Author: Peter George Smith

Remembering Hurricane Gilbert: A Story of Loss and Unity

It was Sunday afternoon, September 11, 1988. I remember it as though it were yesterday. I was sitting at home in Kingston, watching television. A typical quiet Sunday with no sense that anything was about to change. A neighbor stopped by, on the way from church, and there was something different in her voice. She said she had passed a long line at the shop down the road, people stocking up on food, water, and supplies. Curious, she had asked what was happening, and the answer startled her: a hurricane was coming. That was the first I heard of it. I hadn’t caught a whisper of warning before then. Only after she said it did I switch on the radio, and there it was, urgent and unrelenting. Hurricane Gilbert was approaching Jamaica. I scrambled to prepare, buying what I could. Canned and dry food. Candles and batteries for the flashlights. I did not have bottled water back in the day, so I filled all the containers I had, both for drinking and for domestic activities. Bathing and washing. Would I be prepared enough? It seemed Gilbert was shaping up to be a serious one.

The next day, Monday, September 12, around midday, Gilbert arrived. At first, it was hardly impressive. Just a whimper of wind against the house. A kind of restless breeze that made me wonder if the warnings were exaggerated. But soon, the storm began to build. The wooden louvres downstairs started flexing in and out as though they were breathing. Through the crack of the door, I saw tall trees bending, swaying, and then snapping like matchsticks. The sound of it stays with me even now: wood breaking, zinc screeching, the howl of a wind that seemed determined to tear everything down. Gilbert came ashore with sustained winds of over 125 miles per hour, a Category 3 hurricane, and unlike some other storms that brush one corner of the island now and again, this one crossed the entire length of Jamaica. The eye carved a path from east to west, leaving no parish untouched.

The storm raged for what felt like hours, though I suppose it was only two or so. Then came a sudden stillness. The winds dropped, the rain stopped, and the world outside was strangely a dull kind of bright. I stepped out into the eye of the storm, bolstered the door and windows again, and walked out from Wiggan Loop down Barbican Road. Neighbors were all milling around. Already, roofs were gone. Houses torn open. Trees scattered across the road. And even in the midst of it, Jamaicans found a way to laugh. We joked about the shiny cars sitting in open garages where the roofs had vanished, cars polished and gleaming but now utterly exposed. It was absurd, and maybe laughter was our way of keeping fear at bay. Crying would have done nothing to stop the storm. But the calm was only temporary. Slowly, the winds began to stir again, this time from the opposite direction, and before long, the second half of Gilbert was upon us. Stronger, fiercer, more brutal than before, the storm howled through the night. Zinc sheets became blades, slicing through the sky. Trees that had survived the first battering toppled under the second. The windows battled against the force of the wind, and I held my breath, waiting for the storm to pass.

By morning, Jamaica was a different place. When I stepped outside, the air itself felt sharper, and the light seemed almost too bright. With so many trees gone, the sky poured down unfiltered, and from my vantage point, it was like I could see clear toward downtown Kingston if I looked hard enough. But, in all, it was a view I had never had before. People wandered the streets in disbelief, greeting neighbors, surveying the damage. Gilbert left behind destruction on a scale few had ever seen. Almost 50 Jamaicans had lost their lives. Entire communities were flattened, banana fields destroyed, coconut groves and sugar crops wiped out. The official figures would later say the damage in Jamaica alone exceeded millions of dollars, but the real cost was written in grief, in broken homes, in lives forever changed.

Survival in the days afterward was its own battle. There was no electricity, no running water, no phones. I lived on canned food, growing tired of the taste but knowing it was all I had. I nursed the water I had, hoping not to run out of it too quickly, for fear of not easily finding fresh supplies. The roads were blocked, so I had no way to reach my family in St. Thomas. For three long days, I knew nothing. Only waiting and wondering if they were alive. But I had faith. At last, a high school friend who had made it through Yallahs into Morant Bay carried the news that I needed. My parents, brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews were all safe, it seemed. Relief flooded through me. But joy was tempered by loss. My maternal grandmother, who lived alone in Kingston, never came back after Gilbert. She hadn’t gone to St. Thomas or to a sister who also lived in Kingston. And none of her church sisters had seen her. Thirty-seven years later, we still don’t know exactly what happened to her.

The irony is bitter. My grandmother had survived another hurricane exactly 37 years before Gilbert. Hurricane Charlie, which hit Jamaica in 1951, was one that I grew up hearing about. How devasting it was. At that time, my mother had two infant sons, my eldest siblings, and all four of them lived together in a small wooden house in Kingston. My mother told me that when the wind started to pick up, she clutched the children and stepped out into the storm to find shelter, as she feared the walls of the little house were going to buckle. At first, her mother had refused to leave, but she followed her and the kids, stumbling through the howling wind and pounding rain, until they found shelter. By the next morning, their house was flattened. But she and the kids survived. Her mother, my grandmother, survived, too. Yet, 37 years later, almost to the day, Gilbert took my grandmother. I remember watching my mother one day, a few short years afterward, staring into the distance, a single tear slipping down her cheek. When I asked what was wrong, she softly whispered that she was thinking about her mother. I feel she carried that grief until her death in 1994, six years after Gilbert, and I believe she left this world with a broken heart. But I also believe that somewhere beyond the reach of storms, they are reunited, together again.

What stays with me about Gilbert is not only the devastation but the spirit of the people who endured it. We laughed in the face of flying zinc and fallen trees, because laughter was our shield. We shared what we had when supplies were scarce, because community was the only way through. Gilbert was a storm that stripped Jamaica bare, but it also revealed our resilience. Thirty-seven years later, I can still hear the winds in my mind, still see the brightness of that first morning after. Still remember the silence of waiting for news. Gilbert is more than a memory of destruction; it is a reminder of how fragile life is, how much family means, and how Jamaicans, no matter what comes, always find a way to endure. And a constant reminder of my grandmother.

Love at Second Sight – A Story at 30,000 Feet

Early one weekday morning, I boarded a flight in Miami bound for Boston. Like most early-morning travelers, I wasn’t expecting much more than a quiet ride, perhaps a bit of reading or catching up on work before landing. But sometimes, life has a way of surprising you, even in the narrow aisle of an airplane.

As I approached my row, I noticed a lady struggling to lift her carry-on bag into the overhead compartment. Instinctively, I reached out, grabbed hold of the suitcase, and placed it securely above. She gave me a grateful smile and a soft “thank you.” I nodded and slid into my aisle seat.

From the window, an older gentleman greeted me with a warm smile and a cheerful, “Good morning.” Maybe he had seen me help the lady, or maybe he was just one of those people whose warmth is natural and unforced. Either way, I returned the greeting. And, true to my Jamaican nuffness, that boldness that makes striking up conversations with strangers second nature, I asked, “Heading home?”

