A Jamaican Experience: A Seat in the Morris Oxford

By: Baron Stewart

Cloverly Road and the Family That Chose Me

I don’t remember how old I was when I first met Ronnie, but we’ve been friends for over fifty years. We met in elementary school, attended the same high school and college, and stayed connected through every stage of life. Even now, we call regularly to share our challenges. Ronnie is the brother I never had.

Finding Family

The McLeans lived on Cloverly Road, just around the corner from my home at 31 Victoria Avenue. Clovis and Joyce McLean were the first to notice that I was a lonely child, hungry for attention and love. They welcomed me into their family, including me on their weekend outings, even though we could barely squeeze into their Morris Oxford. That cramped backseat became my seat, too. Over time, I became a permanent fixture in their home, eventually moving in with them during my final two years of high school.

Though I was the same age as Ronnie’s older brother Lloyd, I wasn’t his peer. Lloyd was a star athlete—the heart of our high school soccer team, a member of Jamaica’s national team at 17, and later a player for the Boston Beacons. My role was more modest: I was Lloyd’s wingman, organizing the endless stream of girls drawn to his talent and charm. Occasionally, she'd settle for me when one of them missed out on Lloyd.

Brotherhood in Action

Though a year and a half apart, Ronnie and I were equals. We shared a drive to succeed and an unspoken commitment to walk life's journey together. Ronnie dreamed of becoming a dentist. I aspired to be a college professor. We studied side by side, marched in our high school’s drum and bugle corps, and migrated to New York, where we worked as elevator operators in Manhattan. We played soccer for our college team, celebrated each other’s weddings, and eventually achieved the futures we once whispered about. Ronnie is a dentist. I became a professor. Just like we said we would.

Among our many shared memories, one stands out. One Christmas during our early teens in Jamaica, we decided to confront a neighborhood bully who had tormented us for months. Armed with cork guns—popular holiday toys at the time—we rallied about ten friends and knocked on his gate. When he appeared, we unleashed a surprise barrage of cork shots and then sprinted down the lane, laughing breathlessly. It was silly, joyful, and unforgettable.

New York, New Challenges

In 1964, my mother invited me to New York to visit her and attend the World’s Fair. I asked Ronnie to come with me. That trip might have been the defining moment in our friendship. We worked as a team to raise the money, pleading our case to anyone who might help. That summer in New York was full of discovery, excitement, and one jarring experience: racism.

We stayed with my mother in Parkchester, a predominantly white Bronx neighborhood. One Saturday night, after seeing a movie, we were followed by a group of white boys who shouted racial slurs and chased us down the street. We ran for our lives. It was terrifying—and it bound us even closer. Shared fear, like shared joy, forges deep connection.

Living the Bond

Ronnie’s warm, lovable nature made him a favorite among our friends. But what stood out most was how deeply he loved and accepted me. When I was struggling financially, Ronnie would quietly help. When he needed a fresh perspective, he called me. My children adore him as their “favorite uncle.” He has always shown up for the people he loves.

We’ve supported each other through every milestone. I stood by him during two of his three weddings, and he was my best man at my first. I remember the joy on his face when he learned his first wife, Pat, was pregnant with their son Alvin.

There was a time our paths diverged—when Ronnie embraced Rastafarianism, and I didn’t fully understand. But eventually, he cut his locks, returned to school, and pursued dentistry again. Our bond held steady as ever.

The Woman Who Loved Us All

Joyce McLean’s ninetieth birthday was a celebration I would never miss. Joyce, a beautiful Jamaican woman with a show-stopping smile, had the patience of a saint. She raised her children with grace and discipline—and she raised me, too. Joyce was the mother I never had, the first person to show me unconditional love.

I first met the McLean family when I was eight years old. Clovis McLean, a renowned Jamaican footballer and cricketer, and his wife Joyce saw something in me—a need—and brought me into their world. Their family excursions, even in an overcrowded Austin Cambridge, made room for me. Their move to Vineyard Town marked one of the happiest periods of my life, and I moved with them.

The McLean siblings each made their mark: Lloyd, the superstar athlete. With her mother’s smile and warmth, Nancy, the only daughter, became a celebrated food and beverage manager and later the managing director of concierge services. The youngest Alvin inherited his father’s athletic gifts and passionately pursued music. Kenneth McCarthy, another “adopted” son like me, became a doctor in Canada and remains a model of perseverance and brilliance.

At Joyce’s birthday party in New Kingston, surrounded by children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, we sang “Happy Birthday.” Joyce’s face lit up, and the entire restaurant joined in. In that moment, love filled the room—and the past seventy years.

Gratitude in Full

I cannot imagine my life without the McLeans. They rescued me from a lonely childhood and gave me a home, a family, and a brotherhood that has lasted a lifetime. The scars I carry from those early days are softened by the laughter, the loyalty, and the love we shared.

If I could say one thing to the McLean family, it would be this:
Thank you for loving me when I needed it most.

Life Lessons from A Seat in the Morris Oxford

1. Chosen Families Can Heal What Blood Cannot

Lesson: Sometimes, the family we’re born into may not meet our emotional needs, but the families we choose, or who choose us, can transform our lives.

Recommendation:

Embrace the people who make you feel seen and loved, even if they’re not related by blood. Show up for others in the way you once wished someone had shown up for you.

2. Deep Friendships Are Built on Shared Purpose and Mutual Respect

Lesson: A friendship that lasts 50+ years isn’t an accident—it’s rooted in shared dreams, honest support, and staying connected through every chapter.

Recommendation:

Invest in your close friendships the way you invest in your goals. Make time for deep conversation, celebrate each other’s milestones, and be there when the road gets rough.

3. Small Acts of Inclusion Have Lifelong Impact

Lesson: A car ride, a family meal, a place to stay—what seems small in the moment can be life-altering for someone who needs belonging.

Recommendation:

Never underestimate the power of inclusion. Practice radical hospitality. Invite people in, especially those who might be overlooked or left behind.

4. Hardship Shared Is Hardship Halved

Lesson: Facing racism, poverty, or emotional abandonment is easier when you have someone by your side who truly understands your story.

Recommendation:

Don’t walk through your challenges alone. Cultivate relationships where you can speak your truth—and listen just as deeply when others share theirs.

5. Unconditional Love Is the Greatest Gift

Lesson: Joyce McLean’s quiet, steady love changed my life. Her example teaches that love has generational power, especially when freely given.

Recommendation:

Be someone’s Joyce. Look around your world for someone who might be lonely, lost, or needing direction—and extend love without keeping score.

6. Dreams Are Achievable When Shared

Lesson:  Ronnie and I  dreamed big and made those dreams real by supporting each other. It wasn't a solo climb; it was a shared ascent.

Recommendation:

Speak your dreams aloud to the people who believe in you. Build a circle where ambition is nourished, not judged. Celebrate every step forward—together.

7. Forgiveness Strengthens Bonds

Lesson: When paths diverged—Ronnie's turn to Rastafarianism, for example—our friendship endured because love held more weight than judgment.

Recommendation:

Accept that your loved ones will change. Let differences become invitations for understanding, not division. Choose forgiveness over friction when the bond is worth it.

Final Reflection

At its heart, this story is about belonging—how the right people can offer shelter from life's storms and light the way toward your best self. It’s also about being that light for others.

If your story reaches one lonely child or one generous family, it might spark a cycle of love that spans generations.

A Jamaican Experience: The Dogs Who Loved Me

By: Baron Stewart

nce you’ve been loved like that, you are never the same.

I’ve been saved more than once in my life, and a dog did the saving more often than not.

I’ve always been a dog lover—no question about it. My childhood in Jamaica was painful and loveless, and I turned to dogs for solace. Maybe it started with Shane, my protector when I was a timid, scrawny boy. I named him after the hero in the Alan Ladd film Shane. There’s a moment in the movie when a young boy cries, “Shane! Shane!” as his hero rides into danger. That image carved itself into my memory. So when I got my hero, I gave him the same name.

Shane was black, skinny, fast, and smart—everything I admired and longed to be. He was brave and strong in all the ways I wasn’t yet. We were a team, codependent in the purest sense: I needed him, and I think he knew he needed me too.

In the 1950s, Kingston, dogs roamed as freely as children. Signs warning “Beware of Bad Dog” were everywhere, not so much for safety as to scare off thieves. But sometimes, they scared kids like me, too. I learned the hard way to keep my distance after I wandered into someone’s yard and startled a dog that didn’t appreciate surprise visitors. Walking home in the dark one night, I noticed Shane following me at a distance. I tried to send him back—I didn’t want him dodging traffic—but he wouldn’t go. Moments later, a snarling dog charged at me from behind a gate bearing one of those ominous signs. Before I could react, Shane hurled himself forward, clamped onto the dog’s throat, and fought him off like a warrior. When it was over, he shook himself, calm and proud, and walked beside me the rest of the way home.

He was my hero, my first love, and certainly not my last.

Years passed. I left Jamaica behind, but not the memory of that bond. In Southern California, another dog came into my life—this time, she found me. One morning, I discovered a beautiful collie asleep in my car. When I opened the door, she ran off, but my wife lured her back with food and water. We named her Lucky.

She had those soulful, knowing eyes. And she arrived just when I needed her most—I had just been diagnosed with diabetes. Determined to manage it through exercise, I started running. Lucky became my partner, accompanying me on five-mile runs every morning, rain or shine.

We became a fixture in Whittier. Our bond was so visible that it was featured in the local newspaper after we did a ten-mile run through Turnbull Canyon—my kids riding bikes alongside us, Lucky pacing beside me. I’d sometimes scoop her into my arms on the longer runs and carry her the last stretch. She loved it. So did I.

One morning, as we prepared to run at the local high school, two loose bulldogs spotted Lucky and charged. Panicked, she slipped her leash and ran straight through traffic. My heart plummeted. I imagined the worst. But ten minutes later, I heard a soft tap at the door. Lucky had found her way home. I dropped to my knees in relief.

She had three litters of puppies, and one of them—her mirror image—we called Little Lucky. Before long, our yard had become a canine circus: four resident dogs and twelve tiny chaos-makers, after a stray came to visit. Raising that many puppies was madness, but it was joyful madness. Eventually, we found loving homes for all of them, though each farewell tugged at the heart.

Little Lucky had a spark of joy and curiosity. When she was old enough, we sent her to New York to live with my brother’s family. The sudden change was hard on her. She cried for days. When I visited months later, she growled at me, unsure whether to trust me. It broke my heart, but I didn’t push her.

A year later, she returned to Los Angeles. The moment she saw me, her tail started thumping. She bounded into my arms like no time had passed. The other dogs welcomed her back without hesitation, and just like that, the pack was whole again.

If Little Lucky were joy incarnate, her brother Spike would be a different kind of love.

Skinny and athletic, with sad, soulful eyes, Spike was loyal to his core. Wary of strangers, he often played the role of neighborhood menace, especially to the poor mailman. We eventually had to get a P.O. box because Spike wouldn’t let that man work peacefully.

On one infamous day, the mayor’s wife stopped by for a visit. My wife, eager to prove Spike was harmless, placed her hand near his mouth—bad move. Spike snapped—bit her. Thankfully, she didn’t file a complaint, and Spike avoided serious trouble.

Despite his antics, Spike adored me. He hated water, so I tested his devotion at a dog beach one day. I walked into the waves. Spike paced on the sand, whining. Then, with a hesitant splash, he paddled out to me, his sad eyes locked on mine the whole time. That bond had begun when he was a pup, small enough to sleep on my chest as I worked. I think he remembered those quiet moments. I know I did.

Of all the dogs I’ve loved, I miss Spike the most. His fierce loyalty, his melancholy gaze, his quiet devotion—they left a mark nothing has ever erased.

Each of my dogs taught me something.
Shane taught me courage.
Lucky showed me resilience.
Little Lucky embodied joy.
Spike revealed the depth of loyalty.

Their love shaped me. Their presence brought healing. And their absence never really left.

Even now, though I don’t have a dog, I still instinctively look down when I walk, half-expecting the brush of a wet nose against my hand. Once you’ve been loved like that, you are never the same.

Dogs don’t just love you.
They see you.
And that kind of love stays with you forever.

Life Lessons from The Dogs Who Loved Me

1. Love can save you—even on four legs.

When life feels cold or lonely, we often look for grand gestures or perfect people to rescue us. But sometimes, salvation shows up as a scrappy dog named Shane or a stray collie named Lucky. Be open to unexpected sources of love and support.

Recommendation:
Stay open to connection, especially when you're in pain. Healing often begins with the quiet companionship of those who stay with you.

2. Loyalty doesn’t need words—it needs presence.

Spike didn’t speak, but his actions shouted devotion. He was all in, whether pacing the beach or sleeping on my chest. True loyalty is quiet, consistent, and sometimes invisible until tested.

Recommendation:
Value those who stand by you, not just in celebration, in silence, in hardship, and everyday moments. Return that loyalty generously.

3. Joy comes in fleeting, chaotic, beautiful packages.

The chaos of 12 puppies, the fearless curiosity of Little Lucky, the triumphant return of a lost dog—joy is rarely neat or convenient. But when it arrives, it’s everything.

Recommendation:
Embrace joyful chaos. Say yes to messier, livelier parts of life that remind you you’re alive. Laughter, surprise, and affection often come hand in hand with disorder.

4. Grief is love that never fully lets go.

Years later, I look down, hoping to see a familiar tail wag. That’s not weakness—that’s testament. Once you’ve truly loved, a part of you is forever tethered to what you lost.

Recommendation:
I want you to please honor your grief. Let it remind you how deeply you felt and how much capacity you still carry for love. Don’t let the fear of pain close the door to future love.

5. Animals teach us how to be more human.

Your dogs saw you, not your title, failures, fears—just you. That kind of love is simple, unconditional, and rare, and can reshape your soul.

Recommendation:
Live so that you see people like your dogs see you. Be present. Be forgiving. Love simply.

Final Thought:

Once you’ve been loved like that, you are never the same.

Let that be a blessing, not a burden. Carry their lessons forward in how you treat others, how you parent, how you forgive, and most of all, how you love.

A Jamaican Adventure: The End of my Marriage

By: Baron Stewart

Even though I stayed in the Bronx with my mother while working in Rockland County, I lived 100 miles away in Stony Brook. It quickly became clear to me and everyone around me that I needed to find a place to live closer to work.

David Brown, the mathematics department chairman, generously offered me a place to stay with his family. However, there was one condition: I had to come alone. There wasn’t enough space for my wife, Lennette. After discussing it, Lennette and I agreed to this arrangement. She moved in with her mother in Brooklyn, while I went to live with David, his wife, and their young son, who attended RCDS in Rockland. We decided that I would visit Lennette on weekends.

However, this agreement was complicated by my need to travel to Stony Brook on Fridays to meet with professors and continue my studies. This arrangement turned my marriage into a one-day-a-week affair—more of an obligation than a pleasure. I had no real home. During the week, I was a guest at David’s house. On Friday nights, I stayed with Carol and Leslie, my old Stony Brook housemates. I spent. Saturday nights and Sunday mornings with Lennette at her mother’s house—an experience that became the most challenging part of my week.

I began to stray. At Stony Brook, many new and exciting women comforted my wandering soul. Meanwhile, at RCDS, Ruth Goode, the history teacher, invited me to dinner one evening. She mentioned that she had a friend on the RCDS board who might have a place where Lennette and I could live.

That friend was Cipe Pineles Burtin, a distinguished figure in the art world. She had been married to two giants of the design industry—Bill Golden, the former Art Director of CBS Television, and Will Burtin, a member of the Art Directors Hall of Fame. Cipe lived alone in a three-story brick mansion on 18 acres of wooded land, nestled off a private road near the Don Bosco Shrine in Stony Point, New York.

 It was near dusk when Lennette and I drove up the long driveway and saw a short, white woman kneeling in her garden. She looked up, pleasant but cautious. This was Cipe Pineles Burtin.

