Melville Cooke THERE WAS a time in Jamaica, in those distant, primitive pre-widespread cable days (about 1989) when an 'uptown boy' dare not wear his earring downtown. There was the distinct possibility that he would be branded a homosexual, mobbed and beaten. Even if it did not happen, the glares he was likely to receive would be enough to send him scurrying back to his haven way above Half-Way Tree.
Then things began to change. The 'rude boy' rules began to relax a bit, somewhere around the early 1990s. Somehow it became known that piercing the left ear was okay - the gays pierced the right. Then when that distinction began to blur, the word was that gay men pierced both ears, so as long as it was only one, right or left was okay.
And as the rude and wanna-be rudies moved into double piercing, identifying homosexuals through ear-piercing became a thing of the past.
The about-face took no more than six years. I still remember my mental turning point, when a bald, scowling, dark-complexioned, very tough looking man with a huge gun-shaped earring dangling from his right ear sold me a pair of sneakers in Parade.
There have been other striking instances - a red-headed man with a perm whizzing on a bike through Cross Roads, a youth in full black tights set - jeans and body-hugging shirt, stepping towards Pavillion in Half-Way Tree, wearing a permanent screw. (Why is it that when they look wrong, they always have a wrench?).
But the way in which the face of the rude boy has really changed is in bleaching. Whether 'real bad man' do it or not, sufficient pretenders have lightened their faces in an attempt to 'keep cool' for my perception of what a rude boy looks like to be permanently changed. There he goes, pants hanging from his thighs by a miracle, sneakers the proper brand name, designer shirt correctly, carelessly, artfully arranged, Guinness in hand, his face shining like a train lamp in the video light.
Yup, the face of the rude boy has certainly changed - and not for the better. The roots men I knew in earlier life would scoff at the notion of designer gear - these latter day rudies have to be all decked out. You would never catch an original bad man in a beauty salon - but from hair to facials, quite a few young rudies have gone into the hallowed precincts of the hairdressing parlour.
But if the face of the rude boy has changed, the company that he keeps has been radically altered. I cannot count the number of sessions I have been to and seen a car, all tinted, pull up, the body rubbing on the tyres. You anticipate a 'Camry-load of girls' to make that one Malta for the night taste that much better - and out hop five men.
And the driver is still inside the car.
I maintain that many men sleep with women, but have the relationship with their 'brethrens.' If Tom has intercourse with Jane, but 'pars' with Bob to sessions, on trips out of town, shopping, cooking and turns to him for advice on serious matters, who is the relationship with?
PETTY THIEVERY
At times, it seems to me that what was once condemned as homosexual behaviour has been transformed into 'rude boy thing'. Frankly, I wouldn't turn my back on many - or any? - of these young, designer-clothed 'shottas.' Too many of them aspire to a lifestyle that they cannot maintain through begging and petty thievery (forget working) and lack the brains or balls to pull off crimes that really pay. What is left? The age-old sex, naturally.
Pass by the corner of Waterloo Road, where it filters onto South Avenue, after midnight and you may just see what I am talking about.
I have long maintained, however, that Jamaica's supposed rabidly anti-gay stance is largely two-faced. In theory we are, but in reality we do much more snickering and rumour-mongering about who is 'it' than the beating and chopping that is passionately promised. And those who do get attacked tend to be the homosexuals from the lower end of the financial ladder.
Melville Cooke is a freelance writer.
