A Jamaican Experience: Thank You for being my mother!

By: Baron Stewart

The IBM move was a dream. They packed us up, transported my car to Los Angeles, flew my entire family business class to L.A., and put us up in a five-star hotel in downtown Los Angeles, close to the IBM offices, for a month. That month, I closed on a three-bedroom house on Newlin Avenue in Whittier, California.

We moved in December 1989. Our home on Newlin was shaded by trees, with a big backyard and a small front garden. Berkeley loved the trees, and my mother finally had her room.

That Christmas, I attended a seminar with Werner Erhard in San Francisco that transformed my relationship with my mother—from burden to blessing. My childhood anger had twisted my internal image of her, and I realized that if I didn’t rebuild it soon, it might be too late. She was 82 years old and dealing with multiple illnesses.

So, during the 1990 New Year’s celebration, I made a quiet but profound commitment: my mother would experience my love before she died. And I meant it.

I got her a new doctor, who immediately started her on dialysis. I hired a nurse and found a hospital that offered a day-care program for the elderly—because she often said she felt lonely when Berkeley and I left for work. The last missing piece was finding a transportation service that could take her there at a price I could afford.

My mother, who had become quite a character in her old age, loved going for dialysis. She thrived on the attention she received at the hospital. She had lost a significant amount of weight and was no longer diabetic. She was content and happy with a nurse who cared for her and my loving attention.

On March 18, just two days after her birthday, Berkeley gave birth to our second son, Justin. His arrival brought even more joy into my mother’s life.

That May, on Mother’s Day, I was home with my mother, baby Justin, and the nurse, preparing to take the red-eye flight to New York. Berkeley and Madison had left earlier, and we planned to meet at JFK after a visit to her mother in Arkansas before a weeklong visit with Fred and Harriette on Long Island.

As I scrambled to finish packing, the car to take me to the airport pulled up. Watching the flurry of last-minute activity, my mother mumbled, “Why don’t you organize yourself so that when the car comes, you’re ready to go?”

I was late, hurrying, and irritated. Her comment struck a nerve. I snapped back sarcastically, “Thank you for being my mother!”—but I was thinking, Will you shut up and leave me alone?

To my surprise, she didn’t react with anger or annoyance. Either she didn’t hear the sarcasm in my voice—or she chose to rise above it. Instead, in the softest, most sincere tone, she asked, “Do you mean that?”

I hadn’t meant it. Not the way I’d said it. But something in her question stopped me cold. I became fully present. It was Mother’s Day in 1990. My 83-year-old mother wanted to know if I finally loved her.

I paused, walked over to her, wrapped my arms around her, and whispered, “Yes, Mama. Thank you for being my mother.”

Then I picked up baby Justin, walked to the car, and left for the airport.

Those were the last words I ever said to my mother.

I flew to New York, met Berkeley at the airport, handed her baby Justin, and headed straight to work at IBM Palisades. Beginning that Tuesday, I was scheduled to give presentations at a conference.

But early that morning, I got a call from our neighbor back in Whittier. He told me my mother had been taken to the hospital in an ambulance. I asked if she had been moving when he saw her.

“No,” he said. “She was still.”

I called the hospital immediately and was transferred to the attending doctor. I explained who I was and asked for an update on my mother.

He said, “Wait a minute.”

I waited.

It felt like five minutes passed—five long, silent, heavy minutes—before he returned to the line and said, with clinical certainty:

“Your mother is dead.”

I didn’t ask what had happened.

I just hung up the phone.

I remember speaking at the conference, emboldened by my mother’s passing. I spoke with more power and presence than ever before—not just as a presenter but as a son who wanted to make his mother proud.

I didn’t rush home. Now that she was gone, there was no urgency—only the solemn task of making funeral arrangements, which I handled by phone.

Berkeley, the kids, and I stayed at Fred and Harriette’s house for the rest of the week. We spent our time talking about life and death, family and meaning. It was a somber, reflective time.

We returned to Whittier for a small funeral—fewer than ten people gathered at Rose Hills Cemetery on a quiet hillside overlooking the valley. It was intimate, peaceful, and just right.

A few days after the funeral, I was walking to the supermarket when I saw a van driving slowly past me—one of those transport vehicles for people with disabilities. It was headed toward my house.

Something stirred inside me.

That bus would pick up my mother for her day program at the hospital. I had forgotten to cancel it. I turned and ran after it, heart pounding, breath catching, but it got to my house before I did.

When I arrived, huffing and puffing, the driver returned to his vehicle. He saw me, paused, and gently said, “I’m sorry, son.”

But at that moment, I realized—there was nothing to be sorry about.

My mother had heard me thank her for being my mother. She was complete. And I was complete.

Life Lessons from a Son’s Goodbye

1. Don’t wait to heal broken relationships.

I often assume there will be more time and chances to say what I mean. But life doesn’t promise tomorrow. If there’s healing to be done, begin it now. A moment of sincerity can mend a lifetime of pain.

Recommendation:
If you're estranged from a loved one, even slightly, ask yourself: What would I regret not saying if today were the last day? Then could you say it?

2. Presence is more powerful than perfection.

When I stopped, hugged my mother and said, “Yes, Mama. Thank you for being my mother.” I didn’t need perfect words. I just required presence. That one moment gave both of us peace.

Recommendation:
Don’t wait for the “right” words. Show up, be real, and speak from your heart. It’s enough.

3. Gratitude transforms relationships.

My sarcastic “thank you” became real—and in that shift, love broke through decades of pain. Gratitude, even if it begins imperfectly, has the power to rewrite your story with someone.

Recommendation:
Practice gratitude. Begin with small, honest acknowledgments of what was given, even if not ideally.

4. Closure isn’t about rituals—it’s about connection.

The driver’s quiet apology and my realization that I was not incomplete—those moments weren’t planned, yet they brought peace. Closure came not from a funeral but from having said what mattered.

Recommendation:
Don’t wait for ceremonies to bring closure. Find it in your everyday interactions—by being honest, present, and loving when it matters most.

5. Pain can sharpen purpose.

After her death, I  spoke with greater conviction and presence, inspired by my mother. Her passing didn’t diminish me—it deepened me. Sometimes, grief gives rise to greatness.

Recommendation:
When faced with loss, ask: How can I honor this person with how I live? Let grief fuel growth, not silence.

6. Love is often most potent when it's simple.

All my mother wanted was to hear that I loved her. And I gave her that gift—that simple truth—“Yes, Mama. Thank you for being my mother.”—was everything.

Recommendation:
Say “I love you” often. Say it. Say it even if it feels awkward. Love doesn’t have to be complicated—it just has to be said.

A Jamaican Experience: The Second Time Through

By: Baron Stewart

The first time we traveled to Europe, we were honeymooners—carrying cameras and expectations, still learning each other’s rhythms. That journey was full of discovery and friction. We didn’t always move in sync. The second time, we brought more than passports and lenses. We got a toddler, and Berkeley was pregnant with our second child. But what could’ve been chaos somehow became our calmest journey yet.

We moved easily through London, Paris, and Avignon—not because the cities had changed, but because we had.

Berkeley, once tense and wary on our honeymoon, was now unshakable. There was a quiet clarity in her this time. There was no rush, no edge—just a kind of grace that absorbed whatever the journey offered and reflected it as peace.

I had returned to places I already knew—Amanda’s house in the English countryside, the quiet cafés of Paris, the sun-soaked fields outside Avignon—but this time, I saw them through Berkeley’s eyes. Amanda, a dear old friend and a writer for House & Garden, had known me long before I met Berkeley. Introducing the two of them felt like presenting my wife to an extended family.

Berkeley’s eyes had changed since that first trip. The sharp, dreamy gaze behind her Leica had matured into something more profound: presence. Stillness. A seeing that required no lens.

Back then, we were learning how to travel together.
Now, we were moving in rhythm.

Paris: Light Without Effort

Paris should’ve felt like a challenge. Traveling with an 18-month-old in the middle of July heat, staying in a modest apartment in the 14th arrondissement, just south of the Seine, within walking distance of the Eiffel Tower. The bakeries, the butcher, and the smell of ripe fruit in the market stalls were all part of a neighborhood built for daily life, not sightseeing. And that was perfect.