Cipe had two cats, and she wanted someone in the house to feed them when she stayed in her apartment on 10th Street in New York or when she was teaching at Parsons School of Design. She showed us around her home, and I was immediately captivated. The house had soaring 10-foot ceilings, massive windows that flooded the rooms with light, two fireplaces in the living room, another in the dining room, and even a non-working one in the kitchen.

Cipe lived on the second floor, while the third floor would be ours—a private space with a living room, bedroom, and bathroom. Everything was provided, but there was one condition: she didn’t want us to bring furniture. It was her home, and she tried to keep it as it was.

Despite her generous offer, she wasn’t entirely convinced about sharing her space with us. She asked us to wait until after the summer, agreeing to let us move in on a trial basis to see how things worked out.

I was eager to go, but Lennette hesitated. It was yet another unfamiliar environment for her, and she wasn’t sure about storing all our belongings. Ultimately, she never had to make that decision—by the end of the summer, I had stayed in Stony Brook too long. Lennette was furious. She gave me an ultimatum, and I accepted it.

We separated. And I moved into Cipe’s house alone.

Lennette and I had very different feelings about living apart. She wanted to be married—I did not. I had agreed to our marriage out of a sense of duty when she told me she was pregnant, but in truth, my heart was never entirely in it. I decided to stay, but it was more about keeping my word than love. Lennette did nothing to drive me away; she was a loyal and faithful wife. But at that point in my life, I did not want to be married.

Our relationship was built on obligation, though I believe Lennette truly loved me. I came to Brooklyn every weekend, but permanently later than she wanted. One Sunday afternoon, I arrived late again, and she was visibly upset. She looked at me and said, “If you come here late again, don’t return.”

I never did.

Not long after, Lennette sent boxes of my clothes to the school, and while I was teaching, she took our car and drove away one afternoon. That was the end of our marriage. It was a bad situation—we should never have married.  We never reconciled our situation, but time softened everything. After many years, we became friends. Lennette remarried and had three children. Last summer, after forty years, I went to see her. Today, we share a good friendship, one unburdened by the weight of the past.

At the time, my priority was my studies. I needed to be at Stony Brook every weekend for classes with my professors as I worked toward my PhD. I had every intention of finishing my degree.

Moving into Cipe’s house gave me something I hadn’t had since leaving Jamaica—a proper home. I lived there for nine years and had extraordinary experiences. In many ways, living with Cipe was like attending finishing school. She became my surrogate mother, and I became the son she had always wanted. She did have a son, Tom, but he was off doing everything she despised.

Cipe taught me how to cook, enjoy elegant cocktail parties, and embrace the world with curiosity and sophistication. She was an extraordinary woman—an Austrian immigrant with two sisters, a respected teacher at Parsons School of Design, and a former art director for Seventeen and Vogue magazines.

My routine became much easier now that I lived in Rockland County. There were no more exhausting trips back and forth to the Bronx or Brooklyn, and I had my own space for the first time in years.

I do not regret how things turned out, but I did feel lonely in that grand mansion. For all the space and freedom, I missed the companionship I had taken for granted with Lennette. Through it all, I learned one of the most important lessons of my life: the small decisions we make can shape our lives for a long time.

There’s much more to tell about my time with Cipe—how our relationship evolved, her lessons, and our adventures. But I’ll save those stories for later.

A Jamaican Adventure: There is good news in your future

By: Baron Stewart

arly on a Tuesday morning in the fall of 1974, I took the subway from my mother’s apartment on Noble Ave in the Bronx to the bus station at the George Washington Bridge, where I caught a bus to Congers, New York. My destination was Rockland Country Day School (RCDS), where I taught mathematics. Usually, I would have driven my 1972 BMW 2002, but it was in the repair shop, so the bus was my only option.

As I settled into the back of the bus, the lively chatter drowned out the hum of traffic. I didn’t take long to recognize the familiar cadence of West Indian voices—Jamaicans, Trinidadians, and others from the smaller islands. I listened to the various accents and dialects, wondering why so many West Indian women and a handful of men were on a bus headed to Rockland County. Then it dawned on me: these women were housekeepers, like my mother, heading to work in the homes of the wealthy. The men were likely gardeners. And then there was me—a math teacher.

What happened? Given my humble beginnings, how did I escape the trajectory set for me?

When I arrived at RCDS, my mind lingered on that question, searching my surroundings for answers. The school had another Black staff member—a groundskeeper who lived on the property. The students, perceptive as ever, often pointed out that I sounded just like their housekeepers. It was an unsettling reminder that, in their world, Black voices carried a specific role. I was the exception, not the norm.

At the time, RCDS had three Black students and two students of mixed Black and Asian heritage. Two of the Black students were the sons of a garbage collector. The other was the child of two Black professionals in the area. The mixed-race students were the sons of doctors who taught at Columbia University. RCDS was, in many ways, an integrated family, essentially free of overt racial discrimination. But there were unspoken expectations, subtle social boundaries, and the uncharted territory of Black professionalism in an elite space.

Jean Lythcott, the school's headmistress, had made my role clear: beyond teaching math, I was there to model what Black professionalism looked like. By most measures, I succeeded. There were moments straight out of Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner and To Sir, with Love—awkward encounters, quiet reckonings, and a slow but steady shifting of perspectives. But in the long run, it worked.

I had been given an education, an opportunity my family had never had. My mother, though uneducated, was street-smart. My so-called cousin had been a farm worker, but he owned three four-story brownstone apartments in the Bronx by the time he passed. My father, back in Kingston, was a manager at a major newspaper. They were people who had left their mark on society without formal education. My path was different—I had the education, and now, it was up to me to decide how I would make an impact.

The moment on the bus was the first time I connected the dots. For most of my life, I had seen myself as less than, not more than. Sitting among the West Indian housekeepers and gardeners, I recognized that I had taken a different path, yet I still carried the weight of my origins. How did I escape the trajectory that had been set for me?

That bus ride was an awakening, but the first real turning point had come much earlier. It was Althea Young, my math teacher, who made me believe in my own potential. Over the years, countless small shifts—moments of challenge, encouragement, and realization—helped me embrace my strengths.

My identity was shaped in Kingston, Jamaica, where I learned resilience, determination, and self-respect. But the Bronx was a different world. It was a place where I had to use that identity to survive. I pursued education because it was the only clear path to upward mobility. I had seen firsthand that life was an uphill battle without it.

I was fortunate to have mentors who guided me: Althea Young, Cipe Burtin, and Shelly Weinberg. They saw something in me that I had not yet fully recognized. I wanted to be a university professor, but when that didn't happen, I became a math teacher. It wasn’t the original plan, but looking back, I see it was exactly where I needed to be.

The difference between my education and that of my peers in the Bronx was stark. Many people I grew up with never finished high school, while I eventually earned a graduate degree. My mother supported my education, not because she fully understood its value but because she loved me and wanted the best.

Surprisingly, I never faced resistance from my community. Instead, the pushback came from white people who thought I was arrogant for believing I could compete at their level. But the most valuable thing I inherited from my family was inner strength. My mother was a powerful woman, and most West Indians I knew carried an unshakable determination.

At RCDS, I never experienced discrimination. It was a racially inclusive community where I was accepted and respected. The students loved me, and I became part of the school’s folklore over time. There were many memorable moments, but some of the most striking was when the students became my teachers—especially on the ski slopes, where my incompetence was undeniable, and they were absolute wizards.

My story is proof that there are pockets of America where Black people are not only accepted but nurtured. RCDS was one of those places. Stony Brook was another. While the 1970s had their challenges, things have changed for the better. There are now far more educated Black professionals in all areas of society, and opportunities have expanded in ways that once seemed impossible.

I hope readers take away the lesson from my story: bright minds exist in every corner of the world, across all races and socioeconomic backgrounds. Our future depends on nurturing that brilliance wherever it is found.

My time at RCDS wasn’t just a job—it was a catalyst. The relationships I built there led me to my next role at IBM, and my impact on students continued far beyond the classroom. Many of them have told me that I changed their lives by teaching math and being an example of what was possible.

If I could speak to my younger self on that bus in 1974, I would tell him to stay the course. There is good news for you in the future.

A Jamaican Experience: The Chicken Bones of Change

By: Baron Stewart

choosing to teach at Rockland Country Day School (RCDS) was a breakthrough in my life. The school, the relationships I built, and my experiences there continue to shape me today. From the moment I arrived, I was a hit. I joined the mathematics department, became the assistant soccer coach, and took most of the school’s 100 students skiing in the winter. I even introduced them to Swing and Sway with Stewart, where I taught these suburban, upper-middle-class white kids how to dance to Jamaican music. They loved everything I did. They loved me. By the end of my first year, I was voted Teacher of the Year by the students.

I was so popular that I was invited into students' homes and made lifelong friends. One such invitation came from Larry Khan, our school’s soccer goalkeeper, and his younger sister, Stephanie. Larry was about 16, and Stephanie was around 14. They wanted their lawyer father to meet the exciting Black teacher who was making waves at their school.

When I arrived at their home in New City, Rockland County, I was struck by its opulence. Despite my education, I wasn’t used to such grand surroundings. Larry and Stephanie beamed excitedly as I stepped inside while their father handed me a glass of red wine.

“How’s the wine?” he asked.

I hesitated. I wasn’t sure. Back in Jamaica, wine wasn’t a part of my world. I had no reference point. So I answered honestly: “I don’t know.”

It wasn’t the answer he expected. He was looking for something simple—It’s excellent!—but I had nothing to compare it to. I could feel the moment shift, an invisible gap between his world and mine.

Trying to bridge that gap, he asked, “What did you study in graduate school?”

“Algebraic topology,” I answered.

“What’s that?”

I launched into a detailed explanation, but I could see their faces glazing over. I was losing them. I was fluent in the language of mathematics, but I had no way to translate my knowledge into something accessible. It was another moment when I felt the sharp edges of unfamiliar terrain—where what I knew wasn’t enough.

Then came dinner.

To my delight, they served chicken—a mountain of chicken. My mind flashed back to my childhood in Jamaica, where a single small piece of chicken was all I could expect for dinner. Here, there was an abundance, and I wasted no time. I reached for two large pieces—legs and thighs—and dug in.

But it wasn’t just the meat I craved. The bones held the richest flavors, soaked in the gravy's juices. Back home, chewing the bones was a delicacy, a treat I relished. So, as I ate, I savored every bit, cracking the bones and enjoying their familiar taste.

Then, I noticed the silence.

When I looked up, the entire table was staring at me. Embarrassed, my eyes darted away—except for Stephanie, who finally broke the silence.

“You’re eating the bones?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yes. Don’t you?”

In unison, the entire table replied: “No! We don’t.”

A wave of shame washed over me. I was the odd one out, caught in an unfamiliar world with unfamiliar rules.

At that moment, I had a choice. I could retreat and return to the comfort of my Jamaican community, where I knew the rules and no one would stare at me for eating chicken bones or not knowing wine. Or I could step forward into the unknown, where I was vulnerable but where I could also grow.

I wanted to let you know that I chose to move forward.

That dinner table moment became more than just an awkward memory—it became my signature story. Later in my career as a public speaker, I used it to highlight the obstacles that prevent change from happening in corporations. Change is uncomfortable. It means stepping into situations where you don’t know the rules, where you might be embarrassed, and where you feel like an outsider. But if we let our safety nets turn into anchors, we remain trapped.

People often ask me how I learned to navigate cultural differences without losing myself. The truth? I didn’t have a grand strategy. At first, it was pure intuition. Over time, the experience became my guide. I reflected on each moment and each challenge and decided whether change meant moving toward the person I wanted to become. Sometimes, I chose wrong. Other times, those choices built the life I have today.

For anyone stepping into an unfamiliar world, here’s what I know: The longer you can tolerate the discomfort of uncertainty and disorientation, the greater your chance of succeeding. I am always an outsider—but that has never been a disadvantage. Being an outsider gives you fresh eyes. It allows you to question what others accept without thought. It creates opportunities for transformation.

The biggest obstacle to change—whether in individuals or organizations—is past success. We cling to what worked before, rarely questioning whether it will work in the future. That’s why I constantly challenge my mental models. I ask myself: Is this still true? Is this still serving me? Does this apply in my new environment?

My career has expanded because I learned to sit in discomfort. And I try to teach that to my students, too.

I will always be Jamaican. Even though I am now an American citizen with all the privileges that come with it, my roots remain strong. The key to balancing identity and growth is not rigid rules but in the dance—evaluating each step and moment and making a choice.

And sometimes, it means eating the bones.

A Jamaican Adventure: My Decision to Leave Graduate School and Get a Job

By: Baron Stewart

I was on the brink of celebrating a hard-won academic milestone—the Comprehensive exam success and an invitation to pursue a PhD in mathematics—when Lennette came home with life-altering news. Her company was relocating to North Carolina, and just like that, she lost her job. While I had the comfort of a university stipend, her steady income held our world together. At that moment, the future we had built together trembled on the edge of collapse.

Determined not to let us fall apart, I took on more responsibility. I arranged to meet with the department chair and another professor on weekends, dedicating my weekdays to work and study. I believed I could balance it all, remembering the long hours of solitary research during my undergraduate days. I was convinced this sacrifice was necessary—until years later, when Lennette’s quiet confession shattered that belief. She told me that had I sought her counsel, she would have found another job. My decision, made in the mistaken belief that she was weary of working and that it was my turn to contribute more, had cost us dearly. I clung to her out of gratitude for four years of unwavering support, even as the distance between us grew.

I still recall the day after her solitary return from Canada. With a hesitant vulnerability, she asked, “Baron, how would you feel if you had sex with someone else?” The question, charged with unspoken pain, forced me to confront the guilt of my past infidelities—a guilt that had quietly festered between us. Her words exposed my casual acceptance of betrayal at that moment, mirroring her secret doubts. It was a confession that cut more profound than any argument.

Haunted by the twin losses of our crumbling relationship and our precarious financial future, I set out to secure my first real job. At Friends School in Brooklyn, the headmaster greeted me with a challenge: a puzzle that had confounded his entire mathematics department. My pulse quickened as I recognized the pattern—a familiar echo from my days at Stony Brook—and solved it immediately. The offer was immediate, yet another door was about to open.

Drawn by an inexplicable pull, I drove to Rockland Country Day School in Nyack for a second interview. The long, winding driveway of its stunning campus stirred something within me—it wasn’t a university, but it felt like a small college brimming with possibility. There, I met Jean Lythcott, the dynamic headmistress whose fiery spirit and keen determination lit up the room. She shared her vision of transforming the perspectives of privileged children—many of whom knew little of the realities and triumphs of black professionalism. In her eyes, I saw a call to action, a chance to be a living example of the excellence our community could achieve.

In that transformative moment, I chose a path that promised a job and a chance to redefine our narrative. I accepted the position at Rockland Country Day School and left behind the familiar offer from Brooklyn, stepping into a future filled with both hope and the bittersweet lessons of loss.

I believed I’d chosen the right path for almost forty years—until a chance reunion with Lennette shattered that certainty. In our quiet reconnection, she gently reminded me that while I’d seemingly completed my studies and was ready to work, she never truly understood the arduous, soul-stretching journey of the PhD process. That misinterpretation set me on a collision course. For an entire year, I struggled to juggle the relentless demands of a new job with preparing for my oral exams, and the weight of that impossible balancing act nearly broke me.

In hindsight, I now see that the root of our fractured relationship lies in our diverging worlds. Lennette, tethered to the comforting traditions of her Trinidadian past, longed for familiarity and the rhythms of a life she knew. On the other hand, I was drawn to the vast, challenging promise of mainstream America—a world where I believed I could truly belong. I have since understood that careers and relationships can flourish when built on shared values and deliberate planning, ensuring neither partner is left behind.

