Someone Else's Carnival

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NationalComingOutDay does not respect borders. National Coming Out Day has a German-powered passport, multiplied by a thousand rainbow beams, leopard-print panties, assless chaps, devon biscuits, bank slips and birth certificates. Because yes, being queer is as much about paying the bills and getting a maxi in City Gate as it is durable lube and latex that won't quit. Sometimes it's about two of those things, sometimes it's about one of them, sometimes all, sometimes none. Mixing and matching your gayness goes hand in hand with non-colour-by-numbersing your coming out. Cheers to you, if you're coming out today. Cheers to you if you came out ten years ago in Barrackpore behind the mandir, under your boyfriend's watchful eyes, with a book of bhajans crumpled between your sweaty fingers. Cheers to you if you're coming out in 2020, and you've already picked the date, your fire-engine-red dress, and a pair of heels more valuable than voter-padded ballots. Cheers to you for the courage it takes to declare an essential part of yourself. Cheers to you for the courage it takes to know that sometimes staying silent about your sexuality is equivalent to saving your life, or someone else's. Cheers to your bravery, especially when it doesn't look brave. Because here you are, in Barrackpore and Belarus, Barbados and the backseat of your wife's car, holding your wife's hand. Here you are, surviving, queer + indignant + trans + hustling + pan + broke + bi + vegetarian + ace + asymmetrical. Here you are, going to church and getting on at Carnival. Here you are, honey. Look at you, surviving. <3 - Shivanee Ramlochan

<<audio "perc" volume .25 loop play>> This is a game about coming to terms with your identity while living on a small-town-island. This is a game with a fail state; you can lose. To win you have to get 50 queer points. That proves you love yourself. That you are open, honest, true and brave. You get queer points by being fierce. <<linkappend "Come Out.">> [[Eat men like air.]]<</linkappend>>

August 2014. Dry Season. Hurricane Season. You scroll through your Facebook feed. Everyone’s resharing the year-old memories. It’s midnight. An entire island too wired to sleep. Tomorrow they will slip into <<linkreplace "their outfits.">>rhinestone bikini bottoms and beaded headdresses, garlanded with feathers.<</linkreplace>> They will glue sequins around the sharp bones of their eyelids, and spray dye their hair. They will <<linkreplace "dance.">>rock their hips, spread their legs, and bend themselves towards a new kind of spiritual release.<</linkreplace>> It’s Crop Over, again. [[Kwame]]

<<audio "perc" fadeto 0>> <<playlist "basslist1" shuffle loop volume 0.10 play>> You scroll through his feed, trying to figure out the exact moment. <<linkreplace "Kwame?">>He’s a shy guy. Wiry. Locks falling to mid-back. They’re plaited so tightly, you can’t imagine how he can get away with that kind of smile. How he isn’t always in pain. <<display "2011">> <<display "2012">> <<display "2013">> <</linkreplace>>

<<playlist "basslist1" volume 0.15>> In late 2012 he changes schools. <<linkreplace "Then...?">>The rest doesn’t show up on Facebook. You ask a friend but they don’t reply.<</linkreplace>> You wheel backwards, spinning slowly in the dark enclave of your bedroom - try and figure out why you need a timestamp to <<linkappend "Kwame’s coming out.">> Will it make yours easier? [[Stare out the window]] <</linkappend>>

<<linkappend "2011">>: Photo of him in Blue Box Cart - you recognize all of the faces. He’s wearing a pair of turquoise shorts and an arm band. He has a fedora on, sloping to the side. It doesn’t fit him well and you wonder how many times it was picked up by the wind. He’s in the middle of a group of guys - arm over arm, <<linkappend "touching">>, but not really<</linkappend>> - buddies.<</linkappend>>

<<linkappend "2012">>. Blue Box Cart again. Turquoise, again. But a mask this time, covered in feathers. <<linkreplace "Makeup.">>The barest hint of makeup.<</linkreplace>> The fedora is gone; so are the guys. <</linkappend>>