Our apartment sat above a quiet street. From the window, I could see the tip of the Eiffel Tower peeking through rooftops like a casual reminder of where we were. We weren’t rushing to monuments—we were living beside them.

Berkeley moved through that apartment with quiet command, tending to our son, brushing her hair by the open window, and boiling water for tea. Her energy was soft and sure. She had come into her own. There was no anxiety, no pressure to do everything at once, just presence.

We explored the Louvre, took pictures of Madison fast asleep on the floor, and walked the shaded avenues hand in hand, with Madison wobbling between us. The Eiffel Tower wasn’t a destination—it was a backdrop. We passed it on the way to the park or admired it while sipping coffee at a café, where the waiter smiled at our son like he was the city's star.

One evening, we met up with Sundarii and Margarette for dinner—the kind that starts with light conversation and ends in something more reflective, more tender. I watched Berkeley laugh with them, entirely at ease. I remembered the early years—when unfamiliar cities made her tense, when new languages put her on edge. But here she was, holding her own in a swirl of French, English, and memory.

That night, as we walked home with Madison asleep against her shoulder, I looked up at the lit tower and thought:

This is what peace looks like.
Not silence. Not perfection. Just alignment.

Avignon: Edge of the Moment

We traveled next to Avignon, a place already tangled with memory. Years earlier, we’d arrived in the middle of its famed festival—actors in the streets, music in the alleys, the stone skeleton of the old papal palace watching in silence. That time, we never made it to the wedding we had come for. This time, we came for something quieter. More intimate.

We were visiting Jose, another old friend from my New York days, like Amanda. She had once been an au pair, and now she lived with her husband in an old, rambling farmhouse just outside the city. She, too, was expecting a baby.

The house was like something from a painting—weathered shutters, wild lavender, the distant hum of cicadas—where you half-expect a goat to wander through the kitchen.

One afternoon, I found myself alone in the attic with Madison. Sunlight streamed through a dusty window, catching particles in the air like golden confetti. He was toddling about, energized by the creak and clatter of old wooden floorboards. I lay on my back, stretched out in that lazy, grateful way that only comes midway through a long journey.

Then everything changed.

There was a hole in the attic floor—an old cut-out with a makeshift set of stairs leading down to the ground level. Madison spotted it. His little legs carried him toward it with sudden purpose. I was too far away. One more step and he would’ve fallen an entire story.

I did the only thing I could.
With everything inside me, I screamed:

“MADISON, STOP!”

And he did.

He stopped. Right at the edge.

I don’t know what force made him freeze. Maybe the sharpness in my voice. Maybe instinct. Maybe grace. But he paused at that brink, looked back at me with wide, wondering eyes, and sat down—just like that.

I was shaking. I scooped him up, held him so tightly he squirmed, confused by my trembling.

That moment—raw, terrifying, miraculous—burned itself into me.
Not because of what almost happened.
But because of what didn’t.

In that old farmhouse, surrounded by peace, I was reminded how quickly everything can change—how the line between joy and loss is often just one word, one second, one step.

Lyon: The Final Flight

We ended the trip in Lyon. Almost didn’t.

The flight home loomed, and like all endings, it snuck up on us faster than expected. We were running late. Not in that casual, “we’ll be fine” way, but in that heart-pounding, minutes-melting kind of late that makes you wonder if you’ll be stuck in a foreign city with a toddler, two carry-ons, and no plan.

I drove. Fast but focused.

Berkeley—calm and composed—was my co-pilot in every sense. No panic. Just clarity. She fed Madison snacks, called ahead to the airline, and encouraged me like a teammate in the final stretch of a relay. We weren’t arguing. We weren’t unraveling. We were aligned.

We parked the car and ran—stroller clattering, bags bouncing, our son giggling like it was a game. We were the last people to board. The doors closed behind us like punctuation.

We exhaled.

That flight wasn’t just about making it home. It was about making it together.
Under pressure. In motion. With trust.

In that rush, I realized something quietly monumental:
This wasn’t just a good trip.
This was a good marriage.

Epilogue: Second Sight

Looking back, I see the first trip as a kind of rehearsal—a journey through emotion and misalignment, trial and tenderness. We were learning each other's tempo. I didn’t know how to read her silences or recognize when she needed stillness instead of movement. I thought photography would be our shared language, but I hadn’t yet learned to see through her eyes.

The second trip? That was the real dance.

It’s not that we didn’t have stress.
It’s that stress didn’t have us.

We had become fluent in each other’s silences. We knew when to let go, hold fast, breathe, and keep moving. Europe hadn’t changed much. But we had. And that made all the difference.

I’ve traveled to many places. But this was the first time I saw them through her calm.
And because of that, I saw them differently.

The second time through wasn’t about discovery.
It was about return.
And becoming.

Life Lessons and Recommendations from “The Second Time Through”

1. Learn to travel at each other’s pace.

Lesson: Harmony isn’t about moving in perfect sync—it’s about learning how to adjust without resentment. If one partner needs rest and the other craves motion, honor both. That’s love in motion.

Recommendation: Discuss your travel styles before you leave home. One person may want to wander museums; the other wants to nap. Both can be valid, and both can be sacred.

2. Presence is more powerful than planning.

Lesson: You don’t need to “do it all.” You need to be there, for the moment, for each other, for the little things.

Recommendation: Let the Eiffel Tower be a backdrop, not a bucket-list checkbox. Focus less on photos and more on what the moment feels like.

3. You don’t grow out of tension—you grow through it.

Lesson: That early misalignment in the honeymoon wasn’t failure—it was the foundation. Learning to move together takes time. That’s how I built rhythm and trust.

Recommendation: Don’t panic when things feel off early in a relationship or a trip. Give each other space to adapt. Growth is often uncomfortable before it becomes graceful.

4. There’s no such thing as “a small moment” regarding parenting.

Lesson: A second’s instinct can shape a lifetime. The attic moment with Madison was terrifying and sacred, showing me how fragile and precious everything is.

Recommendation: Stay awake to the power of now. Kids don’t need perfection—they need your presence, protection, and love in real time.

5. Partnership is not about perfection. It’s about alignment.

Lesson: We weren’t the same travelers, but the same team years later. The flight in Lyon revealed that my marriage wasn’t stress-free, but resilient.

Recommendation: In marriage, work toward alignment, not agreement. You won’t always see eye-to-eye, but if you row in the same direction, you’ll go far.

6. Return is just as sacred as discovery.

Lesson: The first time was new. The second time was proper. Rediscovering familiar places through Berkeley’s calm showed that depth comes from presence, not novelty.

Recommendation: Don’t chase the next new place just for the thrill. Revisit meaningful places to see how you have changed. The view is different when your heart is.

7. Be willing to see your partner with new eyes.

Lesson: Berkeley and I evolved. Part of loving someone is learning to re-meet them as they grow.

Recommendation: Make space in your relationship for reinvention. Let your partner surprise you, and let them grow beyond your earliest expectations.

A Jamaican Experience: I Sometimes Feel Like Forrest Gump

By: Baron Stewart

Tokyo, February 10, 1990

I was headed to Jakarta, Indonesia, to teach for IBM for a week. At the time, I lived in Los Angeles, and whenever you traveled that far for IBM, you were allowed an all-expenses-paid stopover anywhere you wanted. I picked Tokyo.

I like to make my business trips enjoyable. I traveled almost weekly for IBM, lecturing at seminars across North America. To keep myself entertained, I’d play little games. On this trip, I decided to see if I could make it the whole way using only my American Express card—no cash, just the card. In 1990, that was a real experiment. There weren’t many ATMs for international travelers, and credit cards weren’t accepted everywhere. But I wanted to see if I could pull it off.

At LAX, I asked the Delta agent if I could get cash from them if I needed it. They told me, with absolute certainty, “Yes.” So I boarded my flight feeling covered.

When I landed in Tokyo, I needed a taxi to my hotel, but none of the drivers would accept my AmEx card. I walked to the Delta desk to get the promised cash, and they turned me down flat. I was stuck at the airport, showing my card to taxi drivers and getting polite but firm refusals until one kind driver agreed to take me to my hotel, the New Otani near Roppongi, and wait while I got money.

I walked into the New Otani and explained my situation to the front desk. Without hesitation, they handed me enough money to pay the driver, and even gave me extra cash to spend to enjoy Roppongi that night. The service was exceptional. I dropped my bags, thanked the front desk, and the same driver took me straight into Roppongi.