Love lost and found

“Yes,” he replied. Then he added something that caught me off guard: “My wife lives in Miami, but I live in Boston.”

I must have looked puzzled because he quickly explained, “I visit her about three times a month.” That didn’t exactly make things clearer, but before I could press, he leaned back and began to tell me a story, one that sounded like it belonged in Hollywood rather than in airplane small talk.

More than forty years earlier, just outside of Boston, he and his now-wife were high school sweethearts. Young, in love, full of dreams. But standing in their way was her mother. She wanted another man for her daughter and despised the young boy her daughter had chosen. She did everything she could to break them apart, and eventually, she succeeded.

The two drifted apart after graduation, and life swept them along different paths.

Timing is everything

Four decades later, in the summer of 2016, his brother called with news: “Guess who I just ran into here in Boston?”

It was her, his high school sweetheart. She had returned after the recent death of her mother, carrying her ashes back to Boston. The irony wasn’t lost on him; the very person who had torn them apart in their youth was now gone. The obstacle had vanished.

When they met again, the years melted away. The butterflies he thought had long since died were only asleep, waiting for the right moment to stir. Their connection was instant, and the butterflies stirred and started fluttering again. A few weeks later, on July 4, 2016, Independence Day, they married.

Now, he explained, he was in the process of sorting out his affairs in Boston to move permanently to Miami and live with his wife. In the meantime, he made the trip back and forth several times a month.

Reflections on second chances

As the plane took off, I sat back, struck by what I had just heard. Here was proof that love doesn’t always follow a straight path. Sometimes, it detours through decades of separation only to return when the timing is right.

Fate, coincidence, divine intervention, or whatever you call it, something had conspired to bring them back together. Their story reminded me that life is full of second chances. The first chapter might not end the way we hoped, but that doesn’t mean the story is over.

Sometimes, the people and the dreams we thought we had lost return, different, matured by time, but still carrying the spark that first lit our hearts. And maybe that’s the most beautiful kind of love: the one that survives distance, disapproval, and decades, only to emerge stronger when given another chance.



Legacy of Sharing: From Plantation to Community

I grew up in rural Jamaica during the late 1960s and ’70s. In a small district in the eastern parish of St. Thomas named Norris, part of the larger Yallahs area. In Norris and the surrounding neighborhoods like Heartease, Woodbourne, Easington, and Gutter Head, life was measured in small things. How early the roosters crowed and drove us out of our slumber, heralding the start of the day. The sound of rain on zinc roofs that made us sleep like babies, unless your roof leaked and the first cold drip would jolt you out of your dream, and you would jump up, shift the bed, and put pots from the kitchen on the floor to catch the water. And the smell of Sunday dinners floating from houses up and down the neighborhood. Individually, as families, we generally didn’t have much. But, looking back, I realize we had something powerful: a way of communal living that was stitched together, as neighbors, by sharing whatever we had, no matter how small, which made things work for everyone. Life was beautiful.

Back then, farmers coming down from the hills above Windsor Castle, which we called “Mountn,” used to pass our house early on Saturday mornings, donkeys with hampers swaying and slapping their sides in syncopated rhythm under the weight of freshly dug yams and sweet potatoes, bundles of callaloo, plantains, pumpkins and bananas. They were headed to Easington Market, located at the foot of the road that led up to my primary school, to sell their goods. Without fail, one would slow their pace, call out to my mother, “Miss Lil, bring wan basket come!” And when she did, they would place some of the produce in it. No charge. That wasn’t charity. That was life. That was custom.

During the week, moms would prepare dinner from anything they had available, no matter how simple, so long as it filled our bellies. But Sundays were a ritual of their own. That was when families splurged, even if it meant counting the pennies. The dinner would start the night before. Soaking the peas for the rice and peas. Grating and juicing coconuts by hand for the coconut milk that would be added to it. Seasoning the goat, or chicken, or beef with fresh herbs and spices. Then, while preparing breakfast, my mother, and all mothers for that matter, would set dinner pots bubbling and simmering on the kerosene stove or charcoal or wood fire with succulent goodness inside, adding flavor to the morning air, straight into mid-afternoon. And then the sharing began. Across wooden and barbed-wire fences and hedges, plates of food would pass. Just a little of what we had, shared because that’s what my people in Norris did. It wasn’t planned or owed. It was part of the rhythm of life.

In Norris, the true spirit of community shone bright in times of need. When a neighbor fell ill and couldn’t manage on their own, the entire district would respond with quiet compassion and swift action. They prepared meals without hesitation. They cleaned the house. They took clothes to Collier’s Spring or to Yallahs River in wash pans balanced on their head to be washed and dried on stones under the sun, then folded neatly and returned. It wasn’t about who had the most, but who gave the most from what little they had. In these moments, the bonds of kinship stretched far beyond blood, as each person became a part of a wider family, showing that in Jamaican rural life, the welfare of one was the concern of all.

It was only much later in my life that I realized that this deeply communal way of living didn’t just come out of rural Jamaican culture. It was something older, deeper. It was a survival blueprint handed down from our enslaved ancestors.

Back on the plantations, enslaved Africans had nothing. No property, no independence, and often no family that wasn’t ripped apart by force. But they had each other. And they found ways to survive. Together.

They created informal economies long before the term existed. They grew food on their little plots of assigned land. Under harsh conditions. And they shared their harvests. They passed down recipes and healing herbs and mothered each other’s children when biological mothers couldn’t. They sang in harmony to keep each other sane, whispered hope between rows of sugarcane, and used the smallest gestures to keep each other’s spirits going. Hiding a piece of stolen saltish and sharing it under the quiet freedom of nightfall. Simple acts of resistance, but of survival too.

What I lived as a child was the echo of all of that.

When my mother gave away mangoes or coconuts from our trees without thinking twice, she was carrying on the tradition of provision ground generosity. Plantation-born and community-preserved. When my neighbors came together to help pay for a funeral or gather around a sick family, they were continuing a pattern first formed when enslaved people pooled what they had. Time, skill, or small change, to look after their own when no one else would.

The idea that “we’re in this together” wasn’t a slogan in Norris. It was just how we lived. And I truly believe that mindset was a direct inheritance from a time when survival depended not on individual wealth, but on collective strength.

Even today, I see it in Jamaican and Caribbean communities near and far. In the way we “throw partner” in Jamaica, or “asue” in Haiti to help each other save. In the way someone might cook a pot of soup or bake a sweet potato pudding and bring some over without being asked. In how we help raise each other’s children, how we gather for nine nights and lend a hand at weddings, baptisms, or when the roof starts leaking. Even on the scale of the whole neighborhood of farmers giving a day’s work, free, to help one farmer till his soil and plant his crops, which is then reciprocated until all farms are in production. These aren’t coincidences. They’re cultural memory at work.