Much of my guilt settled in the quiet aftermath of our divorce when solitude granted me the space to reflect. Lennette was a good wife, shaped by her mother's lessons, yet she could not bridge the gap between her deeply rooted world and the future I so desperately chased. In retrospect, I recognize that marrying as a college sophomore—compounded by my assumption of impending fatherhood—was a decision born more of youthful idealism and a misplaced sense of duty than of true readiness.

Yet, through it all, my passion for teaching and the elegant challenge of mathematics never wavered. Solving puzzles and playing math games became my refuge—a steady reminder of who I was and who I longed to become. That pivotal challenge, the puzzle at my first job interview, epitomized my knack for problem-solving and symbolized the calm under pressure that has served me well even today.

Though I once paid dearly for a hasty decision, I am grateful for the unexpected gifts it brought: resilience, self-awareness, and the enduring lesson that every choice shapes us, for better or worse.

A Jamaican Adventure: Getting Invited into the PhD Program

By: Baron Stewart

My second year of graduate school marked a profound transformation—in my physical environment and inner life. The mathematics department had moved into a stunning new brown tower on the main campus, a structure of beauty and promise framed by sweeping green trees. For the first time, I had an office on the third floor that granted me the privacy I had long craved; I could lock myself away and work without interruption, a stark contrast to the cramped conditions of the old building.

In that quiet haven, fate introduced me to Lorretta Gerardi—my office mate, guide, and, over time, a lifelong friend and older sister. Just a year after my senior year, Loretta had already navigated the arduous path of comprehensive and oral exams. With gentle persistence, she encouraged me to rebuild my academic foundation from scratch, to move beyond rote memorization, and to truly understand the essence of algebra, geometry, and especially real and complex analysis. Whenever I was in pain or afraid to face the daunting challenges of graduate life, I offered solace and wisdom. Confronting my graduate program was just the first of many trials where her guidance led me toward success.

Yet, the journey was far from smooth. While I excelled in Algebra and Topology, Real and Complex Analysis presented a different challenge. This realm demanded memorization and a deep, intrinsic understanding of complex ideas. With the looming Comprehensive Exams of June 1974, the pressure intensified. Then, the mentorship of the department chairman, an expert in Real Analysis, became my lifeline. He taught me to break down these intricate concepts into their simplest forms and gradually rebuild them into the abstractions I needed to master. His approach underscored a fundamental truth: deep understanding, not mere memorization, is the key to success.

I vividly recall the day of the oral exam. My nerves got the better of me initially, and I stumbled over my words under the weight of expectation. But as the minutes ticked by, my mentor’s quiet confidence in my abilities bolstered my own. Slowly, my composure returned with each answer, and my understanding shone through. By the end of nearly two grueling hours, I had not only passed the exam. Still, I had also affirmed my identity as a mathematician—a scholar willing to embrace vulnerability to achieve true mastery.

Years later, when I left graduate school only to yearn for the completion of my PhD, I reached out to him once more. Without hesitation, he welcomed me back, reaffirming the enduring power of mentorship and the belief that deep understanding is built gradually through perseverance and honest inquiry.

In the quiet solitude of that new tower, under the gentle guidance of Lorretta and the steadfast support of my mentor, I learned that true mastery comes not from memorizing facts but from dismantling complexity into simple truths and rebuilding oneself with clarity, purpose and passion.

A Jamaican Adventure: Pain, Confusion and a Broken Marriage

By: Baron Stewart

In 1972, I entered the mathematics department at Stony Brook, riding a high from my undergraduate successes, confident that I could replicate my past achievements. However, I was quickly plunged into a world where discussions of Algebraic Geometry, Algebraic Topology, and Differential Geometry left me bewildered and insecure. I vividly recall sitting with a professor for an hour and a half, hoping that a slower pace would reveal clarity—only to leave more confused than before. The stark realization that brilliant peers outmatched me filled me with paralyzing self-doubt, and the pressure of impending comprehensive exams in Algebra, Real Analysis, Complex Analysis, and Topology loomed over me.

To regain control, I turned to pursuits that made me feel competent. I became an excellent tennis player and started beating many of my fellow graduate students at chess—small victories that temporarily masked my academic inadequacies. I also found solace in the small but vibrant Jamaican community at Stony Brook. Lister, an undergraduate who played Reggae on the university radio every Saturday, introduced me to a world of lively Saturday Reggae parties and Thursday night dances at Chesters with the Full Hand Reggae Band. I reconnected with William Fowler Thomas, a fellow PhD student from KC, and through these friendships, I discovered a support system that helped me navigate the overwhelming new environment.

Despite the warmth of these social circles, I spent my first year focused primarily on preserving my mental health rather than catching up academically. I deliberately avoided confronting the challenging coursework, using my newfound hobbies and community ties to cover up my fear of failure. An even more profound crisis was unfolding in my personal life. At the same time, my marriage to Lennette was unraveling. While I was immersing myself in the vibrant and unpredictable world of Stony Brook, Lennette clung to her life in Manhattan—cherishing weekends spent with her mother and sister and yearning to recapture the past. Our lives, once intertwined, were diverging. We would come together for only a few hours each night, a paltry overlap compared to the dynamic future I was beginning to embrace. Her offhand remark that if she hadn’t known me before, she wouldn’t even speak to me now pierced me, confirming that our dreams and identities had irreparably parted ways.

Toward the end of that first turbulent year, a critical insight emerged: many around me had the luxury of failing and trying again, cushioned by family safety nets, while I had none. With the second year upon me and the threat of disaster imminent, I made a bold decision. I struck an unusual deal with the head of the math department: I would teach him tennis in exchange for his mentorship in math. This unconventional arrangement bolstered my academic confidence and led to a pivotal advisor-mentee relationship that ultimately helped me pass my comprehensive exams.

Reflecting on this period, I realize I never overcame my self-doubt by simply banishing it; instead, I learned to confront it head-on. I discovered that the academic and personal struggles were not signs of failure but catalysts for growth. My journey taught me that running from your challenges only deepens their grip and that embracing the discomfort of transformation can pave the way to an unexpected yet profound breakthrough. My message to anyone facing seemingly insurmountable obstacles is to stay present, face your fears, and trust that every painful loss can lead to a brighter, more authentic future.

Meanwhile, my marriage to Lennette was unraveling as new chapters of my life unfolded. We had gradually drifted into two parallel existences with little overlap. While Lennette worked in Manhattan—spending weekends with her mother and sister—I was immersed in the vibrant, expansive world of Stoney Brook, meeting new people and discovering the benefits of life in mainstream America. Our time together shrank to a few fleeting hours each night and sporadic weekends, hardly enough to bridge the growing gap between us. Lennette yearned to return to the past, clinging to familiar comforts, while hunger for the future drove me.

Our divergent paths became even more apparent when we moved from our apartment to share a house with two graduate students, Carol and Leslie Lasker, from South Africa. Leslie was pursuing his PhD in Physics, and Carol was working toward hers in English—a living testament to Stoney Brook’s spirit of inclusiveness. We devised a plan for Lennette to earn a degree at Hunter College in New York to foster growth. I would mentor her in math, Carol in English, and Leslie in science. Lennette, a devoted and capable secretary, embraced her studies to broaden her skills. Yet, even as we all sought to expand our horizons, it became painfully clear that our aspirations were pulling us in different directions.

One day, Lennette remarked that if she hadn’t known me before, she might not even speak to me now—a comment that resonated deeply. She believed all I needed to do was keep her stimulated and engaged while she managed the finer details of our life together. Reflecting on her words, I recognized that my need for stimulation was being met elsewhere—through the new people, experiences, and opportunities I encountered at Stoney Brook. Our differing dreams, values, and lifestyles had created a rift too wide to bridge without compromising who we are.

In the end, I came to believe that no amount of compromise could reconcile our fundamental differences. My experience has taught me that sharing core values and aspirations with your significant other is essential before embarking on the journey of marriage.

A Jamaican Aventure: A Visit to Jamaica as a Tourist

By: Baron Stewart

Back to Jamaica

In 1973, after graduating from LIU, My beautiful Latvian friend, Elsa, had just returned from a vacation in Jamaica and was singing its praises. “Everything is more beautiful in Jamaica than anywhere else in the world. My vacation in Negril was the best I’ve ever taken.”

As Elsa described the white sand beaches, cascading waterfalls, and decadent resorts, I stood there, spellbound, yearning for the experiences she relayed. A wave of envy washed over me. Despite my childhood in Kingston, she had tasted more of Jamaica's fruits than I ever had. I had only heard whispers of these wonders but never felt their embrace. At the end of our conversation, I decided to return to Jamaica, this time as a tourist, and finally claim the beauty of my birthplace.

I booked a ticket to Montego Bay on Air Jamaica, eager to taste that Jamaican flavor from the moment I stepped onto the plane. But at Kennedy Airport, my excitement was met with chaos—Air Jamaica was on strike. The terminal buzzed with angry travelers shouting about lost vacation time and threatening lawsuits. I sat quietly in a corner, fearing my long-awaited homecoming might slip through my fingers. As despair set in, my travel agent called with a lifeline: despite the strike, her agency had secured a chartered plane for us. Relief flooded me, and I was boarding an Air Canada 707 soon. My earlier frustration faded as flight attendants greeted us with drinks and snacks. I let my mind drift to fantasies of warm sun, rich food, and the intoxicating rhythms of reggae filling the air.

We landed first in Kingston, my hometown. Ordinarily, I would have disembarked, but this time, I had a different journey ahead. I stepped off the plane momentarily to call friends, only to witness a scene of sheer desperation. Stranded tourists, furious over the strike, surged toward our aircraft. By the time I returned, they had taken over the plane.

“If you don’t have a ticket, you must leave!” a flight attendant shouted.

No one budged. The flight attendant tried another tactic. “Jamaicans, please exit and give your seats to visitors.”

For a brief moment, I considered it. But my luggage was already on board, and this was my journey—I wasn't giving up my seat. The standoff might have lasted all night had it not been for a sudden outburst.

“Are you crazy?” the flight attendant shrieked, pointing at a man casually smoking. “We’re sitting on gallons of gasoline! Your cigarette could blow us all up!”

That was all it took. The tourists scrambled off the plane, and soon, we were airborne again, headed for Montego Bay.

Arriving late that night at a dark and quiet airport, I retrieved my luggage and searched for a ride to Negril. But I quickly found myself caught between two identities. When I approached the bus drivers, they hesitated. I looked like a tourist, but I spoke like a Jamaican. I could see one of them sizing me up, weighing whether to charge me the high tourist fare or the local price. This moment took me back to my childhood in Kingston, where how you were treated depended on whether people perceived you as poor or middle class. Exhausted, irritated, and unwilling to be cheated, I let a few well-placed Jamaican curse words fly. That settled it—I got the local price.

As we traveled, the distant sound of waves lapping against the shore lulled me into a dreamlike state. I could barely believe it—I was going to Negril, where everything goes. On the outside, I was a tourist. But on the inside, I was still that little boy from the shantytowns of Kingston, lonely and unwelcome.

Then, a sudden jolt. The bus swerved violently. Before I could register what had happened, I heard a sickening crunch—‘Squash, squash!’ Looking out the window, I saw crushed crabs littering the road behind us. The driver chuckled, humming to the gospel music on the radio as he deliberately steered toward more crabs crossing from the beach. My stomach turned. The irony was unbearable: a man praising the Lord while finding joy in needless destruction.

When we arrived at the Hedonism Resort, the other passengers disembarked, but I had no accommodations. Sensing my predicament, the driver offered to take me to a friend’s hotel further down the beach. At the front desk, the clerk barely looked at me before declaring, “Sold out.” But we both knew he was lying. He didn’t want to give a poor Jamaican a room in a resort. The driver intervened. “Give the Mon a place, Mon.” Reluctantly, the clerk handed me a key. Once again, I felt like a stranger in my own home.

The following day, the sunlight streaming through my window was dazzling. Outside, the tropical flowers exploded in red, yellow, and green shades. This—this was the Jamaica Elsa had described. Giddy, I rushed to the front desk to extend my stay. The clerk studied my passport and grinned.

“You’re not a local, Mon,” he announced. “You must pay the tourist rate.”

I argued, but he was firm. The price I had paid the night before was a mistake. My new rate would be double. With a bitter chuckle, I realized that while being a tourist had its perks, it also came at a cost.

Determined to find a cheaper place, I wandered onto the beach. The scent of ackee and saltfish drifted through the air, pulling me toward a woman cooking over an open fire. I ordered a plate and ate greedily, the taste unlocking childhood memories I hadn’t revisited in years.

“You know a place I can stay?” I asked between bites.

“Miss Mary will take care of you,” she assured me.

Following her directions, I arrived at a small compound of wooden huts. A warm, heavyset woman greeted me with a broad smile.

“You can stay here, Mon,” she said.

She showed me a simple hut and gestured to an outdoor shower and an outhouse. “Where can I keep my passport?” I asked.

“Safe with me,” she promised.

I handed over my traveler’s checks and passport, trusting her instantly. She smiled and offered a final word of advice.

“Keep safe, Mon.”

As I walked toward the beach, reggae rhythms and the scent of jerk chicken filled the air. The sun was setting, casting the sky in brilliant hues of orange and pink. I had returned to Jamaica. But whether as a tourist or a native, I still wasn't sure.

A Jamaican Adventure: New York Lessons

By: Baron Stewart

New York Lessons

Starting my educational journey at Washington Business Institute was never part of the plan. Still, it became necessary—Ronnie and I needed student visas to remain in the United States. The institute was located on the second floor of a building on the southwestern corner of Washington Square near 14th Street in New York City. We had no genuine interest in learning to type or keep books—if I were to be blunt, we thought it was beneath us. We were KC boys, destined to be dentists and college professors, not office clerks.

But if there was one thing that made attending the institute worthwhile, it was the women—beautiful West Indian women studying to be secretaries in the metropolis of New York City. That was the real education I was getting at Washington Business Institute. My mother’s advice had always been to treat women well, and she was right—women responded to me throughout my life. Maybe it was because I had longed for my mother’s love as a child, and in many ways, I sought to fill that missing affection through my relationships. So I was always ready—maybe too ready—for new adventures with beautiful women.

At the same time, my arrogance showed itself in unexpected ways. While working as an elevator operator, I found myself surrounded by people who would retire as bell captains or senior maids—jobs I never imagined for myself. To set me up, my coworkers told me about a beautiful girl who worked next door at the Chock Full of Nuts coffee shop. They even arranged for us to meet. But in my arrogance, I dismissed the idea outright—how could I date a girl who worked in a coffee shop? I failed to acknowledge the irony: I was an elevator operator, and my mother was a maid. This arrogance was one of the legacies of attending KC. We were taught to be unique boys, destined to change the world. It is interesting how youth messages shape how we see ourselves in the world.

Looking back now, I no longer tie my identity to my work. I still want a respectable job, but I no longer look down on others who might be doing something "less attractive." New York humbled me in many ways, and I learned that work—any work—is just one part of a person’s identity.

Other messages filled my head while I attended Washington Business Institute. My father always said, If you can’t be good, be careful, while my mother told me that if I treated women well, they would like me. The last thing I looked for at the institute was an education, but the women were beautiful, and all I could see was the possibility of adventure. And adventure was exactly what I found—sometimes thrilling, sometimes dangerous.

One Sunday night, I was on my way to pick up a date, a stunning girl from the institute who lived somewhere in Brooklyn. Even though I lived in the Bronx, I partied in Brooklyn because most West Indians lived there. It was dusk, and I was walking beneath the elevated train line. The Street was empty—at least, I thought it was. Suddenly, behind the steel structures supporting the train tracks, a group of young boys jumped out and surrounded me. I was about to be mugged. Just as they moved in, a city bus pulled up. Without hesitation, I jumped on and rode past them, escaping disaster by the skin of my teeth.