<<linkappend "2013">>: You take a while to figure out if its even him. He leans down to pose for the camera, dropping all of his weight onto his right foot. The shot angles up, and he’s flashing that incredible smile. He’s covered in silver body paint and you try and figure out the seams of clothing beneath the mirage. <<linkreplace "His outfit?">>He’s wearing thigh high boots. Everywhere there are feathers.<</linkreplace>> [[CLICK1<-Continue scrolling]]<</linkappend>>

<<audio "perc" volume 0.25 loop play>> Canes are burning. You can smell it rising in the air like sugar that’s tarring at the bottom of a pan. You wrinkle your nose. A man is sitting on the bonnet of his car outside your neighbor's house. He nods at you. You <<linkreplace "smile.">>rethink the smile before it forms, just nod.<</linkreplace>> You pull the curtain; continue staring. He leans back effortlessly and spreads himself for the sky. [[Check for a reply]]

<<audio "perc" fadeto 0>> <<linkappend "2:00 a.m.">> Your friend still hasn’t replied. They’re <<linkreplace "busy.">>at a fete, or they’re drunk, or they’re fucking their girlfriend.<</linkreplace>> You grow increasingly resentful of your own contradictory waking/absence. You try to [[steel your nerves.]]<</linkappend>>

<<playlist "basslist1" fadeto 0>> <<linkappend "4:00 a.m.">> <<playlist "basslist2" volume 0.30 shuffle loop play>> You are lying on the ground beside your bed. There is a presence that has curled atop your chest like a cat. You hate cats. This one is a <<linkappend "Cheshire.">> <<playlist "basslist2" volume 0.30 fadeto 0.50>> - violet and striped with crazy eyes - it arcs its long tail. It repeats its question - then vanishes. But just as you’re about to muster the energy to stand, it reappears. Fatter. Claws digging into your sternum. It’s fattened by your silence. <</linkappend>> [[430<-How]] did Kwame do it? The cat purrs.<</linkappend>>

<<linkappend "4:30 a.m.">> <<playlist "basslist2" volume 0.50 fadeto 0.70>> In December of 2012 Kwame closed his Twitter account. He was into animation and he really wanted to work for Marvel - the imprint owned Black Panther. His page was crawling with Black Panther fanart, that eventually became Black Panther smut art. Every tweet that wasn’t a call to watch him livestream, or shares of his favorite artists, were retweets from StopHomophobia or the It Gets Better project. You google: <<display "Q1">> <<display "Q2">> <<display "Q3">> <</linkappend>>

<<linkreplace "How many characters exist in the Marvel Universe?">> - More than a thousand.<</linkreplace>>

<<linkreplace "How many are black?" >> - less than 1/10th. <</linkreplace>>

<<linkreplace "How many are black and queer?" >> - less than 10. [[CLICK2<-click]] <</linkreplace>>

<<linkappend "5:00 a.m.">> <<playlist "basslist2" volume 0.80>> You’re running up against the borders of your own mind now. You grow sick of yourself. Grow sick of your own weakness. You don’t need Kwame’s blessing. You don’t need anyone’s blessing. You check <<linkappend "again">>(for the seventy-second time that night)<</linkappend>> to make sure the door is locked. You take off all of your clothes and stand in front of the mirror with the bedside table on. You stare at the contour of knobs and sharp angles that make up you. You try and convince yourself of your own innate beauty, imagine climbing into <<linkappend "a skin where you’re happy and safe.">> It looks like Kwame’s; it always does. <<silently>><<set $points to 0>> <<set $redBoots to false>> <<set $blkSneak to false>> <<set $slvShorts to false>> <<set $turqoise to false>> <<set $lipstick to false>> <</silently>> [[Red Boots<-Pull on the red thigh boots, borrowed from a friend]] [[Black Sneakers<-Settle for a pair of black sneakers, that you’ve stuck a little rainbow heart to]] [[Slippers<-Wear the same slippers you always wear]] <</linkappend>><</linkappend>>

