The Jamaican Experience: The Chesters Experience and Heritage

By: Baron Stewart

I lived with Cipe in Stony Point, New York. I crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge weekly to work at IBM in Hawthorne. It was a steady life, but my world stretched far beyond Westchester when the workday ended. My social life still pulled me back to Stony Brook, Long Island, where I had gone to graduate school. Even though I made regular pilgrimages into Manhattan to dance to reggae at a club on Varick Street—Ones, they called it—my heart always beat strongest back in Stony Brook.

Stony Brook was where I had fun. And for me, fun meant Chesters.

Chesters was a bar tucked on the corner of Route 25A and Old Town Road—a weathered old building you might miss if you didn’t know where to look. A hand-painted sign hung above the door, worn by wind and rain, its letters peeling at the edges like it was shrugging off time. But inside… inside was timeless.

The place was dim, lit chiefly by strings of colored bulbs. The walls were covered with old band posters and Polaroids—grainy snapshots of people laughing, hugging, and lost in dance. Behind the bar was a tattered Jamaican flag draped like a curtain and a photo of Bob Marley, slightly crooked, overlooking everything like a watchful spirit.

Every Thursday night, rain or shine, Chesters transformed into something more than a bar. It was a home, a sanctuary, and the Full Hand band was the center of it all. They played reggae the way it was meant to be played—deep, soulful, with basslines you didn’t just hear, you felt in your chest before you even got through the door. It was like the rhythm was calling you from the parking lot.

The crowd was a cultural melting pot, a family made by choice. Jamaicans made the trip out from the city every week, blending effortlessly with local Long Islanders and students from Stony Brook. Everyone was there for the same reason: the music and the feeling it gave us. It didn’t matter where you came from—Montauk, the Bronx, Kingston—inside Chesters, we belonged to each other.

The air was thick with heat and rhythm, and the faint tang of weed if you stepped too close to the side alley. It was sticky—sweat on your back, condensation running down beer bottles—but no one cared. It was all part of the groove.

And then, there was Joanne.

She was already dancing when I noticed her—she always was. She had this way of moving—effortless like the music was carrying her, not the other way around. Dark brown hair cut short, loose strands catching in the breeze from the ceiling fan. A flowing skirt that spun when she did and a smile that lit up her whole face. She was a single mom and a teacher during the day, but at night, she was pure rhythm, pure joy.

We’d cross paths on the dance floor, exchanging smiles as we moved. Then, one night, during Full Hand’s version of “Get Up, Stand Up,” she grabbed my hand and pulled me into her orbit. We danced without words, no need for them. The music spoke for us, connecting us in ways I still lack language.

After that, we danced together every Thursday. We laughed when we were too sweaty to keep going, sharing cold Red Stripes on the front steps, catching our breath under the stars. Sometimes, we talked about our weeks—her students, my job at IBM—but mostly, we just were. At the moment. In the music. In Chesters.

Those nights at Chesters weren’t just about fun. They were about belonging. About finding family where you least expected it. About dancing until your legs ached and your heart was wide open. It was about Thursday nights that felt like they could stretch on forever.

And for a while, they did.

Yani, Ken, and Ilse were always posted by the bar, holding down their corner like royalty. Yani had a laugh you could hear over the band, and Ilse had this way of raising an eyebrow that said more than most people could in an entire conversation. They knew everyone, and everyone knew them. If you were new, they would bring you in, hand you a drink, and ensure you found your place.

Ilse's crew from Ronkonkoma was a force. They rolled deep, packed tight in a little orbit of their energy.

Later, there was Fred and Harriette. I met them one night at the bar because Joanne couldn’t come and instructed me to meet them. Joanne said they’d take care of me, and they did. They treated me like an old friend when I walked up to them. Fred, with his easy grin and calm presence, and Harriette, sharp-eyed and kind, both held space at that bar like they’d been doing it for years. That night, I realized that even without Joanne, I belonged there.

And then Elsa—the blonde from Latvia like Ilse and Yani - had a style all her own: long, straight hair that caught the colored lights as she danced and this incredible, quiet energy that made you think she was always listening, always taking everything in. She’d show up some nights like a breeze through the door and dance with me before slipping into the crowd.

