by Scott Marchack

 Having grown up in Trinidad, I have come to understand it as a postcolonial society where there is limited but an increasing understanding and acceptance of gender and sexuality. Here, I reflect on identifying as LGBT+ within an educational system informed by religious doctrine and its cumulative impact on mental well-being.

In the Caribbean region, education and religion historically have been closely intertwined. During the colonial era, education was a privilege only afforded to the white planter class; eventually British missionaries began giving oral instruction to the enslaved population about Christian doctrines. In the post-emancipation period (1834 onwards), denominational schools served as a mechanism to reinforce race and class divisions. Religious institutions (Christianity in particular) and education created an intersecting space in which to socialize young people into a certain sexuality and prescriptive gender identities. In Trinidad, religious schools in particular remain revered by many parents because they are run by religious boards rather than the State. Seen as more prestigious, parents celebrate when their child is accepted.

As an openly queer person, my experience in secondary school challenging and was filled with significant mental and emotional trauma. This was due, in part, to the struggles I faced coming to terms with my sexual orientation which contrasted with Judeo-Christian beliefs about sexuality and gender. Perceived as “deviant,” I was constantly told that God and the rest of the society condemned me. Imagine living in fear and shame for feeling attracted to the same sex although it feels natural. Imagine praying every day to just be “normal.” Imagine the mental toll this takes not only as a queer person, but as a male pressured to uphold notions of traditional masculinity where boys are taught to be aggressive, tough and to suppress their emotions. These messages were communicated in the school yard, in popular genres of music like Jamaican Reggae and Dancehall which hold homophobic and sexist undertones. For example, Buju Banton’s popular song “Boom Bye Bye” promotes the murder of homosexual men. Now imagine daring to let your walls down and to just be yourself. The privileged educational opportunity that you and your parents had celebrated? It now devalued and punished you. 

This was my experience when I posted photos of me and my then boyfriend, which subsequently led to my “coming out.” A simple display of affection would almost cost me my educational opportunity. After applying for the continuation of my final two years at secondary school, I waited while many of my peers received phone calls of acceptance. Eventually, my mother would call the school to inquire, only for my parents and I to be called to meet with the school principal and two of the school’s deans. I was told to be careful about what I posted online and think about how my online activity reflected on the school and my peers. I interpreted this to mean, “We can’t have an openly queer male in an all-boys Catholic school. Your queerness makes your peers very uncomfortable.” Discrimination and structural violence were coded as a concern for discussion of social media (ir)responsibility. After apologizing and vowing to never do it again, I was then told the science subjects I wished to take were filled to capacity and that my grades did not make the cut. I later found that some of my peers who received similar or even lower grades were granted access.

Attitudes of The State Towards Sexual Minorities

My experience is not an isolated one. In “Charting a Buller Man’s Trinidadian Past” (buller man is a derogatory term referring to men who have sex with other men), Wesley Crichlow argues that community members who object to same-sex relationships often make use of religious discourse as a way to condemn these as “sinful” and “immoral.” In a study on religious attitudes towards HIV/AIDS, participants described homosexual persons as “sickening” and in need of “redemption.” This type of terminology echoes through post-colonial religion but also legislation. For instance, the Immigration Act of Trinidad and Tobago prohibits homosexual persons from entering the country and describes them as having “immoral purposes.” This demonstrates how religion shapes the heteropatriarchal values within state institutions and likewise filters into educational systems, posing inequalities for those who do not subscribe to these beliefs. 

Research on the psychological state of sexual minorities is lacking within Trinidad and Tobago and usually has been conducted by a handful of non-government and non-profit organizations. A 2010 study in neighboring Jamaica found that the prevalence of negative attitudes towards sexual minorities had implications for mental health. Sexual minorities were found to be at a higher risk for major depression and substance abuse as a result of homophobic attacks and negative family relations. This demonstrates the severe impact homophobic culture can have and should be a call to action for both an institutional and cultural reform. In 2018, Decides TT, a project aimed at combatting gender based violence and LGBT+ discrimination in Trinidad and Tobago published a report that intended to “collect data and relevant information to accurately portrait the current situation, while developing a methodology that can be a model for future research and training of local researchers.” However,  it was not specific to mental health.

At the time, I did not know what I wanted for myself beyond access to this privileged educational space nor did I have the will to contest the system. Instead, I suppressed a part of my identity and responded complacently to this discrimination. Now, four years later, I am equipped to critically analyze this experience from a gendered perspective. Now, I understand clearly and viscerally that the colonial past of the Caribbean echoes in structures as fundamental as education. If we do not learn to recognize and address these biases, we are destined to hinder the life chances of young people like me.

 About the author

Scott Marchack is an activist and aspiring mental health practitioner with an interest in the intersections of gender, sexuality and mental health. He is an undergraduate student at the University of the West Indies and writes a blog called The Psychtivist.