My country, Trinidad and Tobago, is a paradise that most people don’t know about. The people who live there hail from many places: Africa, India, Pakistan, Syria, Lebanon, China, Spain, France, Germany, the Netherlands and the UK. But I was born there so I’m a Trini, which you may have guessed. Smiling and laughing is not a habit in Trinidad; it’s a way of life.
Back home the open sand, the sea, the food and the music speak to every one of your senses. It’s a place where you can never grow old. The legends and stories are true—Carnival was born there, as was oil drum music. But let me not say too much—Trinidad is a place you must experience for yourself.
I lost my father to lung cancer when I was 12—but I had a great, down-to-earth, hardworking family, who gave me the foundation to achieve anything I wanted in life.
Life changed when I came out to my grandfather and my mother aged 15. Coming out wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be—though the mental pressure I put on myself, the fear of being a disappointment, was agony. But my mother’s steadfast, calm nature and my grandfather’s wisdom centred me.
My mother and grandfather died before my 21st birthday, sending me into a downward spiral into nothingness. Not all my other relatives were as open-minded—some were unhappy with me being openly gay. Some neighbours and school friends that I had known since I was a little boy didn’t even acknowledge me.
Until 2018, same-sex intimacy was criminalised in Trinidad and Tobago—gay men could face up to 25 years in prison. After a legal challenge from an activist who had sought refuge in the UK, this law was declared unconstitutional. But most LGBTQIA+ people—especially those in poverty—continue to face harassment and violence and enjoy no legal protections against discrimination or hate crimes, which are common.
Things were rough for me financially—there were family squabbles over assets and property that deterred me from reconciling with relatives. I was homeless for two years—while going to school and working nights part-time in a supermarket, I slept in a savannah under a pink poui tree. I used public standpipes for water, and washrooms to shower and do my laundry. But I didn’t let it stop me getting my education—I had made a promise to my parents and my grandfather.
I graduated from college and attended university, obtaining distinctions in sociology and literature. I got myself a self-contained apartment and an upgrade in job. I thought that things were getting better and, for a time, they were. But when you shine, there are people who want to block you out like an eclipse.
I was forced to leave several jobs due to discrimination. I was sacked from jobs because the religious beliefs of other folks meant they disliked my so-called “lifestyle.”
Hate is a virus, and it infected every aspect of my social and private life: from being warned by landlords not to have any men over to my flat, to being evicted because of the homophobia of the other tenants. I kept my socialising to a minimum with a very small circle of friends and often had arguments with those who didn’t accept my sexuality.
In 2012, I was stabbed in a homophobic attack. I am relieved that I survived; I have attended so many funerals for friends who weren’t so lucky. But it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I lay there in hospital, looking at the ceiling, and all I felt was a wave of emotion building in me. I burst into tears.
Would this always be my life: moving from post to post, never settling down, always looking over my shoulder? Accepted by few, hated by many, I couldn’t live like this. Right there and then I made the decision to be myself. I knew I would have to leave my sweet Trinidad to be free.
It took a year of scrimping and saving and help from friends to save up the money I needed to make the journey to the UK. I made one last visit to my parents’ and grandfather’s graves before getting on a plane that same day, 4th June 2014.
I was in knots the entire flight—I couldn’t sleep a wink. Then a memory popped into my head of a conversation with my grandfather. He said: “Life’s like a river, Jason—you have to let the river take its course.” His words have comforted me ever since.
On arrival at Gatwick it was a downpour of emotions from excitement to fear, but most of all I felt safe in a way I hadn’t for a long time. Arriving in the UK gave me back a sense of freedom I had lost, for which I will be forever grateful. And I’m not going to let anyone take it away from me again without a fight.