These late-night episodes find me often. Living in the Bronx and partying in Brooklyn meant I was constantly negotiating my way home in the early morning, sometimes half-asleep, sometimes just plain reckless. I would doze off on the train many nights and miss my stop, waking up at the last station on the Number 6 line. One night, as I rubbed my eyes and prepared to get off, I saw another man sleeping across from me. Before he could wake up, a stranger jumped onto the train, rifled through his pockets, and stole everything he had. The man was too drunk to resist. I ran off the train before I became the next target.

Another time, I was changing trains at 42nd Street when a drunk man was trying to get off. Somehow, his jacket got caught in the subway doors. The train started moving, dragging him along the platform. I watched in horror as he broke free and fell head-first onto the tracks. I thought he was dead. Panicked, I ran upstairs to find a police officer, but none were in sight. By the time I returned, a few other people had managed to pull him off the tracks. He staggered away, barely mumbling a thank you.

There were strange encounters, too. Late one night, I was walking in the Village when a man in a white van pulled up beside me.

"Are you cruising?" he asked.

"Cruising? What is cruising?" I responded.

"If you don’t know what it is, then you’re doing it," he said before leaving me utterly confused. I later realized that he thought that I was a male prostitute and was ready to get me in the back of his van.

But the one time I truly felt fear in New York City was a Saturday night around 2 a.m. I was walking home from the train station when a man in a car pulled up next to me. He didn’t say a word. He just drove slowly beside me, matching my pace. I kept walking, pretending not to notice. Block after block, he stayed beside me, silent and deliberate. My heart pounded, but I forced myself to keep calm. After two long blocks, he suddenly drove away. The reality hit me then—if he had wanted to harm me, there would have been no one around to see it.

And yet, despite the chaos and close calls, my most incredible adventures still revolved around women.

Fay Wright was one of them. A stunning Jamaican beauty, she arrived in New York in the summer of 1967 to visit a friend at Washington Business Institute. The first time I saw her, she was sitting in the institute’s lobby—tall, long-legged, with short brown hair and strikingly light skin. She was a knockout. When she smiled at me, I took my chance, sat beside her, and began a passionate summer romance.

Fay was a teacher in Jamaica, and as the summer ended, she asked me if I wanted her to stay with me in New York. I wanted to say yes. Every part of me wanted her to stay. But I could hear my father’s voice: A man should marry a woman younger than himself. That summer, I was 20, and Fay was 25.

So, I said no.

That might have been one of my biggest mistakes. Fay and I kept in touch for many years, and I visited her in Jamaica several times. But after that summer, we were never intimate again. Even though she wasn’t as physically striking as she had been in her younger years, I still missed her lively personality. If I could talk to my 20-year-old self, I would tell him, Marry Fay, and build your future with her.

In the end, I did follow my father’s advice—I married the love of my life, and she was seven years younger than me. But I have since realized that not all of my father’s advice was wise. His words nearly got me killed once as a child when I panicked during a swimming test because I could hear his voice warning me against going into deep water.

The KC mindset was, in many ways, the Jamaican mindset. Jamaicans, by and large, think they are unique—it’s a fake-it-till-you-make-it attitude. We walk with confidence, and the world tends to agree with us. I did achieve the level of success I envisioned—at least three times in my life—but that’s a story for another time.

I could not have stayed in Jamaica. I am a man of the world. I want to know, feel, and experience more than any country can provide.

A Jamaican Adventure: My Experience with Racism in America

By: Baron Stewart

A Life Under Suspicion, A Life of Strength

I arrived in New York in the late 1960s with hope and the belief that my greatest challenge would be poverty. I was a poor boy from Jamaica, ready to work hard and eager to build a future. I knew I might face discrimination, but nothing could have prepared me for the brutality of racism in America—not just its presence but its viciousness.

The first time I felt it cut deep was at an ear, nose, and throat clinic on 3rd Avenue in Manhattan. The doctor’s blatant racism shocked me, but it also awakened something inside me. From that moment on, I was on full alert, my mind scanning every interaction for danger. And it found plenty.

Walking the streets of the Bronx was a risk. People hurled insults—and sometimes more. I remember passing under an apartment building when someone above dropped a plant, narrowly missing me. One night, a Hispanic man saw me approaching, panicked, and pulled a knife, swinging wildly at me, assuming I meant him harm. Another day, while changing trains at a crowded subway station, a white man suddenly decided I was a thief and chased me, screaming obscenities, up the stairs. He was relentless, but I was young and fast. He finally gave up, panting and cursing, threatening to call the police.

But it was the police themselves who were the real danger.

One night, I took a taxi home from Fordham Road in the Bronx to Noble Avenue, where I lived with my mother. Without warning, flashing lights filled the car. Two officers jumped out. One aimed a gun at me through the back window.

"Is he holding you up?" the cop barked at the driver.

I froze. I was 19 years old. I had just arrived in this country, and now I might die in the back of a cab because some officer had decided I was a criminal. I turned to the second cop, my voice steady but desperate.

"Why would you think I’m holding him up?"

He didn’t answer. He just stared at me, then turned away, his gun still in hand.

These encounters didn’t stop as I got older, worked, and built a life.

In 1968, when the New York Jets won the Super Bowl, it was one of the most significant moments in New York’s history. At the time, I worked as an elevator operator in a Manhattan hotel, trying to save money for my first year of college tuition. The hotel's penthouse housed an exclusive club, and the owners were eager to celebrate the Jets’ win with a massive party.

One evening, as I ferried them up to the 32nd floor, I overheard them discussing who they should invite.

"We want to get Joe Namath to come," one said.
"No, he’s too big. We can’t get him," the other replied.
"Who else was a star in the game?"
"Matt Snell."
"But he’s Black."
"We don’t want him."
"What about Emerson Boozer?"
"Black, too."
"Forget him."

They continued searching for a white player they could invite as if the Black men who had helped win the game didn’t count.

When we reached the 32nd floor, they noticed I was in the elevator, listening. Their voices tensed, and they awkwardly tried to justify themselves.

I looked at them calmly and said, "Whatever you say, sir."

But inside, I thought: You didn’t seem to mind having plenty of Black men around in the army.

That moment stuck with me—not just because of the casual racism, but because it showed me how deep the exclusion ran. Even in triumph, even when Black men had helped bring home the most significant victory in sports, they were still unworthy of celebration.

Years later, I would see this same pattern over and over again.

Even after earning my place in society, I was still a suspect. I moved to California and worked as a mathematics professor at the University of Phoenix. One day, I drove to a client’s home in the upscale neighborhood of Pacific Palisades, parking outside while I waited for them to arrive. I sat in my Mercedes-Benz, listening to music and enjoying the afternoon.

Then I noticed a neighbor drive by slowly, eyes locked on me.

Thirty minutes later, five police cars surrounded me.

Before they could pounce, my client pulled up. She leaped out of her car, screaming at the officers.

"What are you doing? This is a college professor you’re harassing!"

Without a word, the police returned to their cars and drove away.

For years, I had walked away from hate, from danger, from assumptions that could cost me my life. I had learned to stay calm when my blood burned. To endure when my dignity was under attack. But I never let these experiences poison my heart.

Along the way, I met incredible white men and women—mentors, colleagues, friends—who saw me for who I was. I never let my experiences with racism make me bitter toward good people, Black or white. I knew the difference.

At first, I carried my calculus book everywhere, eager to prove I was intelligent, respectable, and worthy. But over time, I realized I didn’t need to prove anything. I learned to negotiate my life away from hateful people and to walk my oath.

Now, I live in Portugal, where I find much less of the blatant racism that defined my years in America. I smile when confronted with ignorance because I refuse to let it control me.

I saw justice a few times, but I also saw a system designed to crush people like me. Martin Luther King Jr. was killed. Malcolm X was dead. The Kennedys were gone. I felt resigned to the status quo, knowing that for every victory, there was still so much work to be done.

Most white people I tell my story to react with disbelief. They think I must be exaggerating, that it couldn’t have been that bad. But I wasn’t the only one. Many Black people carry stories just like mine.

My wife, a beautiful blonde woman, faced struggles of her own—but never about race. Before we married, my mentor warned me against it, saying that marriage was already difficult without the added burden of racism. But love doesn’t listen to warnings. In time, my wife became more radical than I was, fiercely defending our family as we raised three children together.

If I have one message for the world, it’s this: Stay calm and think. Don’t act out of old prejudices or blind anger. I know how hard that is, especially in America’s political climate today. But I’ve learned that the best revenge against hate is to live with dignity, to stand tall, and never to let it break your spirit.

I never let them break mine.

A Jamaican Experience: Coming To America

By: Baron Stewart

A New Life in America

In the summer of 1966, it was time to leave Kingston College (KC) and move to America to live with my mother. I had completed the General Certificate of Education (GCE) in mathematics, physics, and chemistry at the ordinary level, along with mathematics at the advanced level. With these credentials, I could gain admission to an average college in the United States.

However, I was hesitant to leave. I felt deeply attached to Molly, my first love and the thought of parting from her weighed heavily on me. We promised to write and keep in touch, and I held on to the hope that we would see each other again someday. Years later, we did—at a reggae concert on Long Island.

At the same time, I dreamed of an extraordinary life in America. I imagined it as a land of opportunity, where money flowed freely, and the streets were paved with gold. But I also knew there were warnings.

Patrick, a Trinidadian dancer who lived at the top of Clovelly Road, right behind KC's back gate, had already made the journey to America. He returned with troubling stories of mistreatment. He told us that the only place he saw equality for Black men was in the Turkish baths—where many Black men were homosexuals, something considered a major taboo in Jamaica at the time. His words were a warning, but Ronnie and I didn’t listen.

We had a future to build. Ronnie would become a dentist, and I aspired to be a college professor. He was coming to live with my mother and me in the Bronx, and together, we set out to raise the money for his plane ticket. Once we had it, we would be on our way.

Arriving in New York

When Ronnie and I arrived in New York in the summer of 1966, my mother, Griselda, lived on Noble Avenue in the Soundview section of the Bronx. Her new home was just around the corner from Rosedale Avenue, where she had lived when I first visited in 1964 to see the World's Fair.

By then, my mother had become Griselda Mackey, having married a man to secure her American permanent residency. However, she lived with a taxi driver, Mr. Brown, who had a wife in Jamaica.

I liked Mr. Brown. He was a jovial, large man who seemed to be a good partner for my mother. He carried himself with an easygoing warmth, and I was grateful that he kept my mother safe. But beyond that, he had little influence on my life.

We lived in a nicely furnished three-bedroom apartment, its living room adorned with plastic covers on all the furniture—a detail that immediately stood out to me.

My first impression of New York was one of awe but also disappointment. It was massive, bright, and full of life, but it wasn’t the paradise I had imagined. Life in the Bronx felt strange. We were among the few Black people in a primarily white neighborhood, and the atmosphere was tense. People refused to sit next to me on the train. The police targeted me on several occasions. Racism was rampant in 1966 America, and though I will write about those experiences later, there were too many to include in this section.

The relationship with my mother was complicated—a love-hate dynamic. She loved me but also resented me in ways I didn’t fully understand.

Work, Tragedy, and Change

Roy and Cherry lived across the street on Noble Avenue with their two daughters, Renee and Mellody. They also had a tenant, Mr. Paysley. Roy and Cherry ran a car upholstery business in Lower Manhattan, while Mr. Paysley owned a foreign car repair shop nearby.

Ronnie loved working with Roy and Cherry, and because Roy’s last name was also McLean, he felt a special bond with him. There was a sense of connection, almost like they were distant family.

During our first weeks in New York, Ronnie enthusiastically took to his work, helping out at the upholstery shop. Meanwhile, I went with Mr. Paysley, who was assisting at his repair shop. Mr. Pasley specialized in repairing and selling Jaguars, and it was always exciting to ride around with him in those sleek, powerful cars.

But our time in these jobs was short-lived. Not long after Mr. Paysley’s teenage nephew arrived from Jamaica to work at the shop, tragedy struck. He was working on a car when the vehicle caught fire. He was trapped and burned to death.

His death changed everything. The repair shop never felt the same again. Work slowed, and the energy that had once filled the place seemed to vanish. We learned very little about either business because, after that tragedy, everything stopped.

My mother, always resourceful, found Ronnie and me jobs as elevator operators in a Manhattan hotel. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was steady work, and for now, that was enough.

Then, just as we were settling into our new reality, Ronnie received devastating news from Jamaica—his teenage girlfriend was pregnant. He had no choice but to return home at the end of the summer to take responsibility for his child. Just like that, our plans of building a new life together in America had to pause because he had to return to Jamaica to take on the responsibilities of a teenage father.

A Mother’s Love and a Harsh Reality

Later that summer, I caught a nasty cold that wouldn’t disappear. My mother, who was working three jobs at the time, became very concerned. She barely had time to rest, yet she still made sure to take care of me.

Her daily routine was grueling. She started each morning around 6 a.m., cleaning a doctor’s office on Park Avenue before heading to Manhattan, where she worked as a maid in a hotel. She cleaned another office in the evening before finally returning home to cook dinner. Despite her exhausting schedule, my illness alarmed her enough that she arranged for the Park Avenue doctor to see me.

I went with her to his office, and after examining me, he agreed—I had a severe upper respiratory condition and needed to see a specialist. He referred me to the ear, nose, and throat clinic just around the corner from his office on Third Avenue.

My mother and I went to the clinic as instructed. After checking in, we gave our names and the name of the doctor we were waiting for. Then, we sat and waited—for at least an hour.

Eventually, a nurse appeared and asked us if we were sure we were there to see the specialist she worked for. We assured her we were, but she seemed skeptical. After another 30 minutes, my name was finally called, and we were told where to find the specialist’s office.

We took the elevator to the third floor. As we stepped off, a man suddenly emerged from the shadows before we could even reach the office door. His presence was sharp and abrupt. He glared at us and demanded, “Where did you get my name?”

My mother panicked. I had never seen her like that before—so nervous, so servile. Her voice shook as she pleaded, “My boss, the doctor from Park Avenue, gave me your name. My son is very sick, and he thought you could help him.”

She was trembling, overwhelmed by the moment. I stood there in silence, watching.

The man turned to me and barked, “Let me see your ear!”

I turned my head, and he took a glance. Barely a second later, he snapped, “You’re fine. Go home.”

That was it. We hadn’t even reached the door of his office.

The message was clear—he didn’t want people to know he treated Black patients. He wanted no association with us, no chance of his white clientele seeing him provide care to someone like me. I felt humiliated, insulted, and utterly demeaned.

My mother, desperate to help me, had begged this man to see me, and he had tossed me aside like I was nothing. I had experienced racism in many forms since arriving in America, but this was different. This was not a cop harassing me or a stranger refusing to sit beside me on the train—this was a doctor, someone who had taken an oath to heal, openly rejecting me because of my race.

We left, defeated. My mother didn’t say much as we walked out of the building, but I could feel her heartbreak, her helplessness.

Yet, in that moment, I also saw her love. She would do almost anything to keep me safe—even if it meant humbling herself before a man who didn’t see us as human.

I never received proper medical care beyond what my mother could offer at home.

Jamaica in My Heart, America as a Means to an End

No matter how long I stayed in America, I was always a Jamaican. America was never home—it was a means to an end. It was a place of opportunity, but not where I felt I belonged.

Over the years, I experienced countless racist insults and acts of discrimination, far too many to include here. I will write about them separately because they deserve their own space.

However, my perception of America did change over time. It improved during my graduate studies and my career at IBM. During those years, I could carve out a life for myself, achieving things I had once only dreamed of. However, after retiring from IBM, my perception of America began declining. The realities of racism, inequality, and how America treats its aging Black citizens became more apparent than ever.

For all the opportunities it provided, America never truly embraced me, and I never truly embraced it.