Roppongi was unlike anything I expected. I had some incredible Japanese food and noticed an astonishing number of white Mercedes-Benzes parked around the area. There were one-door private clubs everywhere, popular with young Japanese people. The energy was wild. It was a cultural surprise in the best way.

But the real Forrest Gump feeling hit the next morning when I went to breakfast.

The hotel lobby was full of Black men. Not just any men—Black Americans. A lot of them. It was so unexpected that I stopped and asked myself what was happening. Then I recognized a face. It was Evander Holyfield. And nearby? Sugar Ray Leonard.

Now I had to know.

Then I spotted a familiar boxing announcer I knew from American TV. There was going to be a fight—right there in Tokyo. I asked around and learned it was the Mike Tyson vs. Buster Douglas heavyweight title bout. The fight was scheduled for that very morning so that it could be broadcast on American television the night before—Tokyo was 13 hours ahead of New York.

I ran back to my room and turned on the TV just in time to watch one of the greatest upsets in sports history: undefeated and seemingly untouchable Mike Tyson lost his first fight to a 42-to-1 underdog. Buster Douglas knocked him out.

Just like that, I was a witness to history—from my hotel room.

After the fight, I headed to the airport for my next flight to Singapore. Walking through the terminal, I saw Sugar Ray Leonard running to catch his plane back to the States.

I didn’t plan to be there when the champ fell—but I was. That’s kind of how my life goes.

People sometimes ask me why I traveled so much back then—wasn’t it exhausting? It could be. But I was on a mission. I traveled to teach, lead, and connect, and I found ways to keep the rhythm of it alive. Turning business trips into games, challenges, or stories helped me stay engaged in a life that could otherwise feel repetitive.

When people hear I was there for Tyson’s fall, they often ask: Were you a big boxing fan? Not really. But Tyson was a symbol of dominance. Seeing him lose was like watching certainty crack in real time. From a hotel room in Tokyo, I saw the impossible happen.

Do you think it was fate that you were there? I’ve learned not to overthink it. Life has a funny way of placing you where you need to be if you stay open. I wasn’t trying to witness history—I didn’t want a boring stopover. But somehow, I ended up in the middle of something unforgettable.

I didn’t plan to be there when the champ fell—but I was. And sometimes, just being there is the story.

Lessons from a Layover in Tokyo

After a story like that, readers often ask me, “So what’s the lesson?” The truth is, I didn’t go to Tokyo seeking a life lesson—I went because IBM paid for a stopover. But sometimes, life teaches you things you didn’t even know you were ready to learn.

Here’s what I took away—and what I hope you will too:

1. Be Open to the Unexpected

The most unforgettable moments in life often begin with something mundane. I didn’t plan to witness history. I was trying to get from point A to point B. But I saw something historic because I stayed open, curious, and willing to roll with the moment.

→ Stay open. Let life surprise you.

2. Curiosity is Fuel

My American Express experiment wasn’t about money—it was about curiosity. It was a way to stay mentally awake in a life that could easily fall into routine. That small challenge turned a typical work trip into a story worth telling.

→ Ask yourself: How can I bring curiosity to my everyday life?

3. Kindness Is a Universal Language

I couldn’t speak Japanese. The driver didn’t know me. But he helped me. The hotel didn’t owe me anything. But they gave me what I needed and more. In a foreign land, kindness translated better than any app could.

→ Never underestimate the power of a small act of kindness.

4. History Doesn’t Knock First

The Mike Tyson fight wasn’t on my calendar. But I showed up for breakfast, and history walked into the lobby with me. That moment reminded me that life is happening all around us. You don’t always need a front-row seat—sometimes, watching from the sidelines is more than enough.

→ Be present. The extraordinary often shows up in ordinary moments.

5. Flexibility Beats Perfection

My plan—to use only an AmEx card—fell apart in the first hour. But that twist led to connection, learning, and a better story. When plans fail, grace and resourcefulness take over.

→ Let go of perfect plans. Embrace the detour.

6. Show Up

I wasn’t trying to do anything epic. I was just there. But showing up with presence, awareness, and openness made all the difference.

→ Whatever you're doing, show up for it. You never know who—or what—is about to walk through the door.

A Jamaican Experience: The Ambassador’s Wife and the MTV Dancers

By: Baron Stewart

After the fight, I headed to the airport to catch my flight to Singapore. As I moved through the terminal, I spotted Sugar Ray Leonard again, sprinting through the crowd to catch his plane back to the States. It was like watching a boxer still in rhythm, even off the clock.

I checked into a hotel near the Singapore airport. It was nothing fancy, just functional. The next morning at breakfast, I sat beside an Indonesian woman. We talked casually—nothing deep, just an easy exchange between two strangers passing through the same hour. After breakfast, we realized we were on the same flight to Jakarta.

I had used up all my cash in Tokyo and didn’t think much of it—things had been smooth so far. But just before departure, I was blindsided: Singapore charged an exit tax. And once again, American Express wasn’t accepted. I had no cash, workable credit, or time to solve the problem.

The woman I’d just met stepped forward and immediately paid the tax.

I was stunned. “Thank you,” I said, utterly unprepared for the moment's grace.

Then came the next surprise: she was the wife of the United States Ambassador to Indonesia.

We arrived in Jakarta. My IBM driver was waiting. Hers, however, was not. I offered her a ride to her residence, and she accepted, with the same calm generosity she had shown earlier. The car was quiet, but I felt the echo of her gesture. Sometimes, the universe speaks softly, through the right person at the right time.

That night, I checked into the Jakarta Hilton—one of the most elegant hotels I’d ever stayed in. But it didn’t just feel like a hotel. It felt like a curated world: polished marble floors, hushed corridors, the scent of orchids and opulence. My room was beautiful—everything was in its place, and the fabric was thick and soft. But I was too tired to appreciate it. I dropped my bags and collapsed into the massive bed.

The next day, I discovered a tennis tournament at the hotel—international players in bright whites volleying on manicured courts under blue skies. Champagne flowed near the courtside. The whole thing gave the impression of a world paused in luxury, untouched by the grit and struggle outside the gates.

It was surreal. I was living in two worlds. One wrapped in privilege and perfume. The other pulsing just beyond the hotel driveway—hot, crowded, raw, and loud. I couldn’t unsee it.

Somewhere between waking and sleeping that night, I heard faint, familiar, and irresistible music. Reggae.

Half-asleep, barefoot, I followed the sound like a child drawn to magic. A live band played reggae through hallways and staircases, out into the garden, under a velvet sky. A group of young Indonesian girls danced barefoot on a stage. Their movements were effortless, free, full of joy, and rhythm that felt like home.

I stood in the shadows, captivated.

After the performance, I asked the dancers how they learned to move like that.

They smiled and replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world:
“MTV.”

And just like that, the world felt both enormous and impossibly small. Kingston echoed in Jakarta. Culture, like music, doesn’t ask for permission—it travels, lands, and lives.

The next morning, I headed to the IBM education center. The ride was a jolt. Outside the hotel, the road pulsed with life—donkey carts, bicycles, mopeds, trucks, people on foot, everything moving in chaotic harmony.

And then, strangely, right in the middle of it all: an empty highway. Elevated, pristine, and utterly untouched by the mayhem below. It was a private road, reserved for the wealthy—an invisible border that separated two versions of Jakarta. One lived in the tangle. The other floated above it, untouched.

When we finally reached the IBM building, I stepped out of the car and nearly fainted. The pollution under the concrete overhang was suffocating. I gasped for breath and had to steady myself. No one else even blinked.

And at that moment, I understood something:
This was the rhythm of a different world.
And I was still learning how to dance.

Reflections on “The Ambassador’s Wife and the MTV Dancers”

Why was I traveling through Asia?
At the time, I worked for IBM as an executive instructor, teaching courses on using technology to transform businesses in various countries. This trip was my first, but not my last.

What was the fight I mentioned at the beginning?
The fight was Mike Tyson versus Buster Douglas, when Tyson, once thought invincible, lost for the first time. It shook the sports world, and strangely, it set the emotional tone for my journey.

How did I feel about being helped by the ambassador’s wife?
Grateful, of course. But also disarmed. Her gesture cut through whatever pride or self-sufficiency I’d been holding onto. I was a man used to navigating the world alone. Her help reminded me that sometimes grace arrives through strangers—and that accepting kindness is its kind of strength.

