Losing James

by Gail Marlene Schwartz

February 26th

I am sitting on the balcony of the “Radiance of the Seas,” drinking fizzy water while a warm breeze grazes my neck. I am reading Women and Madness by Phyllis Chesler.

I find myself, queer activist and artist, on a cruise.

Dad gathers us together for lunch, our first meal on the ship. He’s thrilled to have his four children with him on a cruise, his favorite way to vacation. I had voiced my concerns in September
and proposed we rent a house somewhere close by instead. But Dad was set on the cruise. Eventually I yielded to my value of family togetherness. During this first meal, I wonder if I’ve made a huge mistake.

February 27th

I am still feeling dazed and out of place, and I try to climb out of my dark mood. My fifteen-year-old sister Kate and I are on a schooner destined for Turtle Cove for snorkeling. I’m stunned when I realize that here, too, on this small boat, there is piped-in music, a non-stop soundtrack that follows you from the bathroom to the dining room to the pool and beyond. Our tanned excursion leader talks to us through a microphone, his speech peppered with words like “guys,” “awesome,” “party.” I calculate: fifty percent of his banter is about alcohol. I’m yearning to know the history of St. Thomas, details of the ecosystem we’re about to explore, the names of some species of fish and coral we might see. In all fairness, he does mention the yellow snapper and tells us to beware of the black spiky thing that will give us splinters if we get too close. I dive in and despite a leaky mask, I’m happy in the water as I gaze at brightly striped yellow and aqua fish, occasionally feeling the smoothness of their skin brush up against mine.

February 28th

Dinner is “formal night,” the first of two. I wear a tux and am, happily, mistaken for a boy twice. Here, it is easy for me to feel subversive, and I get an ego rush because of it. I tell myself, notice. Just notice. Now on the balcony, I’m looking at the foamy wake, at stars peeking out from savage black clouds, at the translucent curtain dancing to and fro in our stateroom. I’m alone and breathing with beautiful Mother Nature. I feel a pure moment in this connection and find vitality inside my lungs with each breath of sea air.

How do I locate and embrace my responsibility?

March 1st

I wake up with child-like excitement. Today we’ve signed up to swim with dolphins in port. All my life I’ve been intrigued by these beings and the metaphysical connections I’ve read about between our species and theirs. We climb a bus and are taken to Dolphin Sea. When we arrive, I instantly feel a sharp stitch in my stomach. The lagoon these creatures are “kept” in is sizeable, but still a cage. When I ask where the dolphins came from, the trainer uses the word “captured” and does not indicate that the animals had been sick and rescued. We get in the water and I quickly realize that our movements as well as the dolphins’ are carefully choreographed. Swim here! Put your hands this way! Rub his back! Kiss him for the photographer! There is no metaphysical connection between the dolphin and I like what I read about as a girl. Of course not. Neither the dolphin nor I was free. I fall asleep that night and dream about domestication.

March 2nd

Back on the ship, I’ve managed to escape the piped in music, the drunken squeals and the bings and beeps from the casino. I lounge on the chaise on our balcony and write about power before dinner. The wind and waves spit and groan, and I realize that even without the human-initiated noise, there is very little quiet on the ship. The ocean murmurs, purrs and roars.

March 3rd

The waiters sing Italian songs for us tonight, and I travel halfway down the path of deconstruction before I find myself clapping, laughing, and joining in the fun. I notice the dark skin of the service staff and the white skin of the passengers. I choose not to leave, though part of me wants to run away; I wonder if my presence might alter the familiar oppressive scene in some small humanistic way.

During dinner, we engage Hattan, our Turkish headwaiter, in conversation. We inquire about labor conditions on the ship. And even though he is balanced in his report, I get that it’s hard. Twelve hour shifts. Seven day work weeks. No retirement or worker’s compensation. No health insurance. No union protection. Globalization at its finest. My father says he isn’t sympathetic because ship work, as he sees it, does not occur under “slave labor conditions,” and the employees get to travel and obtain experience that prepares them for other jobs. I think he is missing the point. Hattan says he is also happy to travel and that the work has its advantages–and, he knows what he is signing up for. But I also think that isn’t the point.

March 4th

My sister and I arrive late to dinner. We are busy building a surprise for our cabin steward, James, who has been leaving us towel sculptures, hanging monkeys wearing Kate’s sunglasses, a turtle on my bed, fanciful Zen-like creatures thoughtfully handcrafted. What could we do for him? Kate suggests a life-sized stuffed person. Soon we’re frantically grabbing jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, a white terrycloth towel covered with pantyhose for the face. I place an orange lifejacket on her head and prop “Women and Madness” between her stuffed gloved hands. We christen her Marina and skip off to supper, giggling.

After dinner I walk back to my cabin to write, and run into James, who is making up the room next door. He is all smiles and tells me the story of finding Marina. We launch into an hour-long conversation about Goa, where he is from, and I learn about the Portuguese state, its twenty-year history as part of India and the persecution of Catholics. He suggests going into an empty stateroom to finish the conversation. I wonder out loud if this is a good idea, and he assures me there’s no problem.

James and I sit in that stateroom and talk. And talk. We drink the bottled water in the refrigerator, and I use the bathroom twice. James reveals the source of his broken heart: a Muslim woman whose father forbade her to become involved with James because he is Catholic. He talks about the difficulty of the work on the ship, and I listen. He says he has one friend, the only other man from Goa. He tells me he hasn’t had any real conversations for five months. He is shocked when I tell him I’m lesbian, saying he has never met a gay person. I talk about my life, my friends, my art, my Vermont community. Our conversation feels bursting with hope.

For those four hours we are joined in communion, Goan stateroom attendant and queer Vermont artist, creating something sharp and volatile and fertile. Perhaps the energy from that stateroom reverberated outwards, shooting past the walls of the ship, bursting into the seas and soaring into the sky.

March 5th

Things shatter.

James is immediately removed from our floor and forbidden from having any contact with me. I become hysterical. My father and I demand to see the staff captain. I embody the role of the rich white Daddy’s girl, aware that I need to play any card that might help save James. I learn there are hidden “security” cameras in the hallways that recorded our entering and leaving the empty stateroom. I take full responsibility but it does not help. I send James notes via various friends on the staff and write a letter of support for his “investigation,” hoping it will prevent James from being fired. My head is throbbing. I go back to my stateroom, drink my first glass of wine in six months, and try to sleep.

I walk off the ship without a trace of James.

Afterward

I finally receive an e-mail from James saying he was fired on the spot the day he was removed from our floor. He asks if he can call me. We plan a time, but I don’t hear from him. He does not leave me a phone number. I contact every lawyer friend I know and the author of a critique of the cruise industry, a book called Cruise Ship Blues. I’m ready to help him, but we cannot make contact.

I sit on my porch in Montpelier, notebook and pen in hand, breathing in the sun and watching my five-year-old neighbor draw with chalk on her driveway. I’m finishing “Women and Madness” and I take cryptic notes. My father and siblings are getting together in the evening to exchange photographs and reminisce about the cruise. I decided to stay home. I have not developed my own pictures, which include shots of James and Marina and the ocean and Kate and I, dressed for formal night.

I write down “responsibility” and “action” and go inside my apartment to cook.