At the center of it all was Quamy. He was the leader of the Full Hand band, tall and lean with long dreadlocks that swayed when he played. Quamy didn’t just lead the band—he conducted the night. His voice carried stories; his rhythm set hearts beating in time. When Quamy locked eyes with you mid-song, you were the only person in the room. He made sure every Thursday night at Chesters was unforgettable. He made it sacred.

And then there was Al Anderson. Before his name was etched into reggae history, he was just Al before he was standing on stage with Bob Marley and the Wailers. He lived in Stony Brook, and it wasn’t unusual to see him at Chesters. Some nights, he was at the bar, others on stage, guitar slung low, fingers moving across the strings like they remembered something sacred.

Long before people whispered about who he played with, Al played with Quamy and the Full Hand band. Back then, it wasn’t about fame—it was about the music. The groove. He was part of the heartbeat of those Thursday nights. You’d see him walking in the door like anyone else—maybe nodding hello, laughing with Ken’s crew, or giving Yani and Ilse a quick hug before setting up on stage—just Al.

At the time, it didn’t register how rare that was. He was just part of the family. Another player in a band that made Thursday nights at Chesters feels like magic. But later—after—when we saw him on album covers and tour posters when he was up there on stage next to Marley playing those same soulful licks, it all clicked. We had been in the presence of something special all along.

Fred and Harriette became lifelong friends. That night at Chesters, when Joanne sent me to meet them, was one of those small moments that changed everything. They welcomed me without hesitation and made me feel like family. Over time, they became family. Fred married Harriette not long after those days at Chesters, and to this day, Fred is like a brother to me. We’ve stood together through life’s ups and downs like family does.

Yani and Ilse—those two were the heartbeat of Thursday nights. They moved away from Long Island years ago, but the distance never changed. We still talk. Still, check in. It’s the kind of friendship that picks up right where it left off every time. And Ken… Ken is still there, holding it down shop in Port Jefferson. When I go back to Long Island, I always make sure to see him. Sitting with Ken now feels like sitting on a porch with an old friend, remembering the rhythm of those nights at Chesters, even if we’re not dancing anymore.

Those nights gave me a community—not just people to share a dance floor with but people who became part of the story of my life. Chesters might be long gone, and the music faded into memory, but the people—my people—are still here. We still carry those rhythms inside us.

Joanne and I were on and off for years. We had a deep connection—something that felt easy and right whenever we were together—but there was always a distance she kept, a line she wouldn’t let us cross. It wasn’t because of us. It was because of her father.

Joanne’s father was a white German man, and she believed—no, she knew, or at least she thought she knew—that he would never accept a Black Jamaican as a suitor for his daughter. She told me more than once, “My father would kill me if he knew I was dating you.” She said it matter-of-factly, but there was a sadness in her voice each time as if she wished the world were different. Like she wanted, she could be different.

Still, we found each other again and again. Thursday nights at Chesters, dancing like nothing else mattered. Long talks on quiet nights. That kind of connection isn’t something you walk away from easily.

In August of 1977, I turned 30. Joanne and I spent the day together, celebrating in the city. Lunch at Rockefeller Center—outside, where the breeze carried the sounds of street musicians and the murmur of tourists—and then a Broadway play, the kind where you both lean in close to catch the subtle lines, where your hands brush together in the dark and it means something. It was one of those days you tuck away in a safe place, knowing you’ll take it out later and hold it again when you need to feel warm.

That day meant a lot to me—more than I think I let on at the time. So when February came around—Joanne's birthday — I sent her a huge bouquet of red roses: no card, no message, just the flowers.

Later that summer, when I saw her again, she told me what had happened.

Her father had seen the roses.

“Who sent you those?” he asked her.

“My Jamaican friend,” she told him. And she braced herself.

But instead of anger, he smiled. “I’d like to meet him,” he said.

When she told me that, I didn’t know what to say; after she’d told me how impossible it would be and how closed he was, a tiny crack of light suddenly came through the door. Perhaps it wouldn’t change anything. But it was something. It was hope. And sometimes, that’s enough to keep going.

A few days after telling me her father wanted to meet me, Joanne asked, “Would you be open to it?”

I paused.

I wanted to say yes without thinking, but something old and heavy sat in the back of my mind. A memory. Another house, another father. A white father who had slammed the door in my face the minute he saw me standing there, dressed neatly, ready to take his daughter out for a date. That door had closed fast and hard like it was trying to erase me from his world.

I still felt that door sometimes.