<<playlist "basslist2" volume 0.80 fadeto 0.50>> <<set $redBoots to true>><<set $points to $points + 20>><img src="images/boots.jpg" alt="thigh high boots" /> You awkwardly try and step into the shoes. You’ve never worn heels before, and even the slight rise on the ankle makes you wobble. You try and walk like you’ve seen drag queens walk on Youtube and immediately topple. You laugh. You catch <<linkappend "sight of yourself in the mirror.">> The boots cover your thin legs and make you feel more confident than you’ve ever felt before. But rubbing away at the underbelly of that confidence is the gnawing feeling that you are just pretending. That you are masquerading, in the grotesque sense of the word. Finding new ways to hide, and new things to hide.<</linkappend>> You straighten up. Cock your hips. Stare yourself down. <<display "Choice2">>

<<set $blkSneak to true>><<set $points to $points + 10>>You stare at the red boots and swallow. You know <<linkappend "you can’t wear them.">> You had to smuggle them in here in a crocus bag full of mangoes picked from your friend’s tree. Her mother, a woman who leads Sunday sermons, hides them whenever they’re left out - spiriting them into laundry baskets, and under floorboards. <</linkappend>> <img src="images/shoes.jpg" alt="black sneakers" /> You pull on the black sneakers. You try and measure if they’re too much. You know that <<linkreplace "a super straight guy can wear pink skinny jeans and magenta shoes.">> a super straight guy can wear pink skinny jeans and magenta shoes - but he has to parade around his masculinity on a leash to pull that off.<</linkreplace>> You shadowbox the air. <<display "Choice2">>

<<playlist "basslist2" volume 1.0 fadeto 0.80>> <img src="images/slippers.jpg" alt="brown slippers" /> The slippers are dark brown. They have no distinguishable features. They blend you into backgrounds and they keep you at the side of conversations always. You try and fight the panic in your throat. If you don’t wear the shoes red shoes, if you don’t even wear the black shoes, you’re going to be a slipper wearer forever. <<display "Choice2">>

[[Silver Pants<-Put on the short silver pants (the ones that look almost exactly like Kwame’s]] [[Turquoise<-Wear the band colours (turquoise), but wear the pants you’ve altered so it's shorter]] [[Shorts<-Wear the typical shorts, that fall below your knees]]

<<set $slvShorts to true>><<set $points to $points + 30>><img src="images/silvershorts.jpg" alt="silver shorts" /> You struggle to get them on. They clamp at your stomach, give you a muffin top. They’re tight and you can’t sit in them, but they give your butt shape. You’ve never really felt connected to your own body. It’s like a truck that you pilot. The silver shorts make you feel like you’re opting in for the first time. Being present. <<display "Choice3">>

<<set $turqoise to true>><<set $points to $points + 20>><img src="images/turquoise.jpg" alt="turquoise pants" /> You’ve cut little strips off of a friend’s spare. It’s shredded and jagged and comes to mid-thigh. It reads as <<linkappend "obviously gay.">> It’s not even something that you can mask for carnival - something that you could bend around the upside-down rules of the day.<</linkappend>> You put on some loud music to drown out the rabbit hole. The way your brain can fixate on the thin membrane between shapes and colours, lengths and gestures - pick them apart for their gayness. <<display "Choice3">>

<img src="images/shorts.jpg" alt="regular shorts" /> The pants fit <<linkappend "alright.">> They’re baggy and they sag a bit at the waist. You feel fat in them. Fat and ugly. Worse than that, you feel like you’re in drag. <</linkappend>> <<display "Choice3">>

[[Lipstick<-Practice putting on the silver lipstick]] [[Wash Face<-Wash your face and apply some chapstick]]