We may have left the plantations long ago, but the survival strategies born in that crucible live on in how we treat one another in rural Jamaica, with generosity, with dignity, and with the instinct to care.

So,  when I think about the men on the road with their donkeys, or the women passing plates over fences, or the children running between yards like family, it’s clear to me now: they weren’t just kind people. They were part of a much larger story. One that began in pain but grew into something beautiful. Because even now, after centuries, we understand something essential: we’re still in the same boat. And that boat floats on the kindness, resilience, and shared spirit of those who came before us.

Mii an Mailo (Me and Milo – translated into Jamaican)

Mi son av a daag we niem Mailo. Wahn man daag. Wi adap im fram wahn reskyu plies dong a Maiyami fram im did a wahn likl popi. Im did av wahn neks niem wen wi did get im, bot wi disaid fi giim wahn nyuu wan. Wel, chuu se wi kom fram Jamieka, wi se wi hafi pik wahn niem we rimain wi bout di ailan. Widout blingk iivn wan sekan, mi son lik out, “Mailo!” Miebi im memba di taim dem we im spen a Jamieka, espeshali wen im did likl-bit. So nou aal a unu we nuo Mailo, ar nuo bout im, nuo wa mek im niem Mailo insted a im bort niem Orayan.

Fram mi son likl-bit, im aalwiez se im waahn daag. Bot mi an mi waif ezitiet kaazn se im did yong yong, an wi did nuo se a wii did a go en op a luk aafta di daag if im get wan. Plos wi neva av no dizaiya fi tek kier a no daag. So, wi neva pie im moch main, aalduo wi did kiip it ina di bak a wi main. We paat mi kom fram, wahn plies niem Sen Tamas ina Jamieka, ina wahn likl dischrik niem Naris, daag a neva riili sinting wi did anz an glov. A no laik ou mi si di piipl dem du ya ina farin. Ina mi Naris bush, daag kudn iivn kom pan di veranda, moch muor ina di ous. Bot farin chienj wi so moch somtaim.

Sins wi a taak bout ou farin chienj wi an daag ina di siem briiz, mi memba wahn tuori wahn Jamiekan liedi wi miit ya a Flarida ierz ago tel wi. Shi se wen shi jos kom a Flarida fram Jamieka, shi yuuz tu work wid wahn fambili az wahn liv-iin elpa. Di piipl dem chriit ar gud. Dem did av a daag we dem triit laik dem pikni. Chuu shi kom fram Jamieka shi kudn andastan wa mek. Daag bied. Daag iit gud fuud. Daag gaa dakta. Daag get waak-out. Bot, muor dan evriting els, daag liv ina di ous! Eniou, fi kot a lang tuori shaat, shi se di fambili go pan vakieshan wahn taim an aks ar fi tan a di ous fi tek kier a di daag. Wel, jab a jab, an shi did niid di moni. Plos, laik mi se, di piipl dem triit ar gud-gud.

So, shi tan wid di daag. Miebi yu kyaahn kaal it se shi ton di daag sita. Shi se di fos nait shi wel a mek midnait ina di bed wen aal pan a sodn shi fiil sopm a muuv gens ar an shi jomp op, fraitn. Wen shi tek a stak, a did di daag! Im kom iina ar ruum an jomp iina di bed wid ar! It look laik se a dat im did yuus tu. Shi se di fors ting we kom a ar main a did fi kik im out. Bot den, a piis a piti staat wash ar. Di daag did alwies frenli tu ar an neva baak afta ar. Aalwies a wag im tiel wen im si ar an ron op tu ar. Plos im kliin, an aal brosh tiit. So, neks ting shi nuo, shi pul kova an kova shii an di daag, an di tuu a dem go sliip saida wananeda. So, unu si ou farin kyahn chienj piipl?

So, bak to Misa Mailo. Wi giv iin tu wi son iina di en an get im. Wi draiv go dong a di daag shelta dong a Maiyami wahn Satde maanin. Wi did eksaitid bot a kuestian wiself di siem taim. Wi eksaitid caazn se mi an mi waif fainali agrii se miebi if wi get di daag it wuda elp wi son lorn likl disiplin. Bot wi did stil a wanda if wi did a du di rait ting an mek di rait disizhan. Eniwie, wen wi riich, wi eksplien tu di nais uman ina di afis a wa wi kom fi du. Shi sen wi fi go ina di bak we dem av di kenel-dem so dat wi kuda chuuz eni popi we wi laik. Imagin se di fors popi we mi son si, im se dat a di wan im waahn! Mi tel im fi go chuu an luk pan di res bifuo im disaid. Miebi im wuda si a neks wan we im prefa muor. Bot im se noo, dat dat a di wan we im waahn. So Orayan, we a did im niem befuor Mailo, did a di wan. Wi chek im piepa-dem, mek shuor se evriting gud, sain op fi ton im gyaadian, an kyar im uom.

So, yu tingk se Mailo a fi mi son aluon nou? If yu tink so, yu a luuz yu main. Mi shuor se yu alwiez ier se daag a man bes fren. A uu fiil it nuo it. Wi get fi fiil it, so wi nuo it. Wi get so atach to im dat mi an mi waif kliem uonaship tu! At liis fi di benifit-dem, bot nat fi di trobl fi afi waak im or fiid im wen im raitful uona figat. Mek mi tel yu bout di benifit-dem, caazn se Mailo a wan fren wid nof benifit.

Mailo gi mi a vaibz we mek mi fiil gud. No mata if mi fiil dong, or mi a fret bout notn, or eni ada kaina bad wie, mi ongl afi luk pan im an it mek mi fiil gud ina mi main. Mi no ongl fiil gud ina mi main, it put wahn smail pan mi fies tu. Im av a wie fi aalwiez kom tu mi an put im ed ina mi lap an a wag im tiel, an sen di komfat rait ina mi main. Im av wahn neks stail we im aida sidong or lai dong fronta mi an gi mi wahn luk we sad an afekshanet di siem taim, wid im big blak an wait yai-dem we so brait an shain dat dem melt mi aat. Mi neva nuo, nat ina mi waildes driim, se wahn daag kuda du mi dis!