But this was Joanne. This was different. Or at least I hoped it was.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m open.” Cautious but open.

She nodded and picked up the phone, dialing her father. When he answered, she asked him if he still wanted to meet me.

“Yes,” he said. “You should come over.”

So we went.

We drove across the island, from Stony Brook to the south shore. The sky was clear, but I had a knot in my stomach that tightened with every mile. Joanne tried to keep things light, telling me about her day at school and laughing at something on the radio, but her voice had an edge that matched my mood. We were both bracing for something.

When we pulled into the driveway, her father was already at the front door. He stood there with a big smile, waving us in like an old friend was coming for dinner. His presence was solid but warm, and I let myself breathe momentarily.

But just behind him, her mother stood.

Her face was something else.

Panic. Not just surprise or uncertainty, but full-blown panic. The kind that tightens a person’s whole body. Her hands were clenched, and her eyes flicked between me and Joanne as if she was watching something about to come undone.

Joanne didn’t slow down. She took my hand briefly, squeezed it, and walked up together.

Her father stepped aside and gestured for us to come in.

“Welcome,” he said. His voice was steady, and he was still smiling.

Her mother didn’t say anything. 

Her father offered me a seat in the living room, and the women disappeared into the basement, supposedly to discuss Tupperware sales. It was their way of getting out of the way, leaving us men to talk. I found myself alone with him, sitting in a space thick with unspoken questions.

He picked up the television remote and started flipping through the channels. He seemed to be searching for something neutral that wasn’t a basketball game or All in the Family. After a few clicks and sighs, he settled on a nature program, something quiet and safe.

Once comfortable, he asked me, “What would you like to drink?”

“Sweet vermouth with a twist of lemon,” I said.

He looked surprised but got up to make the drink. Living with Cipe in those days had introduced me to sweet and dry vermouth after work. It had become a quiet ritual, and I liked the taste. When he handed me the glass, he studied me for a moment.

“Where did you learn to speak like that?” he asked.

I smiled. “I’ve spoken like this my entire life.”

That caught him off guard. He was holding me up to whatever stereotypes he had carried with him, and I wasn’t matching up. Then came the question I half-expected.

“Where do you work?”

“I’m with IBM,” I told him.

He nearly fell out of his chair. His eyes widened, and he sat back, taking it in. He owned a small business machine repair company himself, and working for IBM had been a dream he never quite achieved. It hit him then—maybe for the first time—that I wasn’t who he thought I’d be.

When Joanne and the woman returned upstairs, he turned to her with a grin.

“Honey,” he said, “you’re doing all right.”

Joanne could hardly believe it. Neither could I. We talked about it the entire ride back to the North Shore. Something had shifted that night.—maybe not everything, but something.

Later that summer, I saw Joanne’s father again. She was packing her house to drive cross-country to California, and I offered to help. When I arrived, her father was already there, sleeves rolled up, moving boxes with surprising energy. Her mother was in the kitchen, carefully wrapping dishes in old newspapers, and her grandmother was in the living room, folding linens with slow, practiced hands.

He greeted me like I belonged there, smiling as he passed me a box and motioned toward the moving van. There was no hesitation this time—no cautious distance. We worked side by side that day, loading Joanne’s life into cardboard boxes and duffel bags. At one point, he clapped me on the shoulder and said, “Thanks for helping out, son.”

By the time the house was empty, I felt something had come full circle.

Joanne and I kept in touch for a while after she moved to California, but we never dated again. Our time had passed, though the affection was still there. There were many goodbyes between us—sometimes in person, sometimes just understood. Even after she married someone else and settled into her life out west, she told me her father would ask about me occasionally. That didn’t surprise me. I was used to that. It was the rule, not the exception.

I never had a real conversation with her mother and grandmother. Joanne’s father was the leader of their family, and they followed his lead. Once he decided to open the door, they stayed quietly behind him. That was the rhythm of things in those days.

Over the years—in New York, California, and now Portugal—I’ve found many supportive, positive white women who stood by me, believed in me, and gave me strength. Cipe, Berkeley, Harriette, Joanne, Elsa, Ilse, Mary, Sara… and many others—too many to name. Most of my success has been fueled by the support of white women. Their friendship, love, and loyalty helped carry me through.

When I was about to marry Berkeley, my second wife, Cipe, called me. She asked why I was taking that risk. She told me marriage was hard enough on its own and would be even more complex because Berkeley was white. I smiled. I married Berkeley anyway. We were together for thirty years.