A Jamaican Experience: A Journey of Opportunity, Friendship, and Self-Discovery

By: Baron Stewart

A little luck, good timing, and a solid education steered me toward the life I have today—far from the one my father originally planned. My father, the manager of the Linotype department at The Daily Gleaner, Jamaica’s leading newspaper, never had the chance to attend secondary school. During his youth, secondary education in Jamaica wasn’t free, making it inaccessible to most low-income families.

For boys like me, the future was already mapped out—remaining in elementary school until age fourteen, then finding an apprenticeship to learn a trade. My father intended for me to stay at Calabar Elementary for two more years before sending me to the countryside to become a farmer. But that plan was doomed from the start—I was a skinny, timid boy with no actual physical skills and little motivation for manual labor. What I did have was intelligence.

In 1957, everything changed. The Jamaican government introduced the Common Entrance Examination, offering bright but underprivileged children like me a pathway to secondary school. I took the exam for the first time in 1958 and passed, earning a place at Excelsior High School. But my father wasn’t satisfied—he wanted me to attend St. George’s, closer to home. When he failed to get me admitted there, he decided I should retake the exam.

Many middle-class families sent their children to preparatory schools to give them an advantage, but I had no such luxury. Still, in 1959, I sat for the Common Entrance Exam again with little preparation. Once again, I passed—this time earning admission to Kingston College, just a block away from where I lived on Victoria Avenue. That moment changed everything.

The KC Experience: A World of Possibilities

Kingston College was electric. I felt different when I put on my khaki pants, white shirt, and purple-and-white tie. I was no longer just another poor boy from the neighborhood—I was a KC boy with prospects.

For the first time, I was surrounded by students from the upper echelons of Jamaican society. Kingston College structured its students into Forms, from First to Sixth, with the expectation that we would complete our studies in seven years. Each Form was further divided into "streams," ranked by academic performance. The "A" stream was for the younger, exceptionally bright students, while the "Delta" (D) stream was for older, bright students. I was placed in the Delta stream.

Everything at KC was ranked—test scores, class standings, even our place among our peers. Students who finished first or second in their class at the end of each year were publicly recognized at the prize-giving ceremony. Despite my best efforts, I never secured one of those top spots. But I had my moments. In Fourth Form, I ranked first in the entire year in Mathematics, Physics, and Chemistry. My strengths lay in numbers and logic, while I was merely average in English, Latin, and History.

Beyond academics, my school life was profoundly shaped by the friends I surrounded myself with. Two boys, in particular, left a lasting imprint on my journey—William Thomas, known as Fowler, and Trevor Yap Chung.

Fowler: The Fearless Leader

Fowler was the group's de facto leader surrounding the McLean brothers, some of the best athletes at KC. He was from Western Kingston and had a reputation that made him both feared and respected. A childhood stabbing had given him an almost mythical status, and his intimidating presence meant that many students at KC carried extra money just in case Fowler asked for some.

Despite his gangster persona, Fowler was brilliant. He excelled academically and organized cramming sessions before exams, ensuring that those who followed him stayed afloat in school. His last-minute study method worked wonders for him, but it resulted in only average grades for me.

After we graduated in 1966, we lost touch. Years later, I was shocked to run into Fowler at Stony Brook University, where I was pursuing a PhD in Mathematics. He was there, too, working toward a PhD in Chemistry. Some things never changed—he still carried himself like a gangster. Eventually, he was arrested for assaulting another student and left Stony Brook to continue his studies elsewhere.

Our paths crossed one final time in 2000 when Ronnie organized a McLean family reunion. Fowler arrived impeccably dressed in a suit and tie, exuding confidence. With a smirk, he walked up to me and said, "Baron Stewart, the most risk-averse person I know." It was the last time I ever saw him. Shortly after, I heard he had died in an accident.

Trevor: A Friend and a Mentor

If Fowler represented one extreme, Trevor Yap Chung was the opposite. Without a doubt, Trevor was the brightest student at KC—perhaps the most brilliant person I have ever met. He was an A student in every subject, and straight out of KC, he was accepted to Harvard. Though he never attended, I later heard he went on to work for Bell Laboratories.

Trevor wasn’t just intelligent—he was disciplined. When I did well in school, it was because I spent time with him. Unlike Fowler’s cramming method, Trevor believed in studying throughout the year. He showed me that learning wasn’t just about passing tests—it was about curiosity, about pushing the limits of what we could understand.

My Success in the KC Cadet Band

One major success I had at KC was playing in the KC Cadet Band. Ronnie, Lloyd, and I first played the bugle in the marching band, and the following year, Ronnie moved on to play the drums. We loved it. We enjoyed the attention and the pageantry that the marching band gave us.

My big success came when Issac Henry, the faculty member in charge of the Cadet Corps, offered me the role of drum major—the leader who marches in front of the band. I was shocked. I had no confidence to lead anything and declined the offer. To this day, I regret that decision. Instead, Issac Henry offered the drum major position to Barry Pitter, another boy from the Delta stream. Barry accepted and did an excellent job.

Lifelong Bonds and the KC Legacy

Today, I am still connected to the boys from the Delta stream. On the second Sunday of every month, we gather for a Zoom call, keeping up with each other's lives and reminiscing about our KC days. This year, 2025, marks the 100th anniversary of Kingston College, and we plan to reunite in Jamaica to celebrate.

Reflections on a Life Shaped by KC

Kingston College was more than just a school—it was a turning point in my life. It gave me confidence, discipline, and friendships that shaped my journey. The competition, the struggles, and the camaraderie shaped the person I became.

Without KC, I might have followed my father’s plan to become a farmer. Instead, I found a different path filled with knowledge, opportunity, and self-discovery. And for that, I will always be grateful.

A Jamaican Adventure: My Education at Kingston College (KC)

By: Baron Stewart

Winning a scholarship to Kingston College (KC) was the most critical event of my life. Attending KC changed the very fabric of my existence. I was no longer wandering around aimlessly; instead, I gained focus, structure, an incredible support system, and great self-esteem. As a child growing up, I had no direction. I just woke up every morning and went about my day, dealing with whatever came my way. I had no plans or vision for the future. I did not expect to go to college because I did not have the means, and where I lived, no one else did. KC changed all that. From the first day I entered in January 1960, I was surrounded by middle-class and upper-class Jamaican children. I remember one boy being brought to school and picked up by a chauffeur in a limousine. This was far out of the norm for me.

My new environment came with benefits. People in my neighborhood began to look at me a little differently. I was a KC boy. For the first time in my life, I felt respected. The school provided me with books, a rigorous curriculum, and some of the best teachers to guide my development. KC allowed me to transform from an ugly duckling into something I could be proud of.

A typical day in my life during my early KC days would start with a cold shower. We had no hot running water. The shower at Mrs. Maxwell's boarding house was a stand-alone structure with zinc walls and a partially open roof in the backyard. When I showered at around 6:30 am each morning, the water was so cold that I had to muster all my determination to venture under it. I would sing and jump up and down to distract myself from the discomfort. After a quick breakfast of tea and bread, I would rush to school in my khaki short pants, shirt, and purple and white tie—the uniform for KC boys.

School started at 8:00 am with a KC chapel service where we sang hymns, prayed, and received daily announcements. Next, we were off to our homeroom, where we had all our classes. When a teacher entered the room, the students were expected to stand until they indicated they could sit. The teachers taught from a platform at the front of the room, and we were scheduled to be on our best behavior at all times or suffer the consequences. Discipline at KC was strict. Any code of conduct violation was dealt with swiftly, often with detention or a trip to the assistant principal’s office, where you would get caned. The rule was four strokes for a standard offense and six for exceptional misbehavior. None of us liked the caning, but we understood its purpose. It was better to endure that momentary pain than risk losing my scholarship or being kicked out of school entirely. I knew how much of a privilege it was to be there. So many others were waiting for the same opportunity, and I could not let it slip away.

The personalities of the faculty at KC were larger than life to a small boy like me. First and foremost was the assistant principal, Mr. Crick, a 6-foot-2 fast-bowling cricketer with a big nose who taught Latin and was the head of the lower school. Mr. Crick was a significant character, and he knew it. He seemed to play along with our mischief. The kids would draw pictures of his big nose on every surface in the school. Every hymnal in the chapel had his nose drawn in it. Folklore has it that Mr. Crick's wife would come to the chapel for Sunday service and be surprised by the many drawings of her husband’s nose. Mr. Crick was also responsible for caning lower-school boys. He eventually grew tired of listening to boys explain how they were innocent of the charges brought against them. So, he made a new rule: he would cane you first and listen to your explanation later. One day, a boy came to his office trying to talk to him, but Mr. Crick stopped him and said, "I don’t want to hear what you have to say. I’ll cane you first and listen after." Mr. Crick caned the boy and then asked what he wanted to say. The boy replied, "Your wife is on the phone."

Another unforgettable teacher was Althea Young, my mathematics teacher. She had a profound impact on my life and became my lifelong mentor. She recognized my potential and guided me in ways that extended far beyond the classroom. Mr. Isaac Henery also played a pivotal role in my development. He taught me discipline and accountability, qualities that would serve me well. And then there was Douglas Forrest, the headmaster. To every boy at KC, he was a surrogate parent. His wisdom, charisma, and leadership made him a figure we all admired and respected. These teachers were more than educators; they were architects of character and pride.

KC also made me love mathematics and physics, which became my favorite subjects. These disciplines challenged my mind and gave me confidence in my intellectual abilities. Outside of academics, I enjoyed playing the drums in the cadet marching band. The rhythm, the discipline, and the camaraderie made it a special part of my KC experience. Once, I was offered the drum major position, but I declined because I didn’t think I could handle the responsibility. In hindsight, it was an opportunity I wish I had embraced, but the experience still taught me valuable lessons about stepping outside my comfort zone.

KC also instilled pride and self-esteem into my character. The school’s success in sports contributed to this feeling of belonging to something extraordinary. Whether it was track and field, cricket, or soccer, KC was a winner, and that winning spirit extended beyond the field to every aspect of our lives. By the time I left KC, I believed I could compete with the best students in the world. It gave me a sense of identity and confidence to carry me through my life.

Adapting to the middle- and upper-class environment at KC wasn’t without its challenges. My performance was inconsistent; one year I would excel, and the next I would struggle. However, the support and structure of KC always pulled me back on track. Those fluctuations taught me resilience and the importance of perseverance.

My time at KC profoundly shaped my views on education and discipline. I left the school believing that discipline is the cornerstone of success and that education can change lives. KC showed me that I could achieve great things and gave me the tools to pursue my dreams. It was a privilege to be a KC boy, and that pride remains with me today.

A Jamaican Experience: My Lifelong for Dogs

By: Baron Stewart

A Lifelong Love for Dogs

I’ve always been a dog lover—no question about it. My childhood was painful and loveless, and I turned to dogs for solace. Maybe it started because my dog Shane was my protector as a young boy in Jamaica. I named him after the hero in the classic Alan Ladd movie Shane. In the film, a young boy cries out, “Shane! Shane!” as his hero rides off to an epic gunfight. That image stayed with me, and when I had the chance to name my hero, I called him Shane.

Shane was black, skinny, fast, and smart—everything I admired and wished to be. He was brave and strong, the qualities I lacked as a timid, scrawny kid. We were a team, a codependent pair: I needed him, and he needed me.

In the 1950s, Kingston didn’t have many regulations about dogs—or if there were, nobody followed them. Dogs roamed freely, and you might get bitten if you crossed paths with the wrong one. I learned that the hard way when I wandered into someone’s yard and startled their dog. Signs warning “Beware of Bad Dog” were common, meant to deter thieves but often intimidating unsuspecting visitors like me.

One night, as I walked home in the dark, Shane followed me at a distance. I tried to send him back home—I didn’t want him crossing the busy streets—but he was determined to stay with me. Suddenly, a snarling dog charged as I passed a gate with a “Beware of Bad Dog” sign. Before I could react, Shane leaped into action, grabbing the dog by the throat and fending him off. When the fight was over, Shane calmly walked by my side the rest of the way home. He was my hero, my protector—my first love and certainly not my last.

Lucky: The Running Partner

Years later, in Southern California, another dog entered my life. Her name was Lucky. She found me, not the other way around. One morning, I discovered her sleeping in my car. Though she ran off, my wife lured her with food and water. Lucky was a beautiful collie with soulful, loving eyes, and she came into my life when I needed her most. I had just been diagnosed with diabetes and decided to manage it with exercise. Lucky became my running partner, accompanying me on five-mile runs every morning.

Rain or shine, we ran together for a decade. People in Whittier grew accustomed to seeing us, and our bond even made it into the local newspaper after a ten-mile run through Turnbull Canyon with my kids riding bicycles alongside us. I’d sometimes scoop her up on longer runs and carry her for the last stretch. She loved it—and so did I.

One day, we encountered two loose bulldogs while preparing to run at a local high school. They spotted Lucky and charged. Panicked, she slipped her leash and ran, the bulldogs chasing her through traffic. My heart sank as I imagined losing her forever. But ten minutes later, I heard a familiar tap at the door. Lucky had found her way home. That moment of relief and joy is etched in my memory.

Lucky had three litters of puppies, including one we called Little Lucky, her spitting image. Over time, our backyard became home to four dogs, and after an unexpected visit from a stray, we suddenly had 16. Raising 12 puppies was chaos, but it was pure joy to watch them grow. Eventually, we found good homes for all of them, though saying goodbye wasn’t easy.

Little Lucky’s Adventure

Little Lucky, my favorite of the puppies, had an adventurous streak. I sent her to New York to live with my brother’s family when she was old enough. But the sudden change was traumatic. Upon arrival, she was terrified and cried for days. Months later, when I visited, she growled at me, unsure whether to trust me. It broke my heart to see her fear, but I didn’t push her.

A year later, Little Lucky returned to Los Angeles. The moment she saw me, her hesitation vanished. She recognized me instantly, bounding into my arms with unbridled joy. The other dogs welcomed her back as if she’d never left, and it was as though no time had passed.

Spike: The Loyal Protector

Little Lucky’s brother Spike couldn’t have been more different. Skinny and athletic, with sad, thoughtful eyes, Spike was fiercely loyal but wary of strangers. He had a mischievous streak, often chasing the mailman so persistently that we had to get a P.O. box.

Spike bit the mayor’s wife on one unforgettable day when she visited our home. My wife, trying to prove Spike’s harmlessness, put her hand near his mouth—and he snapped. Luckily, the mayor’s wife didn’t file a complaint, sparing Spike from serious consequences.

Despite his antics, Spike adored me. Knowing how much he hated water, I decided to test his loyalty at a dog beach. When I walked into the waves, Spike hesitated, pacing anxiously on the shore. But his loyalty won out, and he paddled out to join me, his sad eyes fixed on mine. That bond had started when he was a puppy, small enough to sleep on my chest as I worked. I think he remembered those moments, even as he grew older.

Saying Goodbye

I’ve loved many dogs, but I miss Spike the most. His thoughtful nature, sad eyes, and unwavering loyalty left an indelible mark on my heart. My dogs—Shane, Lucky, Little Lucky, and Spike—were more than a pet. They were family, each with their quirks, stories, and lessons. Shane taught me courage. Lucky showed me resilience. Little Lucky embodied joy, and Spike reminded me of the depth of loyalty.

Dogs have a way of teaching us about love and companionship in ways few humans can. Their memories stay with us, shaping who we are. Reflecting on my lifelong passion for dogs, I’m grateful for the joy and love they brought. They weren’t just my protectors or companions—my teachers, my family, and my most excellent source of comfort in a turbulent world.

A Jamaican Experience: A Jamaican Flower

By: Baron Stewart

I was only five when my mother left me at Palisadoes Airport. Terrified and confused, I couldn’t understand why she had to go. Years later, I felt a similar heartbreak when dropping off my children at kindergarten. For my mother, the decision was agonizing. After waiting forty years to have a child, she faced the heart-wrenching choice of leaving me behind as she migrated to New York. Raising a young child in Harlem while working full-time in White Plains was nearly impossible. Entrusting me to my father’s care in Kingston seemed the safest option.