Wen mi kom uom fram work, iz laik im smel di kyar fram mi draiv chuu di front giet a di kompleks we mi liv an, askaadn tu mi waif, im kwik taim go sidong a di duor. Bai di taim mi riich an put di kii ina di lak, mi ier im a baak uol-iip. Wen mi go iin, im jomp op pan mi ar go bitwiin mi fut dem, wid im tiel a wag laik Mis Mieri tong wen shi a chat tu di nieba-dem. Iz laik se im a se mi lef im fi di uol die an im jos api fi si mi. An a di siem ting fi mi. Mi luk faawod fi siim evri taim wen die don.

Bot a no ongl mi aalwiez mis Mailo. Mi son an mi waif go chruu di siem ting. Somtaim di chrii a wi go we tugeda, yuujali pan vakieshan outa di konchri, an so wi afi buod im out. Wi aalwiez lef im wid di muos wandaful kopl we av waahn gud daag-kiipin sorvis. Dem sen wi pikcha kopl taim evri die wid im an di ada daag-dem a plie, iit, or a snogl op wid dem ina wahn kouch. Iivn duo wi get di pikcha-dem wi stil mis im. So, somtaim wen wi kom bak uom liet ina di nait, an iivn duo wi alwiez mek arienjment fi pik im op di falarin die wen taim dat apm, iz laik se wi waahn go striet fi im di muoment wi lef Maiami Ierpuot. Iz laik se wi kyaahn wiet fi siim.

Bot duo it abvios se Mailo lov di chrii a wi jos laik ow wi lov im, somtaim im no laayal ataal! Nat dat im no laayal to di chrii a wi, bot ongl nat tu mi an mi waif, kaaz im kori-fieva bad tuwaad im raitful uona. Im wuda de-de a jomp an praans roun wid mi, di tuu a wi a av nais taim tugeda, bot di muoment mi son apier, im lef mi kwik taim an rosh towaad im. Im av a naasti stail fi dis mi jos so! Somtaim mi fiil laik fi kos. An wen yu tingk se mi a di wan we alwiez a luk out fi im an a du eniting im waahn wen mi waif an mi son strik pan im. Mek mi gi unu som egzampl a wa mi miin:

Mailo ban fram go eniwe ina di kichin. Im kyahn go ina eni ada ruum dongstiers, bot di kichin aaf-limit. Enitaim mi waif ar mi son ina di kichin, im wi go rait op a di edj an strech im ed an luk iin. Iz laik wahn lain draa pan di fluor we ongl im kyahn si bot kyaahn craas. Bot, ges wa? If mi de ina di kichin aluon, im struol iin kuul-kuul an a snif pan di fluor fi si if notn drap we im kyahn iit, ar a luk pan mi a uop se mi av som kaina triit fi giim. Bot if im eva ier mi waif ar mi son futstep a kom, wan spring im spring outa di kichin! Dopi nuo uu fi fraitn indiid! Mi waif an son aalwiez komplien se mi spwail im, an a chruu. Chruu to di paint we iz laik im waahn fi kantruol mi laif nou an diktiet tu mi. Im tek chaaj a mi nou, a chrai mek mi du wa im waahn insted a di ada wie roun. Mek mi eksplien di riizn wai mi se so:

Yu si, Mailo a wahn gud daag. An wahn veri smaat wan at dat. Im veri iizi fi trien, so im veri obiidient. Stap, sidong, kom – im nuo aal a dem, an im rispek dem. Tel im paa an im riez im lef paa fi gi yu wahn luo faiv. Wn yu let im out fi do du im bizniz, im nuo fi sidong an wiet til yu put di liish pan im bifuor im redi fi dash aaf. Di trik fi trien im a fi giim wahn triit wen im rispan di rait wie tu yu komaan-dem. Laik wen im outsaid an yu tel im fi kom an wen im kom yu riwaad im wid wahn triit. Wel, mi av di abit fi giim triit liet evri iivnin. Bifuo mi giim, mi chrien im fi sidong pan di mat we de a di bak duor. So, bikaaz a dis trienin, di muoment im si mi tek op di triit bag, im rosh go sidong pan di mat. Gess wa? It riich di stiej nou we wen iivnin kom an mi no giim no triit, somtaim mi fiil im jomp op an put im paa-dem ina mi bak. Den wen mi luk roun, a wanda wai dis daag waahn sopraiz an drapkik mi, im rosh gaa di mat, sidong, an luk pahn mi. A wiet fi mi giim triit. So, if daag no smaat, a uu den? Im a trien mi fi rispan tu im komaan-dem!

Bai di wie, wi afi kierful bout sortn word we wi yuuz roun im nouadiez. Laik di word “triit.” Im nuo da wan de gud. Fram di minit wen im ier it, im rosh go pan di mat go sidong pan it. So, if mi a aaks mi waif if shi giim no triit fi di die, chuu se mi no waahn giim tumoch, mi afi spel out di word T-R-I-I-T so dat mi no kaaz im fi rosh go pan di mat. Tangk gudnis se im kyaahn spel!

Jamaica: The Goodness Thereof

Jamaica is often in the news about crime. Now and again, they make a big splash about it in overseas media, like here in the USA, where I live. If you’re from Jamaica like me or have roots there, you’ve probably felt that familiar frustration when reading these headlines. Frustration on two fronts. Sure, crime is a reality on the Rock, as it is everywhere, but how did we get there in a country that doesn’t even manufacture guns yet somehow struggles with violence? It’s a tough question., but it’s not the whole story of Jamaica. There’s often a missing piece. That is the spirit, the resilience, and the beauty that still draw people from around the world to this tiny island.

Overseas media often paint an image of Jamaica as if crime permeates every corner. Travel advisories sometimes lean in this direction, warning visitors as though they’re entering a country that is a total danger zone. But that’s not the case though. Millions of tourists flock to the island every year. For the vast majority, their experiences are nothing but memorable—vibrant landscapes, welcoming locals, and all the charm and rhythm that the country offers. And they keep returning. Diaspora Jamaicans, like me, go home regularly, and most of us enjoy our visits with no issues. Yes, there have been cases where travelers or returning residents have become victims, which is heartbreaking. Yet, in the grand scope of things, such cases are rare compared to the volume of visitors who come and go without a hitch. The Jamaica that’s left out of these advisories is the Jamaica that still thrives, welcoming anyone who sets foot on its shores.

So, why do we, tourists and diaspora alike, keep returning? The reasons are many and varied, deeply embedded in what Jamaica offers beyond the headlines.

For starters, there’s the landscape itself—a natural beauty that’s hard to find elsewhere. Whether it’s the cascading waterfalls of Dunn’s River, the Blue Mountains’ misty peaks, or the pristine beaches that line the coast, Jamaica has a way of grounding you in nature. It’s a beauty that feels untouched, a little wild, yet endlessly inviting.