I’ve never walked around thinking I was navigating interracial relationships. That’s not how I see it. I’ve continuously operated on a human level. I am a man. She is a woman. We go from there.

A Jamaican Adventure: Transforming PID into IBM Software Distribution Department

By: Baron Stewart

The Team That Would Restructure PID

I was fortunate to be selected as part of a four-person team of analysts tasked with an enormous challenge: restructuring PID in preparation for its transformation into IBM Software Distribution. This wasn’t just any assignment. It was high-stakes, complex, and crucial to IBM’s future in the software business.

The work we were about to do wasn’t theoretical. IBM was betting on software and needed a distribution system to keep pace with explosive growth. We were going to lay the groundwork.

The methodology we used was called Business System Planning (BSP).

What is Business System Planning (BSP)?

At IBM, BSP was developed to help clients understand their business needs and translate them into the hardware and software solutions they should buy. It wasn’t about selling boxes—it was about profoundly understanding a business from the inside out and designing systems that could support its strategy and operations.

BSP was rigorous. It forced you to step back and see the business as an integrated system rather than a collection of disconnected departments and processes. It asked tough, fundamental questions:

• What is the business strategy?

• What are the key business processes that make the strategy work?

• What critical data does the business depend on?

• Who owns what within the organization?

When you answered these questions honestly and thoroughly, patterns emerged. You could spot the gaps, the redundancies, and the inefficiencies. You could see where information flowed smoothly—and where it got stuck. BSP was like building an x-ray of the business. Once you had that model, you could design business and IT systems—that made everything run better.

Applying BSP to PID: Turning the Lens Inward

Until then, IBM’s marketing teams had primarily used BSP to help external clients. This time, we turned that same disciplined approach inward. Our team of four analysts became internal consultants, and we applied BSP to PID itself.

It was eye-opening.

We mapped out PID’s business strategy, which, at its core, was shifting from hardware distribution to a software-first model. That change alone had ripple effects throughout the organization. Many of PID’s traditional processes were optimized for physical inventory: tracking shipments, managing warehouses, and handling customs paperwork. But software distribution was a different beast. It required speed, precision, and a new licensing and fulfillment approach.

We examined PID’s business processes, some of which hadn’t changed in decades. Some were solid, but others—designed for the old world of physical products—didn’t fit anymore. For example, order processing that took weeks for hardware needed to be cut down to hours, if not minutes, for software.

We analyzed PID’s critical data: order information, licensing records, inventory tracking, and customer entitlements. We found that data was often siloed in different systems owned by other departments and was not always consistent. In the software world, where the product was usually just a license key, clean, accurate data was everything.

We also examined organizational ownership. Who owned the process of fulfilling a software order? Who was responsible for licensing compliance? These roles weren’t always clear, creating gaps in accountability.

Identifying the Gaps—and Closing Them

BSP helped us identify the holes and weak spots in how PID operated—and there were plenty. Some were simple, like redundant data entry. Others were more complex, like how customer entitlements were tracked—or not tracked well enough—to prevent duplication or license misuse.

Once we had the model of PID’s business, we started designing the future-state architecture for IBM Software Distribution. We recommended:

• Streamlining order management to reduce cycle times.

• Implementing centralized data management for customer and product information.

• Redefining roles and responsibilities to ensure every process had clear ownership.

• Laying the groundwork for electronic software delivery, which, at the time, was a bold new frontier.

A Small Team, a Big Impact

We were a small team, but we had a big mandate. Every analysis session, interview with a PID stakeholder, and brown-paper process map we sketched out mattered. We defined how IBM Software Distribution would work in the future and the next decade.

Our work had a sense of purpose. We knew that if we did this right, IBM would be ready for the software explosion. If we got it wrong, the consequences would be felt across the entire company.

Earning IBM’s Trust

When I was asked to join PID's Business System Planning (BSP) team, I had already established a reputation for delivering results and adding value. This wasn’t luck; it was the result of leading projects that solved real problems.

One of those projects was my compaction initiative, which saved PID money and space—clear, measurable outcomes that leadership valued. I also introduced structured programming techniques to PID, bringing modern software engineering practices into the division. I built a significant software system for the older processing department, streamlining key operations that had been inefficient for years.