Still, I couldn’t grasp the weight of her decision. Standing in the living room of Mrs. Maxwell’s house, I listened in confusion as Mrs. Hinchclif introduced this stranger as my “new mother” and her house as my “new home.” I silently rebelled, clinging to this resistance for nearly forty years—until my mother came to live with me in Los Angeles shortly before her passing.

In those early days, I cried endlessly, blaming Mrs. Maxwell and Mrs. Hinchclif for taking my mother away. The depth of my loss didn’t hit me fully until years later when I faced a similar situation with my puppy, Lucky.

Lucky was a happy, energetic dog who lived with her mother and brother in our Los Angeles home. When my childhood friend Ronald McLean mentioned wanting a dog for his 10-year-old son, Anthony, I gave Lucky to them. It was my way of honoring our lifelong bond, knowing Ronald would provide her with a good home.

Preparing Lucky for her journey to New York was bittersweet. I bathed, took her on long walks, and gave her extra attention. On the day of her departure, I made her a hearty meal, brushed her coat, and took her on one last car ride—her favorite activity. At the airport, Lucky was excited, thinking it was just another adventure, until she was placed in a crate and taken away. She didn’t understand what was happening—just as I hadn’t when I was left at Mrs. Maxwell’s house.

The next day, Ronald called to tell me Lucky had cried all night and hidden under every bed. Her heartbreak mirrored my own when my mother left. A year later, I visited Ronald and his family in New York. Lucky was well cared for, but she growled, barked, and snapped when she saw me. I could tell she remembered me, but she was angry—just as I had been when I saw my mother again after twelve years of separation. My mother had been overwhelmed with love and guilt, but I rejected her affection, still carrying the pain of her departure.

Six months later, Ronald called to say Lucky wasn’t working out. His wife was allergic to her shedding fur, so I brought Lucky back to Los Angeles. I wasn’t sure what to expect when I picked her up at the airport, but she was ecstatic as soon as she saw me. She jumped joyfully, kissed me, and settled back into life with us as if nothing had happened. Unlike Lucky, I never “jumped for joy” around my mother.

Hurricane Charlie

Griselda left when I was five and didn’t see me again until I was seventeen. It might have been the best decision for her, but it wasn’t for me. I clung to my few memories of her, including the Hurricane of 1951.

In 1951, my forty-four-year-old mother, Griselda, lived in a tenement yard on Bendas Lane in downtown Kingston. She shared the space with me, her four-year-old son, and Kenneth Rodgers, a twenty-four-year-old man she had raised since childhood. Tenement yards, often memorialized in reggae songs, were clusters of substandard dwellings packed closely together, sharing resources like running water and toilets.

Our lives revolved around East Queen Street. My mother sold food from her pushcart there, and I attended kindergarten at Calabar Elementary School behind the East Queen Street Baptist Church. Our lives were simple, but they changed dramatically after we heard of a hurricane forming in the Eastern Caribbean.

On August 17, 1951, Hurricane Charlie hit Jamaica as a Category 4 storm with 150-mile-per-hour winds. Tenement houses, with their flimsy zinc roofs, stood no chance. Buckets of rain poured into our home, flooding the floors. My mother and Kenneth scrambled to catch water with pots and pans and used newspapers to soak up the mess. As the wind howled and a massive mango tree crashed onto the roof, my mother shouted, “Put the baby on the dresser! It’s the only dry place in the house.” Her words remain etched in my memory because I felt her love then.

By morning, the storm had passed, leaving behind a trail of destruction. Houses leaned precariously, the streets were flooded, and chicken feathers littered the ground. The damage was immense, especially in rural areas, where the storm wiped out the banana industry. Schools were closed for weeks, and life took months to return to normal.

My Father, Norman Stewart

Norman became my anchor during these turbulent times. He was a tall, impeccably dressed man in his fifties with a charm that captivated everyone. Despite having another family, he visited me daily for all the years I lived at Mrs maxwell's house, keeping his promise to my mother. Each evening, I would climb the fence to watch for his felt hat bobbing among the crowd. Our conversations and occasional movie outings became the highlight of my life. Before leaving each night, he’d playfully remind me, “If you can’t be good, be careful.”

Despite his efforts, I often rebelled. Almost every night after he left, I’d climb through my tiny window and roam the streets with my friends. One evening, my friend Ronnie and I sneaked into a gambling den to play Crown and Anchor, a thrilling dice game. Those nights were my way of escaping the void left by my mother’s departure.

Friends often ask how I survived Kingston’s streets without falling into crime or ruin. The truth is, I didn’t escape unscathed. Physical scars remain on my face and forehead, and emotional wounds still surface occasionally. Yet, I avoided jail, violence, or a life of crime thanks to a mix of luck and support.

Key figures shaped my survival: the McLeans, who became my surrogate family; Ronnie, whose good morals never led me astray; my father, who kept his promise to my mother; and Althea, my math teacher, who inspired me to strive for more. They kept me grounded during turbulent times, while Kingston's vibrant people and places kept me curious and learning.

One such place was Mr. Headly’s bicycle shop, a hub of problem-solving and community. Located in Mrs. Maxwell’s backyard, the shop doubled as a gathering spot for domino enthusiasts. I spent hours watching, keeping score, and eventually playing. Monroe, an educated man who had fallen on hard times and slept in the shop, took me under his wing. He taught me the intricacies of dominoes, carpentry, and even how to pick winning horses at the racetrack. Mr. Headly's bicycle repair shop drew ice cream vendors for evening domino games and political debates. 

Next door to Mr. Headly’s bicycle shop was a Jamaican patty shop offering me a business taste. Jamaican patties, as beloved in Kingston as hamburgers are in the U.S., became my breakfast and payment for odd jobs. I’d climb the fence at dawn to help, spending summer days making patties and delivering them in the van. To the east, the Palace outdoor movie theater offered escapism, where I watched countless films with my dad. Westward on Victoria Avenue stood the East Queen Street Baptist Church, where I attended services and sang in the choir until my voice broke. My education began at Calabar Elementary School in the 1950s and culminated at Kingston College in the late 1960s, both institutions shaping my path.

My Love of Dogs

Feeling unloved as a young boy,  I sought affection from the dogs around me. It all started with my dog. Shane, who was my protector. I named him after the hero in Alan Ladd's movie Shane. I remember the little boy in the film chasing after his hero, crying out, "Shane! Shane!" as the man rode away toward an epic gunfight in town. That image stayed with me, and when I had the chance to name my hero, I called him Shane.

Shane was black, skinny, fast, and bright. He was an extension of how I saw myself—except he was also brave and strong, qualities I wished I had. I was weak and afraid, and our relationship became codependent. I needed him, and he needed me.

In the 1950s, Kingston had few dog regulations; if any existed, everyone ignored them. Dogs roamed freely, and if you were unlucky enough to encounter an aggressive one, you'd get bitten. I learned the hard way after an unexpected confrontation in someone's yard. "Beware of Bad Dog" signs were common, warning visitors about the fierce guardians of people’s homes. Dogs were effective deterrents against thieves, but they posed risks to everyone.

One night, as I walked past one of those gates with the infamous warning sign, Shane followed me, keeping a cautious ten yards behind. I didn’t want him to come; it was dark, and I had to cross busy streets. I repeatedly told him, "Go home, Shane," but he would run back a few yards and resume trailing me.

It turned out to be a good thing he did. A snarling dog rushed toward me as I passed the open gate of a yard. Before I could react, Shane dashed forward, locking the other dog in a fierce battle. Eventually, the dog retreated, and Shane calmly joined me by my side as we continued through Kingston's dark streets. He had saved me.

Shane was my first love but not my last. Years later, in Southern California, I met Lucky. Or rather, she found me. One day in the late 1990s, I discovered a dog sleeping in my car. When I opened the door, she bolted. I thought I’d never see her again, but she was tied to my front porch when I got home. My wife had coaxed her to stay with food and water. Lucky, a beautiful collie with bright, loving eyes, arrived when I desperately needed a friend. I had just been diagnosed with diabetes and decided to take up running to manage it. Lucky became my running partner, and together, we ran five miles every morning, rain or shine.

Over ten years, we became local legends in Whittier, California. People recognized us as we jogged through town, and our runs even made the local newspaper when we completed a ten-mile trek over Turnbull Canyon with my kids on bicycles. Occasionally, we’d run from our house to Disneyland, and my wife would pick us up afterward. After a good run, I’d often carry Lucky the last few hundred yards. She loved it.

Lucky had her adventures. One day, two unleashed bulldogs spotted us from across the field as we prepared for a run at the high school track. They charged. Lucky slipped out of her leash and took off up Whittier Boulevard, the bulldogs close behind. I stood frozen, helpless,g as they disappeared into traffic. Hours later, the bulldogs returned, but Lucky was nowhere to be seen. Heartbroken, I went home—only to hear a tap at the door. It was Lucky. She had outrun the bulldogs and found her way back.

Lucky had three litters of puppies, including Little Lucky, her spitting image, and Spike, her polar opposite. Spike was skinny, athletic, and fiercely loyal, while Little Lucky was chubby, sunny, and friendly to strangers. At one point, I had sixteen dogs after Lucky and another dog, Sally, both gave birth within weeks of each other. It was chaos but also joy. Eventually, I found homes for the puppies, but not before experiencing the fun of twelve yelping pups trailing behind me at feeding time.

Spike stood out among them all. As a puppy, he slept on my chest under my shirt while I worked, and that bond never faded. He was fiercely protective of me, even chasing off mail carriers and visitors, which once led the post office to suspend deliveries to our home. Spike had his quirks, like his hatred of water. I tested his loyalty at the dog beach by walking into the surf. Though hesitant, Spike followed me step by cautious step, swimming when the water grew too deep.

Each dog left an indelible mark on my life, but Spike’s sad, thoughtful eyes haunt me most. Dogs are more than companions—they are family, teachers, and heroes. They give us courage when we have none and remind us of the best parts of ourselves.

Collateral Damage

Despite these positive influences, other incidents profoundly damaged me, and I faced many hardships. The six years I spent at Calabar Elementary School were some of the most challenging of my life. My reality was erratic, painful, and marked by little success. These formative years, when I needed to feel safe and loved to develop a positive identity, were instead filled with neglect and instability. As a result, I struggled with low self-esteem and a lack of confidence.

My life between the ages of six and eleven was a series of ups and downs. One of the few areas jzamanI found success was singing in the Baptist church choir. As a child, I had a beautiful voice. I was the only boy in an all-girls choir and sang at a concert at the Ward Theater in downtown Kingston. During Christmas, I sang carols for the entire school, which became a source of pride and self-esteem. I would sing loudly as I walked home each day for lunch, proud of my voice.

However, that joy was fleeting. When I was thirteen, I auditioned for the choir at my secondary school. Singing "O Come All Ye Faithful," my voice cracked on a high note. I didn’t make the choir, and I never sang again. The sting of disappointment was profound and mirrored many other failures I experienced during those years.

Neglect during childhood often led to reckless decisions, and my life was no exception. I saw this tragic example in my Whittier, California neighborhood in 2013. A thirteen-year-old boy named Nick, who was frequently left unsupervised, was shot and killed by another boy on a day off school. I know how fortunate I was to survive my childhood despite the many dangerous situations I found myself in.

One of those moments was when I played at school without shoes, and a rusty nail pierced my foot. I mustered every ounce of strength to pull it out and walked home without telling anyone. I didn’t realize the seriousness of the injury until my father visited days later and saw my swollen, infected foot. He immediately sought medical attention. My judgment was just one incident in a pattern based on neglect. During play, other children busted my head open multiple times, and I, once a girl at my boarding house during a fight, left five long scars across my face. I was so embarrassed by the disfigurement that I used black shoe polish to try to cover the wounds.

The worst incident occurred when I was almost electrocuted. It was entirely my fault. At ten years old, left so often to my own devices, I concocted a reckless plan to electrify a zinc fence separating East Queen Street Baptist Church from my school. A neighbor had electrified his zinc roof to keep children from climbing on it, and I decided to extend the electricity to the fence as a prank.

I connected one end of a wire to the fence and repeatedly threw the other end at the roof, trying to establish a connection. When I finally succeeded, I didn’t release the wire quickly enough. The circuit closed, and electricity surged through my body. I thrashed violently on the concrete schoolyard, unable to let go. As I thought it was the end, the violent shaking dislodged the wire, breaking the circuit. I fell flat on my back, got up, and ran to the church as fast as I could, shaken but alive.

I remember these years as filled with poor decisions and missteps. One day, I snapped under the weight of my circumstances. Mrs. Maxwell sent me to the local market to get change for a one-pound note. Unbeknownst to me, the pocket I put the money in had a hole. By the time I arrived at the store, the note was gone. Panicked, I retraced my steps, asking everyone I passed if they had seen it. A young girl told me she had seen a man pick up some money and walk away. Desperate, I ran in the direction she pointed, searching for this stranger. I ran until exhausted, then wandered, too scared to go home.

Eventually, I remembered that my relative Kenneth lived nearby. I went to his house and explained what had happened, hoping he would take me in. Instead, he dressed and took me back to Mrs. Maxwell. She was furious and accused me of stealing her money. To humiliate me, she paraded me through the local shops, asking if I had spent any money there. None of the shopkeepers confirmed her suspicions, but she made me promise that my mother would repay her.

That incident marked a turning point for me. It was a sobering reminder of how vulnerable I was and how much I craved stability. Despite my many challenges, these experiences shaped me into who I am today. They taught me resilience, independence, and the importance of compassion—lessons I carry with me as I navigate life and reflect on my journey. 

Finding a New Home

The incident with Mrs. Maxwell catalyzed me to find a new home. My father’s weakness for women eventually overshadowed his commitment to our relationship. After a few years, he became involved with Mrs. Maxwell, our boarding house manager. He still visited me, but his attention shifted increasingly toward her as I got older. One evening, after my father disappeared into Mrs. Maxwell’s room, I needed to ask him a question. I approached her door and knocked softly. The door was slightly ajar, leaving a small gap that allowed me to glimpse their reflection in a mirror. My father was sitting on the edge of her bed, pulling down her dress.

When they finally allowed me in, I asked my question without commenting on what I’d seen. But that image stayed with me, etched into my memory.

Recognizing I could never compete with Mrs. Maxwell for my father’s attention, I boldly asked him to let me move in with my best friend, Ronnie McLean. My father issued a chilling ultimatum: if I left Mrs. Maxwell’s house, he would never come to see me again. His words were a devastating blow—he was my only source of support.

Late one night, despite the risk, I packed my few belongings and quietly left without telling anyone. I had made arrangements with McLean to move in with them now that they had moved to a larger house in the suburbs of Kingston. To my surprise, no one came looking for me. True to his word, my father never came to see me again, and when I needed to pay for room and board at the McLeans' house, every month, I would intercept my father on the street as he made his way to Mrs. Maxwell’s. I would ask him for money to cover my expenses, and he would oblige, but our exchanges were brief and strained.

Even when I was preparing to leave for the United States to live with my mother, my father didn’t come to say goodbye. His absence hurt deeply because, despite everything, I still loved him. I wrote to him a few times after arriving in the States, but the anger and resentment from his rejection eventually silenced my attempts. This separation left emotional scars that I didn’t fully understand until much later in life.

My Mother's Choice

At Palisadoes International Airport—now Michael Manley International Airport—it was common to see Jamaicans boarding planes in their Sunday best, heading to England or, to a lesser extent, America. Kenneth Rodgers, the young man Griselda helped raise, went to Florida to work as a farm laborer, while Griselda went to New York as a housemaid. Her cousin, Mrs. Hinchcliff, encouraged her to take this opportunity, arranging for her to work as a live-in maid for a family in White Plains, New York. Mrs. Hinchcliff, the daughter of Charles Appleby’s brother, had the fair complexion and good looks often associated with the Appleby family. Taller and slimmer than my mother, she carried herself with elegance. I only knew her as "Mrs. Hinchcliff," her married name, as I never learned her first name.

