far away, it’s you. You did the same thing—your brothers and sisters are mostly in England and Guyana,” I said. The television light painted blues and yellows across her face. Her eyes were wet.

  I resigned that day from Whole Foods and hosted a goodbye pool party for the five friends I had made.

  The day I left, Pap took me to the airport. The radio crooned oldies. The songs reminded him of John Wayne and growing up in Guyana. Yearning for some kind of class status, he and his siblings drank up American music like I drank rum in high school. I had taken the first step toward making myself whole. I was doing something to affirm myself, to affirm my political convictions.

  We merged onto the FL 408 toward Orlando. I looked out the window and saw a red-tailed hawk sweeping the sky in broad circles. I took deep breaths to come back into my body. The bell is ringing. I felt my feet hum on the car floor. The jiggle of my calf muscles. The pressure of the seat on my thighs, my ass, my back. I felt my arms and slowed my breathing. In for a ten count, hold for a five count, and out for a ten count. In for a ten count, hold for a five count, and out for a ten count. In for a ten count, hold for a five count, and out for a ten count.

  And then I had a realization. I wouldn’t have to be alone. I could be with people who would value me and think I was exceptional. I was alive and could feel things deeply. Being a sensitive person is like having a superpower. I just knew it. Maybe this was the feeling my therapist wanted me to connect with when she suggested that I breathe deep and allow myself to be in a space. It all sounded too simple.

  I gasped.

  “What happened?” Pap asked.

  “Pap, I just realized that I don’t have to be alone. That I can be loved and I can have a relationship with someone.”

  Pap was quiet then turned off the radio to begin. “You are disgusting. Do me a favor and don’t tell anyone in New York that you are my son. You are an abomination, so never attribute anything you do to me, ever. Do you hear me?”

  I looked at Pap and then back out the window. This is what he thought of me the entire time that I spent living at home: something disgusting that he had to endure. He had no control over me anymore now that I was a grown-ass antiman. Maybe it was hard for him to say goodbye to me, now that I was moving on from the life that he’d wanted me to have. Maybe his disappointment was not with me but rather with his own failure to follow his heart.

  “We moved to this country so you would have the opportunities that we didn’t have,” he reminded me one day before I was admitted into the program.

  “I am doing just that, Pap. I am taking the opportunity to live in the world the way that I want.” It was as simple as that. My mother and father gave me the opportunity, sacrificed so much to make sure that my brother, sister, and I could be fully active agents in our own lives. I was on my way to New York to escape this dialogue that I’d internalized. I knew a part of me would always be safe. I was breathing.

  Ardhanarishvaram Raga

  Line of Imaginary:

  I bow to the Lord who is half Shakti,

  half Shiva, whom the sages Atri,

  Bhrigu, and Vashishta exalt.

  At midnight’s half-watch,

  their adornments are indomitable

  and ardent. Beloved of Ardhanareshwari,

  they, benevolent, bestow fearlessness.

  Foot:

  Adorned by the serpent-jewel,

  mounted on the bull Nandi,

  worshiped by Subrahmanya,

  praised in Kumudakriya ragam,

  extolled by the Agamas

  and in the Vedas alike,
/>   their servants are devas like Indra.

  They shimmer a reddish sheen.

  Your father pulls over as you drive along the Blue Ridge.

  It’s a black river.

  Wildflowers fringe the bank.

  You are on your way to some uncle’s daughter’s nikkah, migrating from Florida to Toronto.

  On the radio a 1960s Bollywood tape spins its tin and screeches.

  You step out and pick elderflowers and black-eyed Susans to tuck into your braids.

  Some things are unconscionable, your father says,

  like the liberties people take with their freedom.

  Why can’t we be whatever we want?

  The lyrics of your music are non sequiturs.

  All bady na get one sense.

  Consider Ardhanarishwara, papa.

  There is a god/dess split down the center, the right side Shiva, the left Parvati. Whole.

  There’s a universe in my throat.

