Kingston, Jamaica: Kid Gloves (cont.)

She was too stubborn to leave Kingston when they did.  Now she wishes she had.  She asks, "You write them a letter?  Tell them to come for me.  Tell them to come for me at once." 

I tell her, "Sure." 

Her missive consists of pleas to her family to send for her, to take her away from this awful place of waiting--waiting for death or some form of hope to seduce her onward.  She gives me their address on an envelope, but it only says their name and Philadelphia, PA on it.  I ask if this is the complete address, and she emphatically shakes her head. 

I promise to mail it. 

Father Ted, the leader of our trip, comes by with his camera and starts snapping pictures of us.  It feels awkward and exploitative.  But Sylvia surprises me; she wants a picture for herself.   So she places her arm around me, and we pose. 

I notice Sylvia’s feet are dry and scaly; so I offer her a foot massage.  She pulls up her dress so that it rests on her upper thighs.  I sit cross-legged at her feet and begin to apply the lotion.  This time I’m not using gloves, and her skin feels cool to my touch.  Her legs are encased in rolls of fat.  Beneath and between the rolls is dried skin that looks like cottage cheese.  I’m disgusted, but the pleasurable look on her face pushes me past my aversion.  She implores that I rub her upper thighs, arms, and hands with lotion.  As I finish, a woman across from us asks if I will give her a rub too.  Sylvia stops me before I leave and says, "Your hands are your greatest gift.  Use them wisely." I pause, squeeze her hand, and smile. 

I’m less threatened by touch, more at ease.

The woman who asked for a rub is dying of A.I.D.S.  She has closed sores all over her body; the sores make her look like she has fallen multiple times and scraped her knees and legs. She is ghostly thin, wasting away.  Her name is Sadie.  I wonder if I need gloves.  Her wounds look scabbed over; and my hands do not have cuts on them; so I should be safe.  But I am not convinced.  Then I look at her face and see her delight that someone is willing to touch her, and decide against the latex. 

I sit down at her feet and spread lotion up and down her legs.  I wonder if it hurts her sores to have lotion on them, but most of her sores are crusted over, and she doesn’t flinch.  As my hands massage her, she recites over and over Psalm 23:

The Lord is my Shepherd I shall not want. He makes me lie down in Green Pastures; He leads me beside still waters; The Lord is my Shepard I shall not want…. 

I’m rubbing Sadie’s bone thin legs, such a stark contrast to Sylvia’s.  I finish blending the creamy white lotion into her dark Jamaican skin and stand up.  My hands feel soft, smooth.  She thanks me and hugs me repeatedly. Amid so much death I feel helpless; yet human touch seems to be working modest miracles.

Later on the trip, I have the opportunity to ask our Jamaican host, Peter Stewart,

"What’s a Jake?"

He laughs.  "Yousee, a Jake is a white person from the states."

"Why Jakes?"

"Because of your soaps,"  He says.

"What?"

"For a long time all your soap operas that we get over here on cable have Jakes in them.  People thought that was what you named men, and the term Jake stuck for all Americans."

I think about the disdain in the boy’s voice and the oppressive nature of foreign tourism that keep tourists from meeting local Jamaicans, from eating at their restaurants, from contributing to their economy.  These resorts keep Jamaicans servants on a modern day plantation. They keep us safe, but I wonder how safe any of us are when we keep protective layers on to shield ourselves from human touch?

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