View from Cerulean Bay, looking north. East Prospect, St. Thomas

Then, there’s the culture. Jamaica’s spirit is in every beat of reggae, every sip of rum, every laugh shared over a plate of jerk chicken, curried goat or oxtail, or a steaming bowl of mannish water or red peas soup. Jamaicans live with a vibrant passion that spills over into everything they do, from the food to the music to their welcome. For anyone who’s felt the warmth of a Jamaican’s “Yeah, mon” or “Welcome to Jamaica” greeting, you know what I mean.

And for us in the diaspora, Jamaica isn’t just a destination; it’s a feeling of coming home, of reconnecting with roots, family, and friends. Visiting reminds us of who we are and where we come from. It’s a reunion with our history, our family traditions, and even a taste of the newest Patwa expressions or the latest dance moves. For me, the familiarity with what might seem simple things to others—like stopping at a street vendor for roast corn or listening to the waves while enjoying steam fish and bammy at Hellshire Beach—makes going back feel right.

Steamed fish and bammy. Yummy!

And, talking about food, it is one of the biggest draws of going back to Jamaica, especially to St. Thomas. The taste of fresh, unprocessed food simply can’t be matched by the processed options we often find in America. When I’m back on the Rock, I find the flavors are vibrant, full, and real. I love picking mangoes straight from the trees in Norris or enjoying vegetables just harvested from the farm of a friend. Mangoes, breadfruit, ackee, and fresh callaloo all taste like they’re supposed to: rich and full of nutrients. Each bite reminds me of what food should taste like, with no preservatives or artificial flavors—just pure, natural goodness that makes every meal unforgettable.

One of the things I cherish most when I’m back home, too, is how we share and connect with each other. Memories of growing up in my district. Neighbors aren’t just people who live next door; they’re like family. We visit each other, chat by the fence, share food and celebrate birthdays or other milestones together. If there’s a special dish cooking, especially on a Sunday, a plate will get passed over the fence, or someone will bring by a slice of freshly baked cornmeal or sweet potato pudding. There’s no formality; we share and connect in a natural, effortless way. It’s a level of community that’s hard to find elsewhere and one I deeply miss when I’m away.

In Jamaica, getting around in the very rural areas is less about driving and more about walking, That is what I was used to. We walk everywhere, whether to visit a neighbor, go to the local shop or the post office in Yallahs, or just to go into the hills to get varieties of mangoes we did not have at home. Or, to drop the judgin’ clothes, put on some nice fare, and go for a Sunday afternoon walk after dinner, hoping to meet fudgie along the way. In St. Thomas, walking kept us active and connected to the land and our surroundings. Each step was a part of daily life, so it didn’t feel like exercise but rather a natural way to stay fit and grounded. Walking the roads I grew up on or hiking to the river reminds me of Jamaica’s slower, more connected lifestyle—far from the hustle and bustle that dominates my experience overseas.

Life in Jamaica teaches you patience and adaptability, especially in the country. If the water goes out, we head to the river. If the electricity cuts, we light our lamps and carry on. We bitch about it, but ironically, there’s a calm acceptance stemming from the usedtoness of things we can’t control, which creates peace. St. Thomas, like many rural areas in Jamaica, moves at a different pace where people don’t get stressed out over temporary inconveniences. Instead, we find creative solutions and take it in stride. This attitude is a relief from the fast-paced, high-stress life that often defines life in the diaspora.

Back in Jamaica, life is lived outdoors. In St. Thomas, the fresh air and open spaces invite us to spend our days outside—going to the river, working in small gardens, or raking the yard. Tending to plants, pulling weeds, and harvesting fruits become meaningful parts of daily life. I find a deep sense of satisfaction and connection in these simple activities. The beach or river is never far away, and spending time in nature is just part of the rhythm of life. This outdoor lifestyle is something I’ve missed while living abroad, and it’s a shared way of life across the Caribbean—a region where the land itself feels like family.

Living overseas, we exist. In Jamaica, we live.

Paying it Back, Paying it Forward…

We were driving together from somewhere in Miami back to home in Miramar. My dad and I. Henry. He was visiting from Jamaica. I cannot remember precisely why we had gone down to Miami, but we decided to make a pit stop during the return leg for a quick bite. Surely, food was at home, and though I knew I would have to explain to my wife why we didn’t wait, I told myself I would take the chance. What the heck? It would give us time to sit and chat while filling our bellies. Oh, we could check out a newly opened KFC restaurant somewhere off University Drive. The taste would not be the same as back home in Jamaica, but we would make it work.

As we pulled into the parking lot, I noticed a woman sitting in a car by a tree. A ton of stuff piled on the seats behind her and the passenger side up front. Just a fleeting observation. I didn’t take a second look to try and figure out what was going on. Plus, she looked like she was trying to make herself invisible. Despite that, I caught her glancing our way. But I didn’t think much of it either. We were just peckish and wanted to go and eat.

Inside, the place wasn’t too crowded. We joined the short line to order our food. What should we get? Should we get a big bucket of chicken so we could take some home? How about sandwiches and fries? Or maybe some original pieces instead of sandwiches? A few seconds into our pondering, the same woman from the parking lot walked in. She looked around nervously before heading straight for us. Her eyes darted between me and Dad and then settled on me.

“Excuse me,” she said softly. “Could you get me something to eat?”

I looked at her closely. She seemed exhausted, worn down by life.

“Of course,” I said. “What would you like?”

She hesitated. “I… I’ve been living in my car,” she explained, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve fallen on hard times. I’m diabetic and haven’t eaten all morning. I’ve been sitting in my car, trying to work up the courage to ask someone for help. And when I saw you with this gentleman I assumed was your dad, I don’t know… something about your spirit. I felt like you were the one I should ask.”

I felt a lump in my throat. “You can order anything you want,” I told her. “But keep in mind your diabetes.”

She looked at me, her eyes full of uncertainty. “Could you order for me?” she asked. “I’ll accept whatever you choose, no matter how small.”

I could see she was afraid to ask for too much. “Go ahead,” I insisted. “Get something that’ll fill you up.”

She finally ordered a regular meal, probably still worried about asking for too much. I thought to myself, if I were in her shoes, I’d have ordered something more substantial.

I ordered everything for all three of us and paid. When the food came, I handed her hers, and she took it with both hands, holding it like it was the most precious thing in the world. “Thank you,” she said, her voice full of gratitude. “I’m going back to my car to eat.”

“No problem,” I replied. “Take care of yourself.” 

Henry and I finished our meal, talking about everything and nothing. When we got back to our car, I saw her still sitting in hers, eating slowly. She looked up when she saw us, smiled, and waved. I could see her mouth the words, “Thank you.”