These efforts earned me IBM’s trust. They saw me as someone who didn’t just talk about solutions but implemented them effectively and brought others along. That trust led to my selection for the BSP team that transformed PID into IBM Software Distribution.

The Challenge of Following Instead of Leading

Joining the BSP team was an honor but came with a personal challenge. The hardest part for me wasn’t the complexity of the task or the tight deadlines. It was learning how to follow instead of lead.

Up until then, I had typically driven the projects I worked on. I was used to setting the directions and making the calls. But Steve Wolpert was our leader on this team. Steve was thoughtful, fair, and incredibly capable. He had a calm, even-handed approach that created trust within the team. And while I respected his leadership deeply, I had to learn to step back, trust the process, and play a supporting role.

That experience taught me a lesson I carry with me to this day: sometimes leadership means knowing when to follow when to support others in their roles, and when to put team success ahead of personal ambition. It wasn’t easy then—and if I’m honest, it’s something I still work on today.

Making Change Manageable

We all knew making change was hard. But by then, I had grown familiar with the challenges and had gained tools to help manage them.

One of the most effective techniques we introduced during the PID restructuring was the IBM Software Distribution Maturity Assessment Survey. This tool allowed people across the organization to see where they were in the transformation process and visualize the path forward. It helped them understand their role in creating a mature, high-functioning organization and what actions they could take to move the needle.

This simple tool transformed how we framed change. Instead of asking people to take blind leaps, we gave them a roadmap—one they could understand, engage with, and influence. It made our work more manageable and helped us build alignment during significant upheaval.

Why I Left the Fast Track

After the successful transformation of PID into IBM Software Distribution and our move into the beautiful Sterling Forest offices, I was on the fast track at IBM. I was working alongside incredibly talented people like Steve and Michelle, who were advancing rapidly in their careers. And yet, I made a different choice.

I wanted to give back—to contribute to people like me who had struggled to find a path to success. I knew what it felt like to doubt whether there was a place for me in the world of technology. And I wanted to help young people see themselves in those spaces, to help them believe they belonged.

That’s why I joined the Comprehensive Math and Science Program (CMSP) through IBM’s Faculty Loan Program. CMSP, led by Gil Lopez at Cooper Union University, was a citywide collaboration of engineering schools with a mission: to increase the number of Black and Hispanic students pursuing careers in engineering.

For two years, I worked in New York City high schools, collaborating with guidance counselors to identify and nurture students with potential in math and science. I also worked with teachers and families to open doors and create opportunities. It was personal and deeply fulfilling.

The Cost—and the Reward

Professionally, it was a career risk. While I was at CMSP, I didn’t get promoted. Others moved ahead of me. Keith and Michelle, both deserving, were elevated while I stayed where I was.

Some might call it a career mistake. But life isn’t about promotions. It’s about purpose.

While at CMSP, I also met my wife in New York. That single meeting reshaped my life in ways no job title ever could. But that’s a story for another time.

What I Learned at CMSP

At CMSP, I learned how the education system worked in America—and how it often failed the students who needed it most. I saw how systemic barriers and lack of access limited opportunities for talented young people. Mentoring, advocacy, and belief were as critical as academics.

This experience transformed my understanding of leadership. It wasn’t just about delivering projects or hitting milestones. It was about creating environments where people could thrive, whether they were coworkers, students, or community members.

Two Transformations, One Purpose

Looking back, my journey from leading change at IBM to helping students through CMSP may seem like two separate paths. But it was the same mission: to help people and organizations reach their potential.

At IBM, I helped transform PID into a world-class software distribution engine. At CMSP, I helped students see themselves as future engineers and scientists, breaking barriers and expanding opportunities.

Both experiences taught me that real change takes time, commitment, and belief, whether it’s restructuring a business or reshaping a life.

Summary Lesson: Trade-offs, Purpose, and the Power of Choice

One of my biggest lessons is that career choices aren’t always clear-cut. Sometimes, you have to step away from the fast track to follow a calling that feels personal and deeply meaningful.

I made a choice that cost me promotions—but it gave me perspective, purpose, and relationships that changed my life.

If you measure success by titles alone, you might see a misstep. But if you measure it by impact, fulfillment, and the lives you touch, you’ll see a growth story.

Every leader has to define success for themselves, and sometimes, the most important choices are the ones you make for reasons that can’t be found on a résumé.