Was I aware of my privilege?
In moments, yes. But it would not be ethical to say I was fully aware then. Working for IBM, staying in five-star hotels, and flying around the world, I was caught up in corporate momentum. That highway in Jakarta—empty, elite, and inaccessible to most—burned an image into me. It wasn’t until later that I sat with the meaning of that division.

Did race play a role in my experience abroad?
Maybe, but I did not notice. As a Black Jamaican-American, I was often viewed through multiple, sometimes conflicting lenses: exotic, professional, mysterious, invisible.

What struck me about Jakarta beyond the chaos?
The energy. And I felt like you could buy people there. Many houses had six or seven servants: cook, cleaner, nanny, gardener, driver, etc. Europeans lived well there. Comfort was built on a stark imbalance.

Was MTV really that global?
Yes, and it shocked me. Those girls weren’t just dancing—they were translating culture, moving in sync with a beat from thousands of miles away. It made me realize that influence travels faster than people. It also made me wonder: What else were we exporting?

What did that empty highway symbolize to me?
A separation of lives—a visual metaphor for inequality. I couldn’t unsee it. That highway wasn't just a road—it was a border. Above it, the powerful moved silently. Below it, the world honked and shouted and struggled forward.

Did my views on travel change after this?
They deepened. Travel stopped being just movement. It became a witness. The more I saw, the less I could compartmentalize. That Jakarta trip forced me to hold beauty and injustice simultaneously.

How do I reconcile the beauty and the ugliness of that day?
I don’t. I carry both. The kindness of a stranger. The scent of orchids. The barefoot dancers. The choking air. They coexist. That’s life. And if I’ve learned anything, it’s this: don’t run from the contradiction. Walk into it. It’s where truth lives.

What did this teach me about interconnectedness?
That we're always closer than we think. A reggae beat in Indonesia. An ambassador’s wife stepping in. Cultures crossing without a passport. The world isn’t a set of countries. It’s a web of small, human moments—some fleeting, some unforgettable.

Did this experience change me?
Yes. But change doesn’t always feel like thunder. Sometimes it feels like a dancer’s smile. Or the hum of tires on a private road you’ll never drive. It’s quiet. But it lingers.

How does this connect to the rest of my life?
It’s part of a theme I keep returning to: the tension between worlds—rich and poor, East and West, corporate and soulful, seen and unseen. I’ve lived in the spaces between—maybe that’s why these moments stay with me—because they remind me I was never entirely in one world or the other. I was always crossing over.

Life Lessons & Reflections from Jakarta

1. Accept help with grace.
Even the most self-reliant among us will need help. When it comes, don’t resist it. Accepting kindness doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human. And it creates a bond that transcends nationality, class, and circumstance.

2. Be present in your contradictions.
You can enjoy the Hilton and feel discomfort at the poverty outside. You can marvel at dancers and feel crushed by smog. Holding those opposing truths is not hypocrisy—it’s maturity. Let it teach you.

3. Pay attention to invisible borders.
Whether it’s a private highway or a tennis tournament in a walled-off resort, power often travels unseen. Notice the systems that divide us, and be mindful of how easily we can drift above them.

4. Let travel make you a witness.
Don’t just collect passport stamps. Let the world teach you something. Ask: What does this place reveal about me? What does it show me about others? Then carry those questions home.

5. Be curious about cultural exchange.
The dancers moved to reggae because MTV had reached them. Global culture is influential—so ask yourself what you're bringing into a space, and what you're learning from it.

6. Be aware of how privilege shapes your experience.
You may not always feel privileged, but privilege isn’t about how you think—it’s about your choices. Acknowledge that. Use it to open doors for others.

7. Don’t wait for the thunder.
Transformation doesn’t always come with fanfare. Sometimes it’s a smile, a moment of silence, or the shock of seeing your world from a new angle. Those moments change you—if you let them.

8. Live at the edge of things.
Between cultures. Between classes. Between certainty and not-knowing. That’s where life is richest. That’s where empathy grows. That’s where you evolve.

"The Jakarta trip didn’t change my life in one dramatic moment—but it made my world wider. And once that happens, there’s no going back."

A Jamaican Experience: John Conway, my new manager, turbo charged my career at IBM

By: Baron Stewart

When Frank Caridi, my first manager at IBM, left PID for greener pastures, John Conway became my new manager. Looking back, I realize that John’s arrival was my career's single most significant event.

Shortly after he arrived, John called me into his office to introduce himself. During our conversation, he casually mentioned that he had read Frank’s assessment of my contributions. Frank had grudgingly noted that I “had good ideas,” even while rating me as average in every category. But John didn’t focus on my so-called averageness. Instead, he zeroed in on where I could make a difference.

That moment stuck with me. It became a lesson I’ve carried throughout my life—especially now when I teach young children. I focus on their strengths and help them build on them, just as John did for me.

John asked if I would like to present my ideas to the Technical Staff at PID—the group of executives who approved which projects were funded and pursued. I said yes, and John scheduled the meeting without hesitation.

The following week, I walked into a room where four executives were seated in front of me. To my side: a flip chart and a few marking pens. Calmly, I explained the problems I saw in PID’s operations. Clearly, I outlined how to solve them—and, more importantly, how IBM would benefit.

It reminded me of defending my understanding of Real and Complex Analysis in graduate school. Back then, I had been overwhelmed. But this time, I was clear, confident, and in control. I presented seven ideas. The Technical Staff accepted every single one.

It felt like a rookie scoring a hat trick in his first professional soccer game.

I wasn’t the “average” programmer when I walked out of that room anymore. I had gone from the back of the line at PID to the front. My proposals were funded, and I became the project leader tasked with fixing the problems I had identified.

PID was IBM’s central software library. It housed every operating system used to run its vast array of computers. The updated software was stored at PID and distributed to IBM’s clients worldwide when a system was fixed.

By 1979, IBM was the world’s most powerful computer manufacturer. Each of its computer models had a different operating system, and as businesses around the globe became more dependent on IBM, the volume of software moving through PID exploded. PID had become IBM’s distribution hub for major corporations worldwide.

However, PID was a relatively small facility. There were plans to build a more significant center at Sterling Forest, New York, but that would take time. Meanwhile, PID was running out of space. The building couldn’t hold any more disk drives or tape drives—and certainly not another computer, each about the size of a two-bedroom apartment.

The only answer was to compact the data.

The Technical Staff came to the programming team with an urgent challenge: write a compaction routine that would reduce the amount of space the data consumed. Everyone jumped on the assignment, including me. But as I dug into the problem, I asked myself a simple question: Why reinvent the wheel?

I remembered George Radin.

George worked at IBM Research in Yorktown Heights, just a few miles north of PID. He was also the father of Dan Radin, my student at RCDS; George had written me a glowing recommendation—the very one that helped me get hired at IBM. I picked up the phone.

“George,” I asked, “do you guys at IBM Research have any compaction routines?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Definitely,” he said. Then, he connected me with a researcher working on precisely that.

While my colleagues were still figuring out how to write a compaction routine, I already had one ready to install. And when I did, John and I were heroes.

That success confirmed what the Technical Staff had already begun to believe: they had put their faith in the right person.

PID held an all-hands meeting and gave me an award in front of the entire programming department. I was on my way.

But the compaction routine was just a stopgap. IBM needed time to finish building the new PID facility. Without the compaction project, PID would have run out of storage space long before the new center was ready.

Still, that wasn’t PID’s only problem. There was a more profound, systemic issue.

In 1979, programming at IBM was considered an art. It should be treated as a science.

At the time, every programmer had their style. There are no universal standards. There is no structured approach. What seemed like creative freedom led to chaos. When a programmer left, maintaining their code became expensive—and sometimes impossible. Without documentation, a program was a black box. You had no idea how it worked. Bugs were costly. Fixes took forever. IBM lost valuable time and money while engineers struggled to reverse-engineer each other’s work.

After the compaction routine, the Technical Staff trusted me enough to greenlight my next project: bringing structured programming to PID.

I was paired with Keith Fessler, a master programmer. Structured programming methodologies were gaining traction in academia, but few had been tailored for an organization like PID. Keith and I researched, adapted existing concepts, and developed a structured process for the entire programming department.