The decision to migrate was a difficult one for Griselda. In the 1950s, leaving for New York City was considered prestigious, and her friends marveled at the opportunity. To them, New York was a magical place, home to the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, Wall Street, Broadway's dazzling lights, Times Square, Central Park, Park Avenue, and St. Patrick’s Cathedral. They imagined the streets paved with gold, promising opportunities for a better life. Her family and friends expected her to return transformed—well-dressed, wealthy, and bearing gifts and money for everyone. Mrs. Hinchcliff had achieved this transformation, and her glorious return to Jamaica was my mother's catalyst to leap.

However, my mother faced a significant hurdle before leaving: ensuring my care. She needed my father, Norman, to look after me in her absence. Norman wanted me to live with him and his wife, but my mother refused, fearing his wife might not treat me well. Instead, she convinced Norman to pay for my boarding with Mrs. Maxwell at 31 Victoria Avenue for as long as she was abroad. With this arrangement in place, Griselda was ready to leave.

I will never forget the day my mother left. Standing by a small fence at Palisadoes International Airport, I watched her board a KLM flight to New York, dressed in a hat and winter coat and clutching her handbag. I stood next to Mrs. Hinchcliff, feeling like my small world was falling apart. My feelings were not unfounded—I wouldn’t see my mother again for twelve long years. Her departure marked the beginning of a series of traumatic experiences under Mrs. Maxwell’s care at 31 Victoria Avenue.

Years later, I came to understand my mother’s choice. Speaking with other children who had accompanied their parents and guardians to Harlem and returned with horror stories of crime, violence, and murder, I realized she had spared me from a potentially more dangerous environment.

A Jamaican Experience: Four BMWs and a Benz: A Love Story with Steel and Soul

Four BMWs and a Benz: A Love Story with Steel and Soul

I bought my first BMW in 1972. It was a 2002 series—sleek, purposeful, and alive beneath my hands. It wasn’t just a car; it was freedom. On the back roads of Long Island, I’d cruise with the windows down, the wind tangling my hair, flashing my headlights whenever another BMW passed in the opposite direction. It was like we were part of a secret club.

But for me, it was more than the thrill of German engineering or the hum of the twin-carb engine. Maybe it was because BMW—Bob Marley and the Wailers—was scrawled across my island heart. They were my heroes; music, roots, and driving that car felt like carrying home with me, even on cold New York nights.

And yet, there was something else. Something I couldn’t name. A shadow that followed every BMW I owned.

The first came in 1973. I was young, married, and in graduate school at Stony Brook. Lennette, my wife at the time, and I had driven to the Bronx to visit my best friend, Ronnie. After dinner, we headed back to Long Island. It was raining hard—one of those New York nights where everything gleams wet and slick. As we tried to back off a flooded parkway entrance, another car came out of nowhere and slammed into my pristine 2002. I was furious. I jumped out of my car to confront the driver.

And then, I saw them. Two men, climbing into my car like they owned it. They were about to steal it right there in front of me. I screamed, sprinting back uphill toward them. They scrambled away, muttering something I couldn’t understand. But the night wasn’t done with me yet. The drunk driver who had rammed me earlier? His car began rolling downhill—with his wife inside, screaming for her life—until three men from a nearby gas station managed to stop it. It was the first time I thought, Maybe this car is cursed.

I lost that BMW in my divorce. One day, while teaching at Rockland Country Day School, a student handed me a pair of pants. “Your wife said to give you this,” he said. That was the last time I saw the car that had carried so much of me. It was an excruciating separation—from the woman and the machine that had become an extension of my freedom. And there I was, stranded in an area where public transportation barely existed.

Years passed. I worked hard, built a life, and found my way to IBM. It was then, in 1984, that I flew to Frankfurt to buy my next BMW: a brand new 325, the modern successor to my long-lost 2002. The love came back quickly. I fell for that car the moment I laid eyes on it. It felt like coming home.

But home never stays safe for long.

By 1987, I was married again, to Berkeley this time. One afternoon, she came to pick me up near 23rd Street on Broadway. She ran out to find me… but left the keys in the ignition. When we returned, the car was gone—gone—just like that. Another BMW disappeared from my life.

But I wasn’t ready to give up. I bought another 325, refusing to believe I was cursed. We were living in Whittier, California, then. One day, Berkeley came home shaken. “Baron,” she said, “I had a little accident. I told the man you’d give him money to fix his car.”

“Why would you say that?” I asked. “That’s what insurance is for.”

And then the phone rang.

“Where’s my money?” the man barked down the line. I stayed calm and told him the insurance would handle it. But he wasn’t hearing it. His voice turned into a snarl. “YOU BETTER NOT SLEEP TONIGHT.”

I hung up and called the police. They told me to wait and call back if he harassed me again. We figured he was bluffing.

Later that night, I went to pick up my son from a party, leaving Berkeley and my young daughter at home. My middle son came with me. We weren’t gone long.

As I turned onto my street, I saw sirens flashing, red lights bouncing off every house, and my neighbors crowding the sidewalk. Before I could park, my next-door neighbor ran up to me. “Your wife and daughter are safe,” she said breathlessly. “But… your BMW. It’s gone. It blew up.”

The car had been bombed.

The police towed the wreck away. After that, I bought my fourth BMW. Maybe I still believed the story could end differently. Perhaps I still thought I could overcome the curse.

Berkeley totaled that one in an accident.

Four BMWs—four disasters—and I finally surrendered. I gave up BMWs and turned instead to Mercedes-Benz. Stability, class, peace—I never had another problem.

And yet… life has a way of teasing you.

Lately, I’ve found myself drawn to Mini Coopers. Smaller. Friendlier. Practical. But still BMW, underneath it all. And now, I’m buying a Mini Countryman—maybe trying to rewrite the story. Or maybe trying to find closure. After all, we don’t always get to choose what calls to us. Sometimes, the road chooses you.

This time, I’m driving alone. No distractions. No drama. Just me, the wheel, and the hum of something that’s always been a part of me.

A Jamaican Experience: The Cost of a Brilliant Idea

By: Baron Stewart

The Cost of a Brilliant Idea

There are moments in a career when everything seems to fall into place—when ideas flow effortlessly, and every solution you offer hits its mark. For a time at IBM, that was my reality. I had a series of successes with ideas I brought to the company, each building momentum and earning trust. My manager, John, was one of my most incredible supporters. Every idea I’d proposed had worked, and when I came to him with my latest concept, he was all ears.

PID was still struggling with its space problem. We were running out of storage capacity again, even though I had already installed compaction routines that helped reduce the data footprint. A state-of-the-art facility was under construction in Sterling Forest but was still years away from solving our immediate needs. The company was growing fast, and the demand was relentless. We needed another solution—something now.

That’s when I had the idea to analyze the usage of the data we were storing. Why were we backing up and consuming precious resources on data no one was using? If we could identify the rarely or never-accessed data, we could move it offline. The high-demand data could stay on the database for quick access. It was simple and elegant.

John loved it. So, I went to work.

I wrote a program to analyze the usage patterns. To my satisfaction—but not surprise—the profile matched my prediction. About 30 percent of the data was accessed regularly, another 30 percent occasionally. But nearly half? It hadn’t been touched in years. We could store that data offline and recover 50 percent of our storage space. It would be a massive saving in both space and time.

John gave the green light. “Let’s do it.”

I should have paused, met with the technical team, discussed the ramifications, and crafted a comprehensive plan. But success breeds arrogance. I was riding high and convinced of my infallibility, so I did something I will never forget.

I wrote a program to delete unused data. I ran it in the middle of the working day without consultation.

In moments, the unintended consequences unfolded. Deleting that data didn’t just free up space—it lowered the computing power of every computer in the building. Everything stopped. Two hundred people could not work. It took a week of painful effort to reboot the systems and reinstall the data. I stood there, watching it all collapse, knowing precisely what I had done.

And yet, I was not screamed at. There was no public humiliation. John didn’t explode. I’m not sure how he handled it behind the scenes at all. Maybe the company attributed the breakdown to something else. There was, perhaps, a quiet comment on my next appraisal. But there didn’t need to be.

I knew.

I carried that moment with me. For a long time, I saw it as a singular failure, an isolated misstep in an otherwise successful career. But looking back, I realize it was one of many moments that shaped who I became. Later, I tried other ideas—some failed at first, but they became massive successes with refinement. What I learned is that failure isn’t final. It’s part of the process. It’s how you get better.

And I also learned the value of a good manager. After a failure, I remember another IBM leader telling me, “Forget it. Get back on your horse and ride again.” That’s what John did for me. He didn’t tear me down. He gave me the space to learn. And because of that, I did get back on my horse. Again and again.

Later in my career, I wrote a presentation called Business Dance about how to make things happen inside a major corporation. It was a massive success, and IBM sent me worldwide to tell that story. But Business Dance came after years of hard-won lessons—lessons like the day I brought down an entire building’s computing power because I believed in my brilliance just a little too much.

My most significant contribution to IBM was bringing new and winning ideas forward. That’s what I was there for. Not everyone gets to be the person who sparks change, sees a different path, and dares to walk it. I did.

And in the end, I wouldn’t trade any of it—not even the disastrous moments because they’re part of the dance, too.

The Nature of Ideas

I kept coming up with ideas because that’s simply who I am. It’s my nature. Some people are wired to maintain and protect what’s already built and keep things steady and reliable. And thank goodness they are—we need those people. But me? The excitement of innovation has always driven me—new paths, thinking, and ways forward. Maintenance bored me. Following others didn’t interest me. But leading the way—finding the path less traveled—that’s what lit me up.

And by leading, I don’t mean managing people. That was never my passion. I’m talking about leading the thinking and being the one to see a different path, to suggest the thing that no one had considered yet. To crack open a problem and find what’s been hiding underneath.

Later in my career, though, something changed. I became the person who brought ideas forward, but others were the ones trusted to implement them. At first, I was angered by that. These were my ideas. I wanted to see them through. But over time, I realized they were better implementors than me. They had a talent for taking a raw concept and turning it into a working system, a scalable solution. That wasn’t my strongest suit—and that was okay. My gift was in the spark, the discovery, the vision. I led the way. They built the road.

Along the way, I learned that breakdowns often create breakthroughs. When everything falls apart—when an idea crashes, when a system fails—it’s painful. But it’s also the moment where we grow the most. After a breakdown, we’re often sharper, stronger, and better than before. I know I was.

I had some great managers at IBM and a few bad ones, too. But it was the great ones who shaped me into who I became. They knew how to encourage you, how to pick you up after a fall, and, most importantly, how to trust you enough to let you try again. One of them told me once, “Forget it. Get back on your horse and ride again.” And I did—every time.

No, I never felt like giving up. That wasn’t in me. What drove me wasn’t the fear of failure or the need for success. It was the relentless curiosity—the need to figure out where I went wrong and how to do it better next time. That’s what kept me going. The drive to solve the puzzle. To find the better idea.

That’s still what excites me today.

The Power of Seeing the Future

Getting people to listen to your ideas is hard. Especially at the start—before there’s a track record before there’s proof that you can deliver. In the beginning, you’re just another voice in the room. Another person with another idea. You learn quickly that most people don’t want to take risks on concepts they don’t understand.

But if you can see the future and prove it—just once—that changes everything. When people realize you’re not guessing, you’re seeing, they start to listen. My entire life worked like that. Once I showed people I could chart a path that led to something better, they tended to fall in line.

It wasn’t just at IBM. It was in every area of my life.

When I was raising my three children, I raised them around soccer. It was a passion and a way to teach them teamwork, discipline, and community. At the time, we were part of a soccer club in Los Angeles. I had ideas about inspiring young soccer players and developing them as athletes and people. I shared those ideas with the club leadership, thinking they might take one or two suggestions.

Instead, they made me president of the club.

Me—Baron. A Black boy from Jamaica, now grown into a man—was president of an all-white soccer club in Los Angeles with 21 teams. More about this later.

I didn’t go looking for that role. It found me because I had a vision and the courage to speak it. They listened because they saw I could lead the way. I wasn’t managing people for the sake of holding power—I was leading them toward something better. That’s what I’ve always done. Whether in a conference room at IBM or on a soccer field in California, I’ve always been about finding the path less traveled—and showing others how to walk it.

The Struggle for Credit

One of my deepest frustrations in the corporate world—and IBM was no exception—is how often credit is handed out. In theory, the company values innovation. In practice, it tends to reward implementation. The people who build the systems, manage the teams and deliver the product get the recognition. The people who spark the idea? Too often, they’re a footnote—an afterthought.

That was always hard for me to accept. While implementation is critical—even—I learned early on that some of the best implementors couldn’t provide a good idea if their lives depended on it. And yet, they got the applause, the promotions, and the recognition, often based on work that started in my mind.

Mapping how race played into it made it more complicated and more painful. As I progressed at IBM, I saw a pattern that became impossible to ignore. The company would take my idea and pass it off to some white boy to implement, and when it succeeded, he was the one they celebrated. It wasn’t an isolated incident. It happened over and over again. No one had to say it out loud. I felt it. I lived it.

But there were exceptions.

John, my manager at PID, was one of them. He didn’t play that game. When I brought him an idea, he backed me. He let me run with it. When it worked, I got the credit. When it failed, he helped me stand back up again. That’s what a great manager does. John was unique in that way. And because of him, I got to experience what it was like to be seen for my contribution, not just my color.

But I can’t tell my story honestly without acknowledging that John was the exception, not the rule.

And yet, despite it all, I never stopped coming up with ideas. I never stopped leading the way. Because no matter who got the credit, I knew where the ideas came from. I knew what I brought to the table. And deep down, I always believed that the spark was more potent than the spotlight.

Mapping how race played into it made it more complicated and more painful. As I progressed at IBM, I saw a pattern that became impossible to ignore. The company would take my idea and pass it off to some white boy to implement, and when it succeeded, he was the one they celebrated. It wasn’t an isolated incident. It happened over and over again. No one had to say it out loud. I felt it. I lived it.

Two Rebels in IBM

I’ve always had an innate drive to find creative ways of seeing the circumstances around me. It’s like breathing for me—taking what’s there, flipping it around, and asking, What if we looked at it this way? What if we tried something different? That drive has always been there.

But if I’m honest, I don’t engage the same way when I’m following others. It’s not because I think I’m better. It’s because I feel disconnected. I’m at my best when I’m leading—when I’m forging a new path, even if I don’t know exactly where it leads. That’s when I excel. And when I reflect on the times I was just average, they were always the times I was following, stuck in someone else’s vision.

I’ve learned that’s not ego. It’s knowing who I am and where I thrive.

I was at my absolute best when partnered with a like-minded soul—someone who could see the future, too. Someone who wasn’t afraid to step outside the lines and take a chance.

For me, that person was Shelly Weinberg.

Shelly was a bright, seasoned IBMer—an older guy with years of experience but the spirit of a rebel. We found each other inside that massive IBM machine and clicked immediately. He admired me, and I admired him. We didn’t have to explain ourselves to each other—we just got it.

Shelly was an incredible speaker. At the national IBM conferences, he was a big draw. People came to hear him talk about where technology was taking us. But it wasn’t dry or technical. Shelly made it funny, insightful, and human. I spoke about The Business Dance—the moves companies needed to make to survive and thrive in a world of rapid change. He had the crowd in the palm of his hand every time. I loved watching him wow the audience, and he would come to my talks to dance with me. e sat in the front row, encouraging me and giving me that nod that said, "You’ve got this." We pushed each other and inspired each other. e were a fantastic team—two rebels at IBM and two people who could create and implement what we made.