  Nonsense.

  Are you a god?

  You are not a mythological creature.

  It’s Caribana in Toronto and Sonny Mann’s “Lotela”

  beats its chutney soca.

  You’ve only heard this song at family parties.

  The queer you’re eyeing asks your cousin if you’re single.

  That night you wear his oil for days.

  The first time you mirror someone like you, you are never lonelier.

  You hold your breath.

  Your face is red.

  Your family shifts.

  Never mind that when he leaves you will clutch your belly.

  Walking into the plane cabin, he will not even look back;

  he will mount the steel and iron and sail across the sky.

  You will leave messages on his answering machine,

  squeeze your lips tight whenever the phone rings.

  You will crave his mounting you.

  Somewhere is another of your kind.

  Crabwood Creek been get one wha’ dem bady been a call Girlie.

  Hamini oke Girlie bulawe rahe kaheki uu, ka bole ham, uu antiman rahe.

  He been lub one nex’ man fum 79 village an’ all bady been a sabe.

  Aur saadi kare, bibah kare ke time aagail.

  De night befo’ ’e lawa, ’e been tek one bottle Malathion an’ sab piye hai.

  Da wha’ you know?

  Jahariya wha’ dem pregnant gyal does tek when ’e shame ’e mumma an’ ’e papa.

  Like when ’e get one pickni in a ’e belly aur saram lagela den ’e go piye da ting an’ seh, O god-o ham aapan mai-baap ke saram de del.

  Well Girlie ke papa na been know ’e son been drink a jahariya?

  ’E cerry ’em go a haspital.

  When dem a bhuje de lawa Girlie ke baifrien’ been come ’pon one harse and tek ’em til a New Amsta’dam.

  Baad mein dem been lef’ mati an’ Girlie go back a ’e papa house fe bibah kare.

  Ii time okar mai-baap oke jahariya khilawe rahe taki u Girlie ke marro tak le jaye.

  Aisan karis ki uu na bhag sake aur laiki se bibah kare.

  Til now ’e married an’ mek pickni an’ dem a stay a Wiscansin.

  In my village there was once a man named Girlie.

  We called him that because he, you know, acted like an antiman.

  He was in love with a man from 79 Village and everybody knew.

  Come so it was time for his marriage.

  The night before he grabbed a bottle of malathion and drank it.

  You know, the rat poison that pregnant women drink when they have dishonored their families.

  Well, the father caught Girlie in time and took him to the hospital.

  Later on they continued with the wedding preparations and the night before the wedding his boyfriend scooped him up on his horse and they rode all the way to New Amsterdam.

  They eventually tired of each other. Girlie returned to the village to marry the dulhin.

  This time his parents drugged him.

  This time his father dragged him to the mandap where the priest started the havan and made sure that he didn’t leave.

  He’s married now with children and lives in Wisconsin.

  Mohini is Vishnu’s only female incarnation.

  When the gods churn the sea of milk and the nectar of life emerges, the demons, the asuras steal it all.

  With quick fingers Mohini picks it back from them.

  The master of tricks, she is the slayer of Bhasmasura.

  Once when the demon who could turn others to ash with his hands mirrored Mohini’s dance, he reduced his great form into nitrogenous dust.

  This is why there is immortality.

  One look from her eye could drive one mad.

  Once Shiva saw her, Kama clove his heart in two.

  The wild ache stokes a flame. Her eyes, bellows.

  Knowing her to be Vishnu-incarnate Shiva trundles the earth over, an elephant in heat, stamping through rivers and forests.

  In his whirl of desire he spills his semen across the land.

  Bewitched by Vishnu on earth: the bewilderer of demons, the thief of immortality, the wo/man seduces Shiva.

  Ardhanarishwara is your household deity when you move into the Jackson Heights walk-up apartment with your boyfriend.

  A mantra plays the first time you see the flat. It’s your ringtone.

  Your mother is calling bhur bhuva swaha.