We standardized requirements gathering, created formal design specifications, and introduced state-of-the-art coding techniques. From then on, everyone at PID followed these standards.

As you might expect, not everyone was thrilled. Many programmers resented the new process. After all, I’d been “one of them” just a year earlier—an average coder. Now, I was the guy telling them how to do their jobs. Some resented me openly.

But the organization was behind me. The new process wasn’t optional. It was the way forward.

And it worked.

For my efforts, I received my second award in two years. But when I accepted it, the general manager of PID mumbled as he handed me the plaque: “Don’t expect this to continue.”

He was right—success breeds envy.

After the compaction routine, Keith and I became PID’s top programming team. We weren’t maintaining old programs but building new systems and driving innovation. I came up with the ideas and designed the systems. Keith led the coding and testing. We complemented each other perfectly.

But our success didn’t sit well with everyone. Many programmers had spent their careers coding as they pleased, accountable to no one. Suddenly, I was enforcing structure—and they didn’t like it. Some attacked me openly. (That’s a story for another time.)

Despite the resistance, Keith and I pushed forward.

We introduced a formal requirements generation process, where users were interviewed and had to sign off on the requirements before development began. This simple change dramatically reduced costs. Mistakes were caught early—when they were cheap to fix. In the past, users wouldn’t find problems until after the software was installed, and by then, the cost of repairing them was enormous.

At first, programmers tried to bypass the new procedures, clinging to the old ways. But over time, they fell in line. Structured programming became the standard—not just at PID but across the industry. Today, almost every company follows a structured development methodology. The stand-alone, “romantic” approach to programming faded—not because people wanted it to, but because it wasn’t sustainable.

I wouldn’t describe myself as a leader. I was a pioneer. I found the way forward. But once the path was clear, I turned my knowledge over to others who managed the day-to-day progress.

At the time, I was still an analyst with little people management experience, and it hurt me. I had to change.

But that’s a story for later.

A Jamaican Experience: The Mirror Incident

By: Baron Stewart

By Christmas of 1979, I was riding high at PID. After two years of hard work and recognition, I had become the department’s top contributor. But that Christmas party changed everything.

The programming team gathered for its annual Secret Santa gift exchange. The mood was festive. When your name was called, you walked to the front of the room, accepted your gift, and opened it for everyone to see.

Then my name was called.

I got up, walked to the front, and accepted a flat, neatly wrapped package. The room fell silent as I stood there. I glanced at the sea of white faces watching me, waiting.

I tore off the paper.

Inside was a mirror. Above it, in bold black letters, was a single word:

PROBLEM.

I looked into the glass and saw my reflection beneath the word.

The room erupted in laughter.

I stood there, holding the mirror, the edges digging into my hands. I sat down without saying a word.

Inside, I was furious, humiliated, and rejected. But more than anything, I wondered why I was working so hard in a place that saw me—not my ideas, not my contributions—but me as the problem.

Looking back, I understand now.

I had written about and offered solutions to PID’s problems, and I had been given funding to fix them. In a short time, I became the department’s most successful programmer.

But I wasn’t one of them anymore.

They also resented that Keith, my implementation partner, hadn’t received the same recognition. He was an artist with excellent visual talents and a master coder, but the organization was rewarding leadership and innovation. I was the one with the ideas, and Keith followed me.

And then there was something else. I hadn’t made the effort to connect with them. I didn’t drink with them on Fridays. I didn’t have lunch with them or share stories. I was focused on my work—and it showed.

I had a bright manager who recognized my talents and gave me every opportunity to use my analytical skills. But I had few people skills, and in the workplace, that mattered more than I understood at the time.

They didn’t just resent my success.

They resented that they didn’t know me.

And I didn’t know them.

The mirror incident forced me to reflect—literally and figuratively. I realized I had been leading with my left brain—logic, analysis, precision. It had served me well technically, but it had left me isolated.

I wanted to develop my right brain. To balance who I was.

The following year, I bought a camera and took it on vacation. I started photographing people—mostly strangers I met along the way. Asking to take someone’s photo led to conversations, and conversations led to friendships. I was learning to connect in ways I never had at work. That simple act softened me. It opened a new possibility for me to relate.

And gradually, I started making friends everywhere.

Even at PID.

But not long after that Christmas party, I made a decision that changed everything—for Keith and me.

John offered me the leadership role on our next significant systems development project. It was high-profile, and I was already the technical leader shaping the design.

But I declined.

I told John to give Keith the project management role.

John was surprised. He asked if I was sure, and I told him I was. Keith should have his moment. If he took the lead, I thought he’d get the recognition he deserved. After some thought, John agreed.

Keith succeeded as project manager. The following year, he received a leadership award that I had won.

I didn’t receive one.

My relationship with John never wavered, but Keith changed. We had once worked as partners. Now, he was competitive—less of a collaborator and more of a rival.

Soon after, the department promoted me to the Technical Staff. It was a significant step forward. I was no longer responsible for programming or project implementation. Keith took over all of that.

My new job was to analyze and restructure PID in preparation for its move to the brand-new, state-of-the-art facility in Sterling Forest.

It was a vast project—an exciting opportunity. The scope was more extensive than anything I’d done before.

But I knew something had shifted.

My responsibilities had changed. My relationships had changed. I had changed.

I wasn’t just an analyst anymore.

I was on a journey to become something else.

But that’s a story for another time.

A Jamaican Experience: From RCDS to IBM: A Pivotal Decision

By: Baron Stewart

From RCDS to IBM: A Pivotal Decision

In the spring of 1978, at 30 years old, I decided to leave RCDS. I loved the kids, but I felt I was outgrowing the school. The new headmaster, Robert Eccles, a conservative prep-school type, was steering the school in a direction that didn’t inspire me. To make matters worse, he didn’t like me. When I handed in my notice, he responded bluntly: “I like that idea—I was planning to ask you to leave anyway.”

The decision to leave, however, wasn’t easy. The children kept me at RCDS, and the school community felt like an extended family. I still remember my last day—John Loch, one of my students, lay in front of my car, begging me not to go. That moment stayed with me. But as much as I loved teaching, I needed something more: better pay, more intellectual challenge, and the chance to work on larger, more robust projects.

I considered returning to Stony Brook to complete my PhD, but after being away for four years, it wouldn’t be a simple transition. I would have to re-enroll, secure funding, and, most daunting of all, make an original contribution to mathematics. Then IBM presented an unexpected opportunity—if I wanted to return to school later, they would pay for my education. That sealed my decision. By choosing IBM, I wasn’t abandoning higher learning—I was forwarding my education and career in a new direction. In fact, after joining the company, I enrolled in New York University’s graduate program to study computer science, which IBM fully funded.

With this in mind, I hired a talent agent to help me find job opportunities in mathematics-related fields.

The Gauntlet of Interviews

The agent quickly scheduled three interviews for me on Wall Street—one with the New York and New Jersey Port Authority and two with actuarial firms. Meanwhile, IBM invited me to take an intelligence test and interview. I would run a gauntlet of career-defining meetings in just four business days.

There was only one problem: my wardrobe.

I have worn blue jeans, sweaters, and hiking boots to school for the past four years. My business attire comprises one dark blue sports jacket, gray pants, a white shirt, and black shoes. I had no choice—I would have to wear the same outfit to every interview. At the end of each day, I air-dried my clothes as best I could and hoped for the best.

The Port Authority interview was first. I didn’t like the environment, so I quickly ruled it out. IBM came next, and I knew I had done well on their intelligence test. It was an IQ-style test that assessed problem-solving skills, which I had always excelled at. George Radin’s glowing recommendation also gave me an edge—IBM was beginning to hire mathematicians as programmers, and his words carried weight. That left the two actuarial firms, which felt like a mental endurance test, but I kept my energy up and powered through.

By the end of the week, I called my talent agent to see if he had received any feedback. He hesitated.

“One of the Wall Street firms liked you, but they have a concern,” he said.

I perked up. “A concern? What kind of concern?”

He shifted awkwardly. “Well… they want to know if you have a chemical problem.”

“A chemical problem?” I repeated. “What does that even mean?”

He smiled nervously. “You know… a chemical problem.”

I scratched my head, trying to decode his cryptic message. Then, it hit me.

“Wait... are you saying I smelled bad at the interview?”