We waved back. As we pulled out of the parking lot, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of emotions. Sadness for her situation, but also a strange sense of peace. Dad turned to me and said, “You did good, son.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “Just trying to do the right thing.”

We drove on home. Later in bed, I reminisced about what had transpired at the KFC store. Needing and not having is not a nice thing. It made me think about one of my life’s philosophies: We all have only one life as we know it and want to live the best possible. It behooves me to reach out and help someone else, no matter how insignificant it may seem, to live their best life. Hunger is a need that is not nice if you cannot satisfy it. I know, because I have been there many times back in the day when I left my parents’ home to Kingston to attend university. But that’s another story for another time.

My reminiscing made me think of my mother. It is hard not to think about her when you grow up with someone so selfless. Someone who seemed to be guided by an invisible force that always knew the right thing to do. She made you feel like everything would be okay, no matter how little we had. Perhaps I got my philosophy of looking out for my fellow man from her. Let me tell you a little story about her. Her name was Lillian.

Growing up in Norris, a small, rural part of St. Thomas in eastern Jamaica, wasn’t always easy, but she made it work to the point where we felt normal. And it was the same for all my friends in the neighborhood. When we talk among ourselves now, we realize that life was not easy back then. But, to us, it was normal. We did not know anything else. Even today, we feel we had the best life!  

In Norris and the surrounding districts, there wasn’t much public transportation back in the day, so people often had to walk miles to get anywhere. Our yard was like a little oasis. We had these big, cooling mango and breadfruit trees that cast a comforting shade. We had a pipe with cool, running water underneath a giant breadfruit tree, next to an orange tree. People walking the long roads in the hot sun would stop by our yard to rest and catch their breath. And when they did, my mother would always ask if they needed anything. Some would even pre-empt her and ask, “Miss Lil, you have anything can eat deh?” And she’d always have something to offer.

It never ceased to amaze me how she did it. Some mornings, she’d say, “I don’t know what we’re going to eat today.” But then, as if by some miracle, when someone stopped by, she’d make food appear out of nowhere. A little bit of rice, some greens, a piece of bread and butter—whatever we had, she’d share it. I’d watch her, this quiet magic unfolding in our kitchen, the way she’d move so quickly and calmly, pulling together some bickle from seemingly nothing.

I used to wonder how she did it and where this endless generosity came from. But as I grew older, I began to understand. As I noted earlier, hunger is not a nice thing. It’s a cruel feeling. One that can make you feel small and powerless. My mother knew that. She knew what it meant to be hungry, and more importantly, she knew what it meant to be kind. And here it was that I had exercised this trait of understanding and kindness at the KFC store. And what comes around, goes around. When you bless someone, a blessing comes back to you. You get paid back when you pay it forward, and the cycle continues. Again, I can attest to this. Stay with me.

A few years ago, I traveled to Paramaribo for work. It was a short trip, just a few days to handle some business. The night before leaving, I hung out with an old colleague from my days in a previous job who lived there. Paramaribo has a charm to it—an old-world vibe mixed with something distinctly Caribbean. The only problem? The airport is quite a distance from town.

I had an early morning flight back to Port of Spain, which meant waking up around 4 a.m. My hotel was still dark and quiet, and the kitchen was closed. Not a soul was awake. I thought about grabbing something to eat on the way to the airport, but I quickly realized nothing would be open at such an ungodly hour. No fear, I told myself. There’s bound to be a café or shop open at the airport for early-morning travelers.

By the time I got to the airport, I was tired, hungry, and desperately needing coffee and something to snack on. The drive had been long, and the roads were eerily quiet, with only the occasional flash of headlights cutting through the darkness. But the airport was bustling. I sighed with relief. I could smell the faint aroma of pastries and brewed coffee, and my stomach growled in anticipation.

I made my way to a small café tucked away in a corner. The line was short, with a few bleary-eyed travelers, like me, clutching their bags and yawning. I picked up a sandwich, a cup of coffee, and a small bottle of juice—nothing fancy, just enough to tide me over until I got back to Port of Spain. I would be able to have a substantial brunch in transit while I awaited my connection back to Miami. I joined the line to pay at the cashier, feeling more at ease.

When it was my turn, I handed over my items, ready to swipe my card and be done with it. The cashier, a middle-aged woman with a warm smile, rang up my order. Then, as I pulled out my card, she shook her head gently. “Only Surinamese dollars, cash,” she said.

I blinked, taken aback. “No debit or credit card?”

She shook her head again, apologizing. My heart sank. I rummaged through my wallet—some US dollars and a few Trinidadian bills. No Surinamese cash. I hadn’t thought to get any, assuming my cards would be fine. I stood there for a moment, a mix of embarrassment and frustration washing over me.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, stepping away from the counter. I left the food on the counter and turned to leave, my stomach rumbling with disappointment. But as I started to walk away, I heard a voice behind me calling out, “Mijnheer!” I turned around, surprised. The cashier was looking directly at me, waving me back over. I pointed at myself, a little unsure. She nodded and gestured for me to come back.

I walked back to the counter, and she handed me the food I’d picked out. I was confused. “I don’t have any Surinamese dollars,” I said. “I can’t pay for this.”

She smiled softly and pushed the items toward me again. “It’s okay,” she said. “Take it.”

I felt a surge of gratitude but also a bit of guilt. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Can you give me your contact info? I can send the money to you once I’m back home in Florida.”

She shook her head, “No need,” she replied. “Enjoy your flight, and have a good day.”

I was touched by that small gesture. She’d shown me a kindness I wasn’t expecting. Over the years, I’ve had the good fortune of receiving help from others, often in the most unexpected places and moments. Perhaps that’s why it feels so natural for me to help when I can. I believe in paying it back and paying it forward. A small act of kindness, but it meant the world to me at that moment. I boarded my flight feeling a bit lighter, a bit more hopeful. Sometimes, it’s the little things that remind you of the goodness in people. Was it the woman in the KFC store in Florida paying me back through this cashier in Suriname? And as the plane took off, soaring above the city, I made a promise to myself to keep the cycle going. Help when I can, as others have helped me. Pay it back and pay it forward. Always.

School Attire Out of Synch!

Beautiful Saturday morning. I have just come downstairs to make my usual morning brew. Blue Mountain today. I saw the “Blue Mountain” words on the label during a recent visit to my local supermarket and was drawn to it. Blue Mountain coffee is Jamaican, and so am I. That is the reason. I am not sure the one I am about to have is pure, though, as the brand is one I have never heard of before. Many companies usurp the appellation due to its world-renowned quality and taste. This one did not turn out to be bad by my standard. Perhaps the real connoisseurs will feel otherwise, though.

