Gay in Jamaica

On the sweltering Sunday evening four days after Williamson's murder, cars begin to line the swale in front of the converted house that serves as J-FLAG's headquarters. Across the front porch on this day -- and this day alone -- billow a huge Jamaican flag and, next to it, a rainbow pride banner. The yard fills with young males in skin-tight shirts, 60-ish white-haired Brits in khakis, dyed-afro lesbians in dashikis, and more. Men openly hug, weep, and hold hands. Some wear purple roses pinned to their shirts. A few women arrive dressed in work boots, Dickies, and lumberjack shirts.

Were they to walk around downtown Kingston dressed like this, what would happen? "They would be dead in the blink of an eye, oh yes," says Julia Lowe, who also helped start J-FLAG in 1998. Framed beneath loose, short curls, Lowe's brown eyes burn with anger. "I do not walk alone on the streets," she continues. "I'm one of these people who takes six or eight people -- my security -- with me."

Nearly 200 people are gathered for Brian Williamson's memorial. An ersatz piano melody crackles through the PA as J-FLAG's Joseph Robinson begins the ceremony on a solemn, respectful note. "Today is a new day for Jamaica," he says, "a day where we can go to our parents and say, 'Hey, Mom, I'm different' and they can celebrate with it. Then we can see that Brian lived for a purpose."

The next two hours include teary tributes, exuberant Marley covers, angry poetry slams, fond remembrances, lip-synched Whitney Houston tunes, and several playings of the Princess Diana version of "Candle in the Wind." Yet when the lights go out and the opening strains of Celine Dion's "I'm Alive" calls forth drag queen Diva, the party explodes. A collective scream goes up from the crowd, with young men springing to their feet and sprinting to the front to throw hugs, kisses, and money.

After that delirious peak, Robinson again takes the mic. Everyone in the audience is given a candle to light and hoist high in the heavy night air. He quickly returns the service to the tinkling piano plateau and releases his go-in-peace sermon.

"I see the prime ministers," he intones. "I see the police force. I see nurses. I see teachers. I see your parents coming together, all standing for peace. And if you see that with me, hold up your candles and let me hear you say Brian!"

The yard thunders with a deafening chorus of "BRIAN!" A jubilant man in dark sunglasses, dressed in red slacks, a red shirt, and a red hat, takes the mic. "May your soul rest in peace, Brian!" he shouts, holding a photo of Brian aloft amid a sea of blazing candles and cheering spectators.

Hron can't help but break out in a grin so wide, his dual dimples look ready to form smiles themselves. "Most Jamaicans have no idea this exists," he remarks. "They would be absolutely appalled."

Much as they undoubtedly were when Williamson first entered national conciousness. "Most Jamaicans were scandalized that one of their own would dare admit they were gay, and all the more so when he said he was proud of it," Hron says. "Once those words came out of his mouth, he became a hero to some and a demon to others."

As the crowd trickles home or toward the darkened house where booming bass emanates from within, Hron and Byles pull together, straining to hold a conversation amid the din. Byles touches Hron on the arm accidentally, only tonight, he doesn't have to pull away and look around to see who's noticed. He moves his hand down Hron's arm, softly takes his hand in his, and holds it. For now, behind the tall hedges separating the street from the yard, they are safe.