He nodded. “Yeah… they liked you, but you smelled a little stale. The good news? They’re still giving you a second chance next week.”

A Choice That Changed Everything

Determined not to let history repeat, I dug through my closet for a different outfit. I found an old mustard-colored tweed sports jacket and dark brown corduroy pants. I also doused myself in deodorant and cheap cologne, ensuring there would be no "chemical issues" this time.

A little nervous, I returned to Wall Street and landed the job. But before I could even start, IBM called.

I was hired.

The choice was easy. IBM was closer to home so I could stay at Cipe’s house. More importantly, it doubled my salary on the first day. IBM was one of the most prestigious companies in the world at the time, and working there felt like an incredible privilege.

I informed my talent agent that I had chosen IBM over the actuarial firm. There was no question—I was starting as a junior programmer in the Program Information Department (PID) in Hawthorne, New York, just across the Hudson River from Stony Point.

Even though I always regretted not getting my PhD, IBM opened doors I never could have imagined. And just like that, my career took a new trajectory I never could have predicted when I first walked out of RCDS.

A Jamaican Experience: Angel or Devil?

By: Baron Stewart

The Blue Datsun: Angel or Devil?

Ronnie was my first love—not in a romantic sense, but in the way that childhood friendships shape the foundation of who we are. We had been friends for as long as I could remember. But as we grew older, the bond that once felt unbreakable began to fray, primarily influenced by his younger brother, Alvin.

I never questioned why our journeys diverged—maybe I didn’t want to. I was not religious, despite the forced Sunday church services of my youth. Rastafarianism never interested me, so when Ronnie was drawn into it, nothing pulled me in that direction alongside him. I wanted a proper education, a future built on knowledge rather than faith. And so, when he left for Jamaica with his family, we let go of each other.

I never visited him. We did not stay in touch.

Years later, after Ronnie shaved off his dreadlocks and returned to Long Island University to attend graduate school, I saw him again for the first time. We embraced, and I was genuinely happy to see him back in the hunt. But beneath that excitement, anger still simmered. I had never admitted it to myself, but when he had struggled through Dental School at Howard University in the earl'80s0s, he had reached out to me for help. I was living in Manhattan, working at Columbia University, and I turned away from him—not because I couldn’t help, but because I was still angry that he had left in the first place.

But Ronnie never held a grudge. Years later, when he was making millions as a dentist, and I was struggling, he helped me.

His departure did not change the course of my life, but time brought us full circle. We rebuilt our friendship, and now, we are brothers by choice.

The Car That Tested Fate

Before he left for Jamaica, Ronnie had one last request—he wanted me to buy his blue Datsun. I didn’t have a car, and he needed the money to start over. I agreed. It was a practical decision, or so I thought.

But that Datsun would soon take on a life of its own.

From the beginning, it was unpredictable. A minor fender-bender on Third Avenue in Manhattan—no real damage, just the shock of being caught in the chaos of the city. Then, in the Bronx, I opened the driver’s side door just as another car slammed into it, my hand still gripping the handle. The insurance company ruled it my fault, and with no money to fix it, I was forced to climb in and out through the passenger side from then on.

Then, the real trouble began. The car refused to start unless I rolled it down a hill or got someone to push it. This was a constant burden, especially on nights when I went out dancing. I’d leave the club exhilarated, only to be dragged back to reality by my stubborn Datsun, scanning for a slope or a willing stranger to give me a push.

And then, there were the nights when it almost killed me.

The Hudson River Incident

One winter evening, I had a date in Manhattan. Before meeting her, I had dinner with a parent from Rockland Country Day School, where I worked. The conversation stretched longer than expected, and by the time I rushed to my car, snow was falling thickly, covering the roads.

I needed to get to 9W, the fastest route to the George Washington Bridge. In my hurry, I took a shortcut down a steep country road. The moment I committed, I realized my mistake.

The road was too slick, and the snow was too deep. My car—a machine already proven unreliable—began to slide. I was headed straight for the Hudson River.

Panic surged through me. I stomped on the brakes, but that only made it worse. The car accelerated, sliding uncontrollably toward the edge.

Then, fate—or something else—intervened.

The road curved. Instead of plunging into the freezing water, I crashed into the side of the mountain. The impact held me there until the police arrived to pull me free.

I should have been dead. But it wasn’t.

I drove home shaking, the date wholly forgotten.

The Palisades Parkway Spinout

But the worst incident came on a summer afternoon.

I was driving north on the Palisades Parkway, headed home from Stony Brook. The sun had been shining moments earlier, but suddenly, rain began to fall, slicking the road with an invisible layer of danger.

I was approaching Exit 13, a long downhill stretch. The memory of the Hudson River incident flashed in my mind. I knew better than to slam the brakes this time. Instead, I downshifted to slow down.

Fourth to third gear—smooth.

Then, I made a terrible mistake.

I shifted from third to second.

The car jerked violently. Before I knew it, I was spinning.

In an instant, I was facing the wrong way on the highway.

Cars were coming toward me, their brakes screeching. I froze, gripping the wheel.

Then, I looked down. My foot was still pressing the brake.

I let go.

The Datsun spun again, this time toward the median. I braced for impact, expecting to roll into the trees.

But then—another 180-degree turn.

And just like that, I was stable. Right at Exit 13. I veered off, my heart pounding like a drum.

I don’t know what saved me that day. But I walked away, just as I had before.

Angel or Devil?

I always wondered: was the Datsun trying to kill me, or was it saving me from myself?

The answer came the day it died.

I had pulled up to the toll booth at the Tappan Zee Bridge when the engine shut off without warning. The car was done.

I called Cipe, who came to pick me up after the police towed it away. She didn’t just rescue me from the bridge—she drove me straight to the VW dealership and bought me a brand-new Volkswagen Rabbit.

I never saw the Datsun again.

Looking back, I realize something strange. In every near-death experience, I had been unnaturally calm. There was no fear, no panic—just clarity. I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t. I don’t know why I survived those moments, but they taught me something.

Life is a gift. It can be taken away at any moment without warning. And because of that, it should be lived fully.

At the time, I was living a good life. Lonely, yes—always searching for companionship—but fulfilled. I had a beautiful home, traveled the world, and held a great job at IBM.

Reflecting, I sometimes wonder: was something looking out for me? There were so many moments when I could have been mugged, attacked, or worse, yet each time, I sensed danger before it struck.

Maybe I was lucky. Or perhaps the Datsun, in its way, sacrificed itself to keep me safe.

And yes—if I had the chance, I would still buy that car again. Not just because Ronnie needed the money but because that blue Datsun, in all its chaos and calamity, was part of my journey.

And somehow, it always knew what it was doing.

A Jamaican Experience: The School Bus Date

By: Baron Stewart

Even though I lived in Cipe’s beautiful home on Filors Lane—where she cooked for me, invited me to fabulous dinner parties with her friends, and provided a space of intellectual and artistic stimulation—I was lonely. I was in my late twenties, surrounded by people two or three decades older than me. Cipe and her friends, sophisticated and worldly, had already lived through the struggles and passions I was beginning to navigate. Their conversations fascinated me, but they couldn’t quell my more profound longing—for the company, the laughter, the touch of a young, beautiful woman.

Making things worse, I didn’t have a car. During the week, I got by—Cipe would drive me to school, or I’d take the bus. But on weekends, when she left for Brooklyn or her apartment on 10th Street, I was alone in that vast house with only a tiny TV and two cats for company. I felt trapped in a place that, while comfortable, only magnified my sense of isolation. The stillness, the absence of human warmth, became suffocating.

I grew restless, then depressed. One evening, Cipe noticed my mood. She was perceptive like that. “Don’t suffer in silence,” she told me. “Go do something about it. Go into the city. See a Broadway show.”

I took her advice. I wandered Manhattan, sat in dark theaters watching brilliant performances, and felt the rush of culture and art wash over me. It helped briefly. But more high-level stimulation wasn’t what I truly needed. I didn’t need another dazzling performance—I needed someone beside me in the dark. I needed connection, intimacy, and the simple, electric thrill of a woman's presence.

I started questioning my choices. Had I made the right decision to leave Lennette? Loneliness makes you rewrite the past, making you wonder if the pain of separation was worse than the emptiness that followed. Deep down, I knew why I had left. But still, the nights stretched long, and doubt crept in.