While waiting for the Keurig to end the cycle, I open all the blinds to get the maximum sunlight. I love when the house is full of light. It makes me feel like I am bringing the outdoors in. Behind the house is a lake and, from where I am standing in the kitchen, it appears  I can open the window and touch the water. This morning it is glistening, with a slight ripple dancing across it, stirred up by the gentlest of breezes.

Milo is looking outside and barking. It is a bit earlier than his usual time “to go,” so I do not think he is signaling me to let him out for that. Perhaps he has sensed something unusual out there. But I see nothing. No ducks. No iguanas. And indeed not his friend from down the road that sometimes escapes from his yard and comes visiting. I guess it must be the allure of the view outside that is exciting him then. I, too, feel the urge to go outdoors. Sit on the patio with him, sip my coffee and catch up on the latest happenings in Jamaica through the Gleaner on my Android.

Outside on the patio, the temperature is comfortable. A ray of sunlight dodges the column before me, falling on my face, and warming me just enough to make me feel great to be alive. The coffee is good. Milo goes out onto the grass. Sometimes when he does, he lies in the sun. At other times he sniffs among the plants, for what I am not sure. This time though, he quickly comes back and settles at my feet. Maybe he has decided to keep me company, for I am not often out back with him. Good dog. Indeed man’s best friend.

It is now early afternoon. I had a relaxing morning. Only one thing happened that was not part of the plan. I ended up not catching up on the Jamaican news. I got diverted to something else, which made me start to reflect on some of the traditions of my early years in Jamaica. Specifically about my school dress, or uniform, as we call it on the island. School uniform.

Before bringing up the Gleaner on my phone, an article caught my attention. It was about the British monarchy and how its members had to adhere to certain forms of behavior and entirely ignore others. Some of these forms were peculiar to the monarchy, while others reflected British society at large. As I read, it struck me how similar some of them were to our practices in Jamaica. It made sense, though, especially for folk of my generation. We are children of the independence and immediate post-independence period of Jamaica’s history, during which our societal and other norms were still shaped, in great measure, by Britain, the so-called mother country.

In the article, I discovered that little Prince George, always dressed in short pants, would have to do so until he reached ten. During winter, especially, he wears socks up to his knees to keep him warm. It made me reflect on my upbringing in Jamaica, where we used to wear short pants in the lower forms at my high school. So, the British connection may explain why. Mark you, I was ten when I started high school, and my classmates were already eleven or twelve, but it did not matter. For it was not unusual to see the adoption of British practices at home, even when they were out of synch with our Jamaican reality.  Our uniforms constituted one such practice that was out of synch.

When I started attending Morant Bay High School in the eastern parish of St. Thomas, all boys were required to wear short pants for the first three years. Not only short pants, for we also had to wear thick woolen socks, pulled up to under our knees, just like British Grammar School boys. No matter how hot the weather was, we had to have those socks on. And when they had had their one wash too many and became too loose to stay up by themselves, rubber bands came to the rescue. They kept them fully extended and in place. Sometimes the bands were so tight, they would dig into our flesh and sting. On top of the itchy wool. Heat, itch, sting. What torture. No ifs or buts about not keeping them up because discipline was part of our DNA. Plus, our principal’s wife — perhaps the strictest disciplinarian I have ever known — would make sure we complied, even by the sheer mention of her name. “Maa P a come” would scare the bejeezus out of us and whip us into compliance.

Me in first form in high school

But while we endured the discomfort of the woolen socks, there was something far more problematic they, plus the shorts, exacted upon us. It was fear. Not of Maa P, but of the big Town boys. Coming from the rural part of Jamaica, we referred to Kingston as Town, and the big Town boys in question were from there and attended high schools there. Every year we would have Eastern Champs and Boys’ and Girls’ Champs, all high school athletics championships, at the National Stadium in Town. As first-formers at Morant Bay High, we were all eager to travel to the stadium for the first time and cheer for our school. But, the older boys who had by then graduated to long pants told us horror stories about their time in short pants at the stadium. The Town boys ridiculed them — the Country boys — for wearing short pants in high school. Not only to school but also daring to wear them to Town! Not only ridiculed them but also slapped them on their bare knees! What trepidation we felt about the prospects of being mocked and slapped! We had to do something about it!

So, what did we do? The fear generated by the horror stories made us, first-formers, form a pact to purchase and wear long pants to the stadium. Defying the school rules. We decided if doing so ended up with punishment, we would all take it together and accept it as a mark of martyrdom. At least, it would be better than suffering the indignity short pants could bring us!

So, off we all went to Town in our long pants, and we had a great time at the stadium. Upon returning home, though, we realized that spending money on long pants and not wearing them after the stadium visit was not in our best interest. Nor in the interest of our parents’ pockets. Terrible return on investment. And so, our year in high school was the year the school started allowing long pants for boys in the lower forms. We forced the hand of the school to change the rules. I think now that we should have a plaque erected somewhere at the school in commemoration!

Our impact on school uniforms did not end with getting rid of the long woolen socks and short pants. Five years later, when we hit Sixth Form, we were at it again. Sixth Formers wore ties. Green and white forming perpendicular stripes. We wore them loose, just below the second button on our shirts. Well, our headmaster, who taught us how to play bridge as an extra-curricular lesson in Sixth Form, schooled us on how to wear a tie. It had to be drawn at the collar, with the collar button of our shirts closed. What? In the Jamaican heat? Even though our school was on a hill just overlooking the Caribbean Sea, the breeze coming up was never enough to keep us cool. He gave us a choice. Either wear the tie how it was to be worn or don’t wear it at all. You can imagine what we chose. We ditched the tie!

So, I was one of the pioneers at high school. Even just for uniforms!

Loving Me Some Reggae on a Friday Night!

I may sound biased, but I don’t think I am. Reggae music is the best. Now, there are different eras of reggae – call them styles if you like — that may have different degrees of bestness, but I am talking about the era of the classic Bob Marleys, Dennis Browns and Beres Hammonds. Some fine Jamaican singers. Incredible lyrics. Among the best, not just on the Rock, but in the world.

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My Norris Friends on My Mind

Two days ago, I got a Facebook friend invitation. I did not recognize the name entirely, although it sounded familiar as I repeated it mentally. The profile picture was of no help because it was too dark. I could not pick out the features. However, I was half-sure who it was. One of my sisters, now living in Canada, had told me just earlier that she had reconnected with a childhood friend of ours. A friend from way back in the day in Jamaica. We lived in Norris, St. Thomas, and this friend was from Gutter Head, an adjoining district up the road from us. On the way to the hills of Windsor Castle on the left at the intersection there, and down to Logwood and Yallahs on the right.  However, we all went to the same primary school — all-age at the time — in Easington, the district on the other side of Norris. Right after going over the bridge that spanned Yallahs River.