Looking back, I realize how rare that was. Ant to find someone who shares your vision, energy, and willingness to break the rules to build something better? Had that. In the world of prominent corporations, where conformity can be the easiest path, that partnership is everything.

A Jamaican Experience: Living with Diabetes

By: Baron Stewart

For most of my young life, I was healthy. The only incident that ever hinted at trouble was when I fainted during my speech at RCDS graduation. My mother, on the other hand, wasn’t so lucky. She struggled with many health issues, the most significant being diabetes. I watched her wrestle with it for years, but I gave little thought to the idea that I might inherit the same condition.

I was skinny my entire life, no matter how much I ate. When I first came to live with my mother, she smiled at me and said, “I’m going to put some meat on those bones.” That was her plan, but my body had other ideas.

Fast forward to my mid-forties. I didn’t have a family doctor—I never thought I needed one. But then I started noticing I was urinating all the time and feeling unusually tired. I decided to go to the local clinic in Whittier, California, where I lived. I told them about my symptoms, and they checked my blood sugar.

“600,” the healthcare attendant said.

I blinked. “Is that high?”

He looked at me like I had just asked whether the water was wet. “Yes. It’s high. I’ve never seen it higher.”

I had no clue back then that regular fasting blood sugar should be between 70 and 99 mg/dL. The attendant rushed to get the doctor, and a few minutes later, the doctor came running in, face tight with panic. “Go directly to the hospital,” he said. “Don’t go home. Go now!”

I knew something was off, but I didn’t feel sick—just tired. So, I drove myself to the hospital about a mile away. As soon as I walked into the ER, an attendant barked at me, “Get in!” pointing to a wheelchair.

That was the first sign I might be in real trouble. They whisked me into a room, and suddenly, I was surrounded—by needles, monitors, and blood pressure cuffs. Everyone was quiet, focused, urgent.

Then they told me my blood sugar wasn’t 600. That was just the limit of the clinic’s meter. My actual blood sugar was 750 mg/dL. I was on the verge of a major diabetic crisis.

They gave me insulin, and my body responded immediately. My blood sugar started dropping, and I realized, for the first time, that diabetes had found me too.

That was the first emergency. It wasn’t the last.

Years later, I was in Jamaica on New Year’s Eve, showing a friend around Negril Beach and reminiscing about my life there. We passed a beach bar, and I said, “Ahh! I want some Jamaican Rum Punch.” It’s a delightful drink—but I wouldn’t recommend it to diabetics. I drank it anyway.

We continued our walk along the beach. My friend spotted someone braiding hair and decided to get hers done. I sat down in a lounge chair to relax. That was the last thing I remembered.

I heard my name being screamed from somewhere far away. I opened my eyes to see my friend’s panicked face hovering over me. She had been shaking me, but I wouldn’t wake up. I mumbled, “Give me some insulin.” She did. I became more alert, but I couldn’t walk. She called a taxi, and the driver and my friend took an arm and half-carried me to the cab.

By the time we got back to the house, I was a little better—just in time to vomit all over the back seat of the taxi. But at least I could walk inside. It was a rough night, but I lived to tell the tale.

The next episode happened in Clifton Park, New York, where I lived for a while. There was a Japanese restaurant I loved. The owner would pour me a bottle of sake on the house whenever I came in. It became our ritual, and I always looked forward to it.

One afternoon, I sat at the bar, hungry and waiting for my meal. I took a sip of sake and suddenly felt a buzzing sound. Yes, I felt it, not heard it. I remember thinking, “What was that?” And then—nothing.

I fell headfirst off the barstool. I drifted in and out of consciousness. I have no idea how long I was in that state, but the next thing I remember was being loaded into an ambulance. While driving, I woke up and asked the attendant what was happening.

“You’re having a heart attack,” he said.

I didn’t panic. I felt fine. It wasn’t a heart attack. It was a low blood sugar crash, but I guess to them, all the signs pointed in another direction. I just hoped they’d figure it out soon enough. Spoiler alert: they did.

The most recent episode was last year in Cascais, Portugal. I was out with my friend Polina, enjoying wine, music, and laughter in a crowded bar. Polina went to the bathroom, and I sat in my chair, feeling perfectly fine.

And then I didn’t.

I suddenly felt drunk—way too intoxicated for the little I had—and slowly passed out. Polina returned, saw me slumped in the chair, and called an ambulance. I woke up in the hospital.

And now, for a bit of comic relief.

I woke in the emergency room and saw a nurse taking my vitals. Polina was there, and she asked if I was okay. I told her I was fine, and she headed home. I drifted back to sleep.

Sometime later, I felt someone moving my leg around. I figured it was a nurse doing nurse things. But then this person started tickling my leg—something I didn’t think was part of any standard medical procedure.

I opened my eyes. Sitting in my hospital bed was an attractive older white woman, playing with my legs like we were old friends.

A doctor happened to walk by at that exact moment. I said, completely deadpan, “Doctor, there seems to be an unscheduled nurse in my bed.”

He did a double take, realized what was happening, and barked, “Get back in your bed!”
Two nurses rushed over and escorted the mystery woman—it turns out she was another patient—back to her room. I lay back in bed, shaking my head, thinking, only me.

These moments—some scary, some strange, some downright funny—are all part of my life with diabetes. It’s a constant balancing act, and while I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, I’ve learned to navigate it with patience, a lot of humor, and the knowledge that you never really know what will happen next.

What I’ve Learned

I was 45 years old when I was first diagnosed with diabetes. In the beginning, I managed it by running five miles a day. That exercise was enough to keep me healthy—for a while. But as I aged, I realized that running alone wasn’t cutting it. My body had changed, and I had to change with it.

Looking back at each episode I’ve experienced, there’s one common theme: alcohol. Every single time I had a major diabetic crisis, alcohol was involved. As a direct response, I no longer drink any alcohol. That’s been the most significant change I’ve made. I don’t miss it. The trade-off is worth it.

For some unknown reason, I’ve always handled these situations calmly. I never panicked, not once. But I’ve also come to understand something critical: I woke up the three previous times. I may not wake up the next time. That realization changed me. Now, I am vigilant in how I manage my diabetes.

I wear a continuous glucose monitor—the FreeStyle Libre—to monitor my blood sugar levels at any time. If I feel something is off, I check. I act quickly. And I no longer take unnecessary risks. The days of assuming I’m invincible are over.

After the first incident, I was weak and confused. I didn’t understand what diabetes was or how to manage it. Today, I know exactly what to do, and I do it. My family was shocked when they first heard about my diagnosis, but their biggest concern wasn’t just for me. It was whether this would happen to them. That’s how diabetes works—it runs in families, quietly waiting for the next person who’s not paying attention.

My biggest lesson is this: diabetes can be managed, but you have to take the responsibility to manage it. It won’t manage itself. You can’t hand it off to someone else.

Most diabetic emergencies revolve around low blood sugar. More often than not, the person doesn’t need complicated treatment; they need a glass of orange juice. Simple. But people don’t know this. Most people know very little about diabetes. And I believe they should—especially the children of people with diabetes. They need to understand what they might face and how to prevent it.

Oh—and that woman in my hospital bed? I think she was curious. Maybe she had never been that close to a Black man and wanted to touch me. That’s the only explanation I can come up with. But as I watched her sitting there, playing with my legs, I also realized something else: if the tables were turned, if I were in her bed, touching her legs, I’d probably be in handcuffs. That’s a fact.

Final Thought

Diabetes is unpredictable. One day, you’re okay, sipping wine with friends in Cascais. The next, you wake up in a hospital bed with a stranger tickling your feet.

But life goes on. You learn. You adapt. You survive—and if you’re lucky, you find some humor.

A Jamaican Experience: The Journey That Changed Everything

By: Baron Stewart

After two years at IBM and a few professional successes, I decided to pursue some of my other dreams. Althea Young, my math teacher from Kingston College, once told me, “You have to see the beauty in the world—visit the Louvre in Paris, stand under the Sistine Chapel in Rome, and take in a Broadway play in New York.” She said it was inevitable as if she had already seen me there. And I believed her.

Cipe, my surrogate mother, offered me an incredible opportunity as if on cue. “Live in my home rent-free,” she said. “Use the money you save to see the world.” That offer was too good to pass up, so I started planning my first real adventure—a two-week excursion to London and Paris.

Things kept falling into place. Amanda Harling, the daughter of one of Cipe’s friends, lived in London. She would be out of town during my stay and generously offered me her apartment in central London. I was set. I bought a ticket on Freddy Laker’s airline, and after work that evening, I boarded my flight from New York to Gatwick Airport. I was excited. This was my first trip to Europe, and I remember thinking, Now I’ll find out what those truckloads of Jamaicans saw when they migrated to England in the 1950s.

Gatwick was far from central London, but I didn’t mind. The train ride into the city was all part of the adventure. London was full of pageantry and history—soldiers at Buckingham Palace Gate, the rhythmic chime of Big Ben, the mighty Thames, and the storied Tower of London. All these names I had grown up hearing now had faces, and I took it all in like a child seeing color for the first time.

At the Tower, I ran into three girls and a guy from New York. The girls were nurses from Spring Valley, close to Stony Point, where I lived. They told me they’d noticed me because I looked just like a doctor at their hospital. Later, I met that doctor at a party—same sports jacket, same blue jeans, and even drove a BMW like me. He was my spitting image. It was surreal and more than a little uncomfortable.

But London had more in store. Amanda had arranged for me to meet her debonair brother, Nick Harling, a sports reporter with a sharp wit and a more extraordinary car. Nick showed me the nightlife of London, and by the end of the week, he made an offer I couldn’t refuse—he would drive me to Paris in his black MG convertible. Paris was coming because he had a soccer game to cover somewhere in Europe.

The morning Nick picked me up from Amanda’s flat was bright and full of promise. It was one of those rare London spring days when the sun shone, and everyone seemed to be outside, basking in it like sunflowers. People lounged on park benches and sipped beers outside pubs, and for a moment, I thought about how different their lives were from mine. Back home, we had sun every day. Here, a little warmth caused a commotion. I found it amusing to watch people, half-naked by my standards, sunning themselves in 16-degree weather. It seemed cold to me, but they were chasing every ray of sunlight like gold.

I threw my blue and white striped duffel bag into the back seat of Nick’s MG. He wore his usual—sports jacket, t-shirt, sunglasses—and had that effortless swagger like he owned the world. The top was down, and we took off with the low roar of the engine beneath us, the wind hitting our faces as we sped through the city streets and onto the open road.

Nick was a big Crystal Palace fan, and we talked football as we headed south to Dover. I told him about Harbour View back in Jamaica, and we compared notes on strikers and playing styles. We laughed about women we spotted lounging outside cafés, stylish in their sundresses and sunglasses, and occasionally pulled over for coffee to watch the world go by. Nick drove with an effortless confidence, expertly cornering down winding country roads. The MG’s low hum turned into a throaty growl every time he shifted gears, and I felt like we were flying.

I had only read about the English countryside, and it was hard to believe it was real. Rolling green hills, fields fenced in by old stone walls, and sheep grazing lazily in the sun—it was ordinary to Nick but extraordinary to me. I expected the need for sunlight, the expansive parks in London, and the visible history all around, but the beauty of it still took me by surprise.

We reached Dover and boarded the ferry across the English Channel—another first. I stood on deck as we pulled away from England, watching the white cliffs fade into the distance. Ahead of us was France, and with it, the unknown. For a moment, I wondered if this was a metaphor for my life—leaving one shore behind and heading toward something new. I wasn’t sure, but the thought stuck with me.

We grabbed the compulsory fish and chips on board and talked about football, women, and what Paris would be like. Nick promised it would blow my mind, and I was ready. Years later, I would cross this ferry route many times—sometimes smooth. I was even refused entry into France on one of those trips, but that’s a story for another time.

When I stepped off the ferry into Europe for the first time, it felt like a dream come true. I had always wanted to live in Europe, and at that moment, it didn’t seem so far-fetched.

The drive from Dunkirk to Paris was something out of a dream. The road twisted and turned through small French villages that looked like they hadn’t changed in centuries. Cobblestone streets, old stone houses with red-tiled roofs, window boxes bursting with geraniums. In the town squares, older men played pétanque under the shade of plane trees. We passed fields of golden rapeseed and vineyards; occasionally, a steeple from an ancient church rose on the horizon.

Nick’s MG hugged every curve of the road, the engine purring like a big cat ready to leap. The wind was calmer here, carrying the scent of fresh earth and blooming fields. We stopped once at a roadside café for two strong espressos, and I gave my best “merci” to the server, earning a polite nod in return. I was in heaven.

As we approached Paris, the light softened and turned golden. Then, just like that, the city appeared in the distance. My heart jumped.

We arrived in Paris in the early evening. The city glowed, and everything about it seemed surreal. I asked Nick about the street markets as he navigated through the narrow streets. He laughed, that same mischievous smirk on his face, but didn’t say much. I found out why the following day.

I woke to the sharp barking of vendors right outside my window. I threw open the shutters of my little hotel room on the Right Bank and realized I was living smack in the middle of a bustling street market. The sounds and smells—the bread, the cheese, the flowers—were all there. I dressed quickly and ran outside. I wanted to see everything.

Vendors lined both sides of the street, selling everything from fresh produce to second-hand books. Locals haggled for deals, kids chased each other between stalls, and the air was filled with fresh bread, strong coffee, and a faint trace of cigarette smoke. It was like stepping into a postcard.

After soaking it all in, I made my way to the Louvre. I had promised Althea I’d go, and I stood before the glass pyramid, keeping my word. “Althea, I’m at the Louvre—just like I promised I would be,” I wrote on a postcard to send back home. One promise down. Broadway and IBM? Done. The Sistine Chapel? Not yet, but I was getting closer.

The rest of my week in Paris was full of energy and enthusiasm. The Eiffel Tower, the Seine, Notre Dame, the Left Bank, the cafés—I rushed through it all like a man who knew he only had so much time. I drank too much coffee, stayed out too late, and walked until my legs ached. And I loved every second of it. Walking along the wide boulevards from the Louvre to the Arc de Triomphe, I was struck by the sophistication of Paris. The beauty of the architecture, the fashion-conscious women, the sheer grandeur of the city—it felt like a dream world. I had no cultural misunderstandings, no fear, and no logistical headaches. Paris felt safe, even late at night. I was comfortable, even though I didn’t speak French. Most people I interacted with spoke English, and I felt welcome.

Traveling with Nick made it even better. I missed his carefree banter when he left for his assignment. Traveling alone had moments, but having Nick along made the experience richer.

By the end of the trip, I realized something profound: this journey had changed me. I had left Kingston as a Jamaican-centric man. I returned as a world-centric one. I wanted to see more. Over the next twenty years, I did. My concept of success shifted. It wasn’t just about career achievements anymore. Success, for me, became the opportunity to see and interact with a larger world.

On my train ride back from Paris to London, I met young people worldwide. We sat in a circle and talked about everything—our homes, our dreams, the state of the world. It was then that I knew Europe was where I belonged. And I was right.

Travel was more straightforward in 1980. I went to the airport and bought my ticket the day I was leaving. I stayed where my friends told me to stay. Cipe and Amanda had taught me what to see in London and Paris, and I used their guidance as a starting point. From there, I wandered and explored on my own.

My future trips were inspired by my desire to learn and grow into a well-educated human. Yes, I made it to Italy for a month. Yes, I stood under the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. And today, I live in Portugal.

Since that first trip, I have returned to Europe many times: England, France, Germany, Holland, Spain, Italy, Austria, Ukraine, Hungary, Greece, Morocco—and now Portugal. I am always proud to be Jamaican, but travel helped broaden my narrow perspective and gave me something larger to belong to.

I never missed home. I found Jamaicans and Jamaican culture everywhere I went.