Desperate to break my solitude, I found a solution—borrowing the VW school bus I used during the week to drive kids to soccer games. With that, I had freedom. On Friday nights, I climbed into that old bus, pointed it toward town, and went searching for life.

At the time, disco ruled the night. In New City, the bars throbbed with Bee Gees anthems, mirrored lights casting flickering beams across dance floors filled with men and women in silk shirts and bell-bottoms. I tried. I stepped into the clubs and watched dancers move with a studied cool, their bodies gliding through the basslines. But I felt like an imposter. The glossy world of disco—its effortless glamour, its electric sensuality—wasn't mine. I didn’t own the right clothes or have the right moves, and more than anything, I didn’t connect with the music.

I was a fish out of water in the mid-70s in Rockland County.

Eventually, I found a place that suited me better—the Red Rail- a country and western bar in New City. It was rough around the edges, dimly lit, with a wooden dance floor that creaked under cowboy boots and beer-soaked conversations. Live bands rolled through weekly, bringing with them the wail of steel guitars and the twang of heartbreak ballads.

And even though I was often the only Black person in the place, I felt welcomed. No one looked at me sideways. No one made me feel like I didn’t belong. The beer was cold, the music was raw, and the people—rugged, working-class, unpretentious—made room for me in their world.

The Red Rail became my refuge. My place to sit, sip a drink and forget that I was alone for a few hours.

But real connection was elusive even there, surrounded by warmth and whiskey-soaked camaraderie. I met many people, but only one girl gave me a little attention—a fleeting moment, a flicker of something, but nothing that could anchor me.

Restlessness gnawed at me. I needed more.

So I got back in that VW bus and pointed it toward a place that still felt like home—my old stomping grounds in Stony Brook, Long Island.

It was a Thursday night, and I found myself looking for an escape at Chester’s, my regular watering hole during graduate school. The Full Hand Band was on stage, belting reggae rhythms, and the dance floor was alive with movement. The bass thumped in my chest, and the air was thick with the scent of sweat, beer, and something unspoken—something electric.

I joined in, letting the music take over, my body moving instinctively to the rhythm. And that’s when I met her.

She was beautiful—a white girl with an easy smile and a spark in her eyes that told me she was up for the night’s adventure. She took a fancy to me, and I to her. We danced, drank wine, and talked—about nothing and everything: the music, the moment, the energy of the room. It wasn’t a deep conversation, but it didn’t need to be. It was precisely what I craved.

For the first time in months, I felt whole again. A woman was at my side, music was in my ears, and my body was lost in the rhythm of the night. I was excited. I was happy.

As the night ended, I turned to her and said, "Let’s do this again—next Saturday in the City."

She didn’t hesitate. "Yes. Let’s go have fun in Manhattan."

Wow. I had a date—my first date since divorcing Lennette.

Things were looking up.

I took her number, promising to call during the week. The plan formed quickly in my mind—I would rent a car, pick her up at her home on Long Island, and take her on a proper night out. We’d start at Lincoln Center, have a beautiful dinner, and then dance the night away at one of the reggae spots in Lower Manhattan.

It was the perfect plan—except for one flaw.

I lived 100 miles away in Stony Point, so meeting her in the city made far more sense. But I wanted to be a gentleman and do this the right way.

Excitedly, I told Cipe about my plan. She listened, then shook her head.

"No. Don’t do that. Don’t waste your money. Drive the school bus. If she doesn’t like you on the school bus, she’s not the girl for you."

I laughed, but her words settled in my mind.

Was she right?

I had a decision to make.

I decided to take Cipe’s advice.

Dressed in my Sunday best, I climbed into the VW school bus and set out on the 100-mile drive from Stony Point to Stony Brook. The irony wasn’t lost on me—rolling through Long Island in a vehicle meant for shuttling kids, yet heading out for what was supposed to be a romantic night. But I trusted Cipe’s wisdom.

Before I left, she had given me one final piece of insurance. “If anything goes wrong,” she said, “call these numbers.” She handed me a list of three of her Parsons students. “Tell them I sent you. They’ll be happy to go out with you.”

It was a strange kind of backup plan, but I took it.

I made the two-hour journey, arriving a little tired but eager. The bus rumbled to a stop across from her house, and I took a deep breath. This was it.

I walked up to the front door and rang the bell.

The door swung open within seconds as if I had been expected. A man stood there—older, stern-faced. I barely had time to register his presence before he barked, “She is not here!” and slammed the door in my face.

I stood there in shock, the sound of the door slamming reverberating in my mind. It wasn’t confusion that held me in place—it was devastation. I knew exactly what had just happened. It wasn’t about my arrival on a school bus or a misunderstanding. It was about the color of my skin. Her father had seen me; that was all he needed to decide that I wasn’t welcome.

I walked away, my legs feeling heavy, my chest tight with something more profound than disappointment. This was rejection on a level I hadn’t fully prepared for, even though, in the back of my mind, I knew such things could still happen. I made my way to a payphone, holding onto some small hope that I had misunderstood, that she would answer and clear things up. But when I dialed, the same voice from the door exploded in my ear:

“SHE IS NOT HERE!”

Another slam. Another door shut in my face, this time figuratively.

I didn’t call again.

I breathed, exhaled the frustration, and dialed one of the backup numbers Cipe had given me. The call was easy—Cipe’s name carried weight, and her students respected her. The woman I reached was kind, even apologetic, but she was sick and couldn’t meet me that night.

So, I adjusted my plans. Instead of sulking in disappointment, I met up with my graduate school friend, Leroy. We spent the evening at Lincoln Center, followed by dinner in the Village. It wasn’t the night I had imagined, but it salvaged my spirit enough to remind me that one bad experience wasn’t the end of the road.

This moment could have deterred me and made me hesitate the next time an opportunity for connection arose. But it didn’t. I believed then—and still think now—that men and women want to feel connected. And no amount of rejection, prejudice, or unforeseen setbacks would stop me from pursuing that connection when the opportunity presented itself.

And as it turned out, this wouldn’t be my last experience meeting the father of a white woman I was dating. The next time, things went very differently—but that’s a story for later.

A Jamaican Experience: Cipe Pineless Burtin

By: Baron Stewart

Cipe Pineles Burtin, by any measure, was a remarkable woman. When I moved into her house on Filores Lane in Stony Point, New York, in the fall of 1975, she was 67 years old—short, with distinctive white hair always rolled into a bun at the back of her head. It was a sad period for her because her recent love, Edgar Levy, had just died, and she was visibly depressed. She had lost her husband, Will Burtin, in 1972, and now Edgar—it was too much to bear. For months, she would spend her weekends in Brooklyn with her sister so she wouldn’t be alone in Stony Point.

During the week, when she worked at home, she dressed as if she were going to an office in New York City—elegant dresses, delicate but comfortable shoes, and her white hair neatly tied in a bun. She would sit at her desk in the living room, working diligently. At 5 p.m., she would stop to make dinner, which was most often chicken. When I came home from school, we would have a glass of dry vermouth with a twist of lemon, then eat her chicken and watch the MacNeil/Lehrer Report on television. We would discuss our day’s activities and the news and then head to bed.

As Cipe recovered from Edgar’s death, she started staying in Stony Point more often on weekends and took solace in her garden. She loved to garden, and just outside her kitchen window was a beautiful space she tended carefully.

Cipe also loved a good dinner party. Just off the kitchen, the dining room had a large round table that could seat around ten people. I met some remarkable guests at those gatherings—movie directors, heads of New York museums, and one of her favorite professors from Columbia University. However, one of the most fascinating people I met at Cipe’s house was 1976 during America’s Bicentennial Anniversary. The Speaker of the House of Commons, Selwyn Lloyd, was a guest at her home. I had many conversations with him. His wife had arrived in America by boat, while Selwyn had flown over separately. He even invited me to visit him at the House of Commons, but I never could go.

This was my finishing school. Cipe taught me to hold my own among the wealthiest and most influential people. She allowed me to live in her house for free and encouraged me to use my money to see the world. During the nine years I lived there, I traveled to a different part of the world for a month each year, and when I returned, I would share my adventures with her over dinner. Cipe also loved to travel, and when she was away on her adventures, she would send me postcards to keep me updated on what she was doing.