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The To-Die-For Jamaican Patty

I just had two patties for lunch.  Jamaican patties. My Jamaican peeps here in South Florida and elsewhere do not need such clarification for they know what I am talking about. But the distinction is necessary for those not familiar with this epicurean Jamaican delight. Patties, to the uninitiated non-Jamaicans, are palm-sized portions of ground meat, flattened and shaped into rounds or squares, then cooked and served, as in hamburgers. For those of us in the know though, Jamaican patties are more exquisite.  More divine. They are a kind of pastry made with a flaky, golden-brown shell, and lightly stuffed with a savory, spicing filling.  One of those I had today was filled with spicy ground beef and the other with ackee.

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Memorable Primary School Lessons

At the age of ten I was already in high school. At Morant Bay High School in St. Thomas, eastern Jamaica. When I did my Common Entrance examination while at Easington Primary School, in the same parish, to try and earn a place in high school, it was because my teachers felt I had the aptitude. Despite my age. It was by dint of faith my teachers put in me, and luck that my name was even put forward, because I was so young, and places in high schools were limited at the time. Some felt that I was taking the space of an older student who maybe was about to “age-out” of being able to do the exam. Back then, the average age of high-school qualifiers was twelve. Anyhow, I did the exam and aced it.

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Me and Milo

My son have a dog name Milo. A male dog. We adopt him from a rescue place down Miami from him was a puppy. Him did have another name when we get him, but we decide to give him a new one. Well, because we come from Jamaica, we say we have to pick a name that remind we about Jamaica. Without even blinking a second, my son lick out, “Milo!” I guess him have nuff memories of times him spend in Jamaica, especially as a kid. So now all of you that know Milo, or know of him, know why him name Milo instead of him birth name of Orion.

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Smelling the Roses in a Crisis

It is the last Sunday in March. I am listening to Kool97 FM from Jamaica, as I often do on a Sunday. They play some great oldies all day long. A combination of mostly American and Jamaican greats of the crooner variety. It is now after 10 at night, Miami time, and they’ve just started throwing down some super reggae classics. Dennis Brown is on deck, and I am feeling mellow. About an hour or so ago, they ran a Bob Andy segment, featuring a string of his hits. Bob passed last week, leaving behind a legacy that will last forever. He possessed musical wizardry that helped introduce an iconic genre of Jamaican music during an era not so long gone, the power of which may never be superseded.

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Welcome Home to Africa

I read in the news yesterday that Ludacris has just gotten Gabonese citizenship. It seems his wife is from Gabon, and so he got it through her. Irrespective of how he got it, though, it is symbolic of a wave of Africanism that has been cresting over the past few years. Specifically, the facet of Africanism I am referring to is the reconnection of dispersed Africans with the continent of their origin in tangible ways. Like gaining African citizenship, for example. Citizenship through familial ties as in Ludacris’ case, by way of residency, or via conferral as in Ghana’s 2019 Year of Return program.

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Gone Fishing

Last Sunday I went fishing. Down in the Florida Keys. I can’t remember the names of some of the keys, for there are so many. The most popular ones don’t escape me though, like Key Largo, Marathon, Big Pine Key and, of course, Key West. Key West is perhaps the most well-known as there are so many stories about its famous residents, past and present, including Ernest Hemingway and the descendants of his polydactyl cats. And one I will never forget is in the lower Keys. Ironic that I will forever remember it as that one has no name. No Name Key. Yes, that is its real name. A name so unique it is unforgettable. There is where I went fishing. Well, not exactly there, but from the bridge you have to cross to get there from Big Pine Key.

Not bad!
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Goodbye Artical Don

Facebook has its detractors. Some folk feel it is a privacy-invasion slippery slope. Facebook also has its supporters. Despite all the issues of privacy currently swirling around the platform, I am one of the latter. Not that I am not concerned about privacy. One of the things that pisses me off, for example, is Facebook’s interconnectedness of almost everything else I do on the internet. I google an item I am interested in purchasing and the moment I jump on Facebook after, ads about the product I have just researched start polluting my page! This is not the kind of invasion the detractors gripe about though. They feel their business will soon gaan a street by being on Facebook! What they fail to realize is that if they don’t post their business there is no way it will gaa street!

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What’s in a Name?

I stepped up from the street, scuttled across the sidewalk and slipped through the front door of the small building. The sign hanging over the door had caught my eye from across the other side of the street and magnetized me. It read: Trace Your Ancestry Through Your Surname. I should have known better immediately and not allowed it to pull me in. But sometimes we act on impulse and end up doing things that make no sense at all. As in this instance. This time around, though, I did catch myself before it was too late. My senses slapped me, spun me around and pulled me back through the door. How could I possibly trace my ancestry through Smith?

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Languages: An Avenue for Life Exploration

I speak several foreign languages. Thanks to my teachers at good old Morant Bay High School in St. Thomas, Jamaica, who gave me the start. French is one that I learned. I am fully fluent today, to the point where I switch registers easily, depending on the need, moving from standard to the very informal. While at university in France, a teacher, handing me back a piece of homework, asked me, “Have you ever thought about becoming a diplomat?” Strange question, I thought. “Why?” I asked. Because your French is so élévé,” she replied. My French was at a high standard. I guess it must have been because it was “book French” that I had learned in Jamaica. Very formal French. Though grammatically correct, no one used that level of French in everyday communication, even for school assignments or in the classroom. So ironic, though, that the lowest mark in my academic life was in my first French exam. Got a whopping 17 out of 100! Why do I still remember it so well?

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Missing Jamaica

I have lived more than half of my life overseas. Outside of Jamaica where I am from. I am not that young anymore, so you can imagine it’s been a long time living in foreign lands. But, I miss Jamaica like Day 1. After all these years. I imagine only those who have lived overseas will understand my emotions. When I left Jamaica first for good, it was for a posting to Brussels by the company I was working with at the time, right after Hurricane Gilbert did a number on Jamaica. And I have lived abroad ever since. So, it’s been a while. Gilbert mashed up my beloved island in 1988.

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The Enigma of My Jamaican Passport

The chill of the night air on the outside still clung to the windows of the bus, but it was warming up on the inside. I shed the jacket the driver had lent me earlier when it had started to get cold. I had not expected, and so was unprepared for any weather like this. For it was Africa, after all, and Africa was supposed to be hot all over, and all the time. Even though I knew better — that it was a jigsaw of diverse countries running up and down latitudes – my recessed imagination of it being characteristically the same recaptured my mind. Characteristically hot. Snow-capped mountains? No. Hot deserts? Yes.

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