  If there ever was a sign it’s this.

  He is a drag queen named Lotay.

  His catchphrase: Karma’s a bitch.

  Interstitial, his transitions bore into bedroom politics: cocaine dancing and fucking with the wig on.

  Karma reduced you to ash.

  You open your blowhole and take him deep.

  Dolphins are prone to sexual experimentations.

  When he walks out you call four guys you’ve known.

  You disappear into the dark water, brackish, mixing Scotch with saltwater.

  Mister Javier’s Lesson Plan

  ESL Standards

  ESL 1: Students will listen, speak, read, and write in English for information and understanding.

  ESL 4: Students will listen, speak, read, and write in English for classroom and social interaction.

  ESL 5: Students will demonstrate cross-cultural knowledge and understanding.

  Objective

  Students will be able to listen to, retell, and respond (creatively through illustrations, writing, and song) to the story of Encounter by Jane Yolen.

  Lesson Sequence

  1. Personal introduction

  “Hello, class, I know I am starting late and I am so glad that you all left your other classes to join me in this special advanced-level English as a Second Language class! We are going to have so much fun together! My name is Rajiv Mohabir, but you can call me Mr. Mohabir.”

  My class of twelve students was populated by bright-eyed and happy six-year-olds. They mostly spoke Spanish and were English-language learners. Most of their families came from Mexico, Central America, or the Caribbean.

  The students walked in and sat in the “meeting area,” where boxes of books sorted by reading levels faced the children. The books were kept in multicolored plastic baskets with the letters. The carpet was patterned to look like a little town from a bird’s-eye-view—the road led from the fire station to the houses to the church.

  “Mister Javier?” A black-haired, black-eyed boy of six fidgeted, hand raised. He looked like a bird that puffs out its feathers before it poops and then shakes.

  “Mister Mohabir,” I corrected. “Yes, Alonso?”

  “I want go bathroom.”

  “Do you want to go to the bathroom now or can you wait a moment?”

  “Never mind,” he said, sitting in a darkened puddle.

  “Why don’t you go to the nurse’s office? We will call your parents and they will come and bring you new clothes. Amanda and Wilson, will you please take Alonso to the nurse?” I called the custodians to co
me and clean up the mess. They came and pulled up the carpet and removed it from the classroom. The students then sat cross-legged on the hard linoleum floor.

  The classroom was a rubble heap, still grimy despite my having spent the last five days on my hands and knees scrubbing the caked dirt out of the windowsills, the cupboards, and the closet. The floor’s linoleum had started to peel away in the corners of the room. In the back was a sink and to the left of that the closet where I had inherited all kinds of leftover trash. The chalkboard stretched its brown slate from ceiling to floor, the windows were barred with iron rods and only opened six inches, the wooden furniture was mouse-chewed.

  I picked up a big pad of chart paper from the floor in front of the door to make a little space. Rays of dust darkened the morning beams of sun that broke through the grime that covered the windows and guard bars. Making this classroom safe for six-year-olds was going to be a full-time job in itself. It was like a filthy cage in which no bird would ever sing.

  The assistant principal in her skirt-suit had grilled me with her light eyes during my interview. She hired me, she later told me, for an answer that I had given. Part of my teaching philosophy included treating the students with compassion. Mrs. White loved this answer.

  The Teaching Fellows program was a maelstrom of dos and don’ts for teaching. Do speak in the positive while making rules. Do validate the backgrounds of students in the city. Do believe that every child can learn. Do work yourself into the ground. Don’t talk to other teachers in the school because they will not understand you or your work. Don’t look to us for support outside of the summer session.

  It took two trains and one hour fifteen minutes to go from my studio in Jackson Heights to Bushwick. P.S. 45: a concrete block without any green space inside or out. There was, however, a cherry tree that bloomed in the spring as a promise of better fortune to come. The real color of the school was shocking and beautiful. The faculty was as varied with predominantly Black, Dominican, and Mexican students.