During this time, I became a skilled photographer, taking beautiful pictures of her house and giving them to her as gifts. I even had a couple of photography exhibitions in Rockland County, and Cipe helped me select the pictures to showcase. One of her greatest gifts to me was when she used one of my photographs on the cover of a piece she did for the Parsons School of Design.

Cipe had two adopted children: Carol Fripp, the daughter of Will Burtin, and Tom Golden, the adopted son of Cipe and William Golden, the art director of CBS Television. Carol lived in Toronto, Canada, with her husband and two sons. Whenever they visited Stony Point, it was always a fun time. On the other hand, Tom was in California pursuing music and visited only occasionally. She loved both of her children, but she was deeply disappointed in Tom for not using his privileged upbringing more meaningfully. He had attended RCDS but did not attend college, although she had set aside money for his education. Carol, however, was very successful and responsible—she became a television producer in Toronto.

There were many memorable moments during my years at Cipe’s house, but one of the most unforgettable was her induction into the Art Directors Hall of Fame in New York. This was a monumental event for Cipe. Her husbands, Bill Golden and Will Burtin were already in the Hall of Fame, and now Cipe would become the first woman to join this distinguished group.

The ceremony took place at the 666 Tower on 5th Avenue in Manhattan. For the occasion, Cipe invited Meis Hora, one of her students, her nephew, a researcher at Rockefeller University, and me to accompany her. Being there with her on such a special night was an honor.

As we sat on the podium, the man beside me leaned over and asked, "I know he’s her nephew, and the other guy is her student, but who are you?"

I smiled and replied, "I live with her."

He turned away with a confused look on his face.

Cipe was warm, elegant, and thoughtful. She embraced me as a son and influenced those around her with her clear value for quality relationships.

She struggled with personal losses, often seeking comfort in her older sister in Brooklyn. After she died, I read an article that mentioned an incident from earlier in her life—she had once been so upset that she jumped in front of a train to end her life but somehow survived. I was shocked when I read that. The Cipe I knew was a strong woman, deeply resilient in our relationship. The idea that she had once attempted suicide was unimaginable to me.

Cipe loved a good debate and encouraged strong opinions at her dinner parties. She also had her habits—she always cooked the same chicken dish and found joy in gardening. She balanced her life well. She had an apartment on 10th Street off Broadway in Manhattan, where she stayed when she taught at Parsons School of Design, but when she was in Stony Point, she worked diligently at her desk from 9 to 5 in the living room. That structure made her transition into home life easy after work.

Her biggest passion outside of design was encouraging young people. She believed in mentorship and poured her energy into supporting me, Meis Hora, Amanda Harling (the daughter of the editor of House & Garden magazine in England), and many others.

Cipe was a giant in the world of graphic design. Her influence was evident in the many magazines she art-directed—Seventeen, Charm, Mademoiselle, Vogue, and more. She mentored Meis Hora, who later became a well-known designer. Meis was her apprentice, and they worked on numerous projects for Parsons.

One of the most valuable lessons I learned from Cipe was consistency—one step at a time, over and over again. She taught me to remember the details and repeat them every time.

Living with Cipe was marvelous. She invited me into her life, gave me access to her friends and family, and shaped me in ways I couldn’t have imagined.

Just before Cipe died in 1991, I went to her room, where she lay in bed, not looking like the Cipe I had always known. I said to her, "I love you, Cipe." She answered with a smile, "That sounds good."

On another occasion, I invited my mentor and lifelong friend, Althea Young, to have dinner at the Stony Point house. As I sat between the two women, Althea, full of love for me, said, "A rose between two thorns," acknowledging how much I had grown from my early days at KC. But Cipe did not see it that way. Althea had just called her a thorn. She was angry and let me know it after Althea left.  More adventures with Cipe later.

A Jamaican Experience: The Graduation Incident

By: Baron Stewart

My relationship with RCDS was symbiotic—it nurtured my life and prepared me for a successful future, and in turn, I played a positive role in shaping the lives of many students. At the time, I did not own a car. I would take the bus to work, but I was stranded at Cipe’s house on weekends. Recognizing this, the school lent me the VW bus we used during the week.

Though my weekends were lonely, my weekdays were overwhelmingly busy. I played tennis at local clubs with my parents and was frequently invited to dinners, parties, and various social events. The upper-middle-class community welcomed me into its opulent lifestyle. However, the most influential impact of my time at RCDS came from George Radin, an IBM Research Fellow and father of one of my exceptional math students, Dan Radin. George played a key role in helping me secure my next job.

However, the impact of RCDS did not stop there. One of my brightest students, Keith Raniere, left a particularly lasting impression. Keith was an exceptionally gifted mathematician who felt misplaced at RCDS. He had already studied advanced mathematics independently and didn’t want to repeat what he had mastered in class. When I arrived, he approached me, eager for a challenge. I handed him my graduate-level Real Analysis book to study, and this single gesture sparked a lifelong friendship. At RCDS, Keith became my teaching assistant in my lower-grade classes, where he demonstrated remarkable critical thinking and problem-solving skills. He left RCDS in his junior year to attend Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute near Albany, New York.

In addition to Keith, I had other protégés—Mark Adoldof, Koji Felton, and John Lock—among my top mathematics students. Mark went on to Stanford, Koji to Harvard, and John to Princeton, three of the most prestigious universities in the world. When these young men were graduating, they honored me with an invitation to be the commencement speaker at their graduation. I was thrilled by the opportunity, knowing them well, and eager to celebrate their achievements.

However, the event took an unexpected turn. It was a warm spring day in early June, and I arrived dressed in my only suit—a gray three-piece flannel—wanting to look my best. I hadn’t eaten all day, but I had a couple of glasses of champagne while celebrating with my parents. As I started my speech, I felt fine, but halfway through, dizziness overtook me. I collapsed on stage. Though I remained conscious and could hear the crowd gasp, my only thought was that I was ruining the graduation of the students who had believed in me so much. I tried to stand but fell again, caught by a chair that someone had quickly placed behind me. Determined to finish, I delivered the rest of my speech from the chair. When I concluded, I was met with a standing ovation. Koji, Mark, and John were so proud of me.

This incident would later reveal itself as the first sign of my lifelong battle with diabetes, which I will discuss in more detail later. However, rather than tarnishing the event, it only added to the growing folklore of "Baron Stewart" at RCDS.

The upper-middle-class community of RCDS was a beautiful new pond in which this Jamaican fish could swim. It was a world unlike my own, yet I quickly adapted and thrived in it.

Among my students, Keith Raniere stood out as one of the brightest. His desire to learn was off the charts—he wanted people to recognize his talent. Yet, in many ways, he was a misfit. He had already mastered much of what the school had to offer, but I believe he stayed at RCDS because of the community it provided. He was an excellent table tennis player and a skilled skier. His independent learning approach reminded me of what I had seen in graduate school, and I embraced him immediately.

Mark, Koji, and John were more than just my students—they were my companions in learning and competition. They played on my soccer team; we went skiing together, ran races around Rockland Lake, and engaged in endless chess and table tennis matches. We pushed each other, not just in academics but in every challenge we took on.

My teaching philosophy centered on independent learning, much like my own experience in graduate school. I taught my students to read their math books critically and explore concepts independently. My only rule was that they had to master at least one concept daily. If they didn’t understand something, they would bring it to class, and we would discuss it together.

The common trait in all my top students was curiosity. They didn’t just want to learn—they were driven to uncover more than required. Instead of learning just one concept daily, they would master ten or more. I still remember Mark finishing both Algebra 1 and Algebra 2 in a single year. One of my proudest moments came at a parent-teacher conference when I told Mark’s mother that her son had completed two years of coursework—with distinction—in just one year.

Looking back, the graduation incident should have been a wake-up call for my health, but at the time, I didn’t fully understand the seriousness of what had happened. My mother was diabetic, but I paid little attention to the condition then. It wasn’t until much later, when diabetes took a severe toll on my life, that I genuinely grasped its impact.

When I left RCDS, I transitioned to IBM, thanks to a strong recommendation from George Radin. I am still in touch with Mark, Koji, and Keith, and my belief in independent learning remains as strong as ever. Even today, when I tutor students, I encourage them to cultivate curiosity and take charge of their knowledge.

If I could go back and do one thing differently at RCDS, it would be to take my health more seriously. At the time, I brushed off the incident, but it was only a matter of time before it returned with life-threatening force.