<<set $lipstick to true>><<set $points to $points + 20>><img src="images/lipstick.jpg" alt="lipstick" /> You keep smudging outside the lines. Your hand is shaking. Drawing on lipstick in the mirror feels <<linkreplace "horrifying.">>like spitting in the communion cup at church. It feels like you pulled your dick out at a crosswalk in town and started screaming that Jesus was a buller.<</linkreplace>> You pout and smack your lips. The action itself feels <<linkappend "effortless.">> Natural.<</linkappend>> The colour is exactly what you imagined. It’s a futuristic metallic. If you squint, if you focus on just your lips, you can imagine being a silver smithed <<linkreplace "android.">>android - something from a time beyond this moment and this room. A creature that would have perfected tuning into only the frequencies that nourished it. <</linkreplace>> [[Pts Tally<-Continue]]

You wash your face with St. Ives. You scrub the beads into your four day stubble. You think about dying whenever you wash your face. It is a feeling that only happens in this exact moment - with your eyes closed - with the sting of soap. You just want to die. It’s beyond explanation. So you scrub yourself raw, [[Pts Tally<-waiting for the feeling to pass.]]

<<playlist "basslist1" stop>> <<playlist "basslist2" stop>> You got <<print $points>> points. <<if $points gte 50>><<display "Epilogue">> <<else>><<display "Epilogue2">><</if>>

<<audio "end" loop play>> It’s 6:00 a.m. Your friends will be coming to pick you up soon. You look in the mirror at your outfit; turn slowly. You feel a beautiful fool. When you were eight you used to sneak into your sister’s room and look at her shoes. At the time it was a blackbird’s obsession with shiny trinkets. You would secret them back into your own room, but your tiny feet couldn’t fill the borders and it always felt like someone else’s country entirely. You don’t feel like a tourist anymore. [[Step out]]

You go to wear the safe slippers and the turquoise shorts and the armband and the fedora in your back cupboard. The music on the road doesn’t move you. You can barely hear what people are saying sometimes. You swim in and out of focus. After two years of working for your father at his hardware store, you work up the courage to apply for a scholarship. You go to Brazil. You go to Rio pride. You wear those red platforms. You wear that pair of silver shorts. The music picks you up and you find yourself sobbing in an alley thinking about Crop Over, not mourning what you missed, but overcome by where you are now. You feel the spirit of the mas for the first time - a tourist in someone else’s carnival - but you’re performing on Spring Garden. Your soul is moving to music carved into the leylines of your belly. You can barely stand up straight you’re so full of love and belonging. [[Outro<-Continue]]

<<audio "end" loop play>> You take the few steps to the door of your bedroom but you can’t bring yourself to unlock it. Your mother is going to be in the living room. She’s going to be sitting with her daily devotions and her cup of Earl Gray Tea. Your father would be in the yard sitting in his chair, watching the road, commenting about things like potholes and drought. He would be there even if the smoke from the cane fire was thick. <<if $redBoots is true>><<display "Take off boots">><</if>> <<if $blkSneak is true>><<display "Take off shoes">><</if>> <<if $slvShorts is true>><<display "Take off shorts">><</if>> <<if $turqoise is true>><<display "Take off turquoise">><</if>> <<if $lipstick is true>><<display "Wipe off lipstick">><</if>> <<timed 5s>>[[Epilogue2<-Come out.]]<</timed>>

That night you wash your face with St. Ives and everything feels right - you haven’t thought about death in years. You crawl into bed beside your partner, and they press their chin into the curve of your shoulder, their left leg over your stomach. You’re both 25. You came out to each other. Softly at first. You were both wearing [[The End<-brown slippers.]]

<<linkappend "Take off the red thigh high boots.">> <</linkappend>>

<<linkappend "Take off the black sneakers with the heart sticker.">> <</linkappend>>

<<linkappend "Take off the silver shorts (the ones that Kwame wore).">> <</linkappend>>

<<linkappend "Take off the shortened Turquoise shorts.">> <</linkappend>>

<<linkappend "Wipe off the lipstick in the mirror.">> <</linkappend>>

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