Call to Action: Find Your Path, Make a Difference

If you’re reading this and wondering about your path, here’s what I offer you:

• Lead where you can, but learn to follow when it matters.

• Use your skills to improve things—whether a business process or a student’s future.

• Take risks that align with your values, not just your ambitions.

• Measure your success by the lives you touch and the opportunities you create.

If you can ever open a door for someone else, do it. Someone did that for me, and it made all the difference. Being part of that team, using BSP to rebuild an organization from the inside out, gave me a deep appreciation for how strategy, process, data, and people connect. It wasn’t just about systems. It was about creating an organization that could thrive in a rapidly changing world.

And when we finally moved to Sterling Forest, there was a sense of pride. We hadn’t just changed our address—we had helped change the core of IBM’s business.

A Jamaican Adventure: Angels Among Us: Three Stories of Unexpected Kindness

By: Baron Stewart

Angels Among Us: Three Stories of Unexpected Kindness

Every once in a while, life places people in our path at just the right moment—people who offer help without hesitation or expectation, who change the course of our day, or even our lives with a single act of kindness. I call them angels—not the kind with wings, but ordinary people who step in for no other reason than to lend a hand.

Over the years, I’ve had a few encounters with such angels. Each time, I’ve walked away with a deep gratitude and a reminder that we are never truly alone.

The Man at Huntington Station

I first met an angel at the Huntington Station on the Long Island Railroad. The next day,  I was going to Europe and planned to stay overnight at my friend Fred’s house in Stony Brook to make the trip easier. It was late—around 9:30 p.m.—and I stood on the platform with a large suitcase, a backpack, and a camera bag, waiting for what might have been the last train of the night.

I was anxious. If I missed that train, I’d be stuck, possibly spending the night in a hotel and jeopardizing my trip. As I stood there, unsure if I was in the right place, a homeless man shuffled past me. He looked grungy and tired, and I assumed he was searching the trash cans for food. But something told me to ask him if he knew whether the train to Stony Brook was still coming.

He paused, then said, “The train’s on the other side of the track—the New York-bound side. It’s leaving any minute.”

And then, without another word, he grabbed my large suitcase and sprinted up the stairs. My heart stopped. He’s stealing my bag! I thought, and I ran after him in a panic.

He ran up the stairs, across the platform, and down another flight, with me puffing behind him, still unsure of what was happening. At the bottom of the stairs was the train—doors open, ready to leave. He shoved my bag inside, held the door long enough for me to jump in, and then let go. The doors closed. The train pulled away.

I stood there, breathless, staring at him through the window as he disappeared. I waved a silent thank you. He didn’t steal my bag. He saved me. And I made it to Fred’s house, and eventually, to Europe, because of him.

The Twin Sisters of Saint-Rémy-de-Provence

Years later, I was on vacation in a picturesque village in Provence, France, called Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. We rented a charming bed and breakfast in the center of the town, and the owner warned me not to park near the square—there would be a market the following day, and any car left in the wrong place would be towed.

That night, I drove around looking for a safe spot and finally found one—or so I thought. But at six o’clock the following day, I woke with a knot in my stomach and went to check on the car. To my horror, it was gone. I was standing in the middle of the market, and there was no sign of the vehicle.

Panicked, I asked a few vendors if they’d seen a car being towed, but they just laughed. My broken French didn’t help, and most people treated me like the clueless tourist I was. I wandered the market, desperate for someone to help, until I saw two twin sisters setting up their stand.

“My car was towed, and I don’t know how to find it,” I told them.

One of the sisters smiled. “Ah! That happened to us once,” she said. “Let’s see if we can find it.”

She motioned for me to get into her car while her sister stayed behind to finish setting up. We drove all around the village, searching, until she suggested we check a gas station outside town just as we were about to give up. And there it was—my car, next to a tow truck.

I thanked her profusely, but the driver told me he couldn’t release the car until I paid a fine at the police station and brought him the paperwork. The station wouldn’t open for another two hours. Without a second thought, the sister brought me back to the market, where I helped her set up their stand. I fetched them coffee as they worked.

At nine o’clock, she drove me to the police station herself. I paid the 100-euro fine, got the paperwork, and we returned to retrieve my car. Before parting ways, she showed me where I could park—this time well away from the market.

Her kindness turned a stressful morning into something almost beautiful. She didn’t have to help me—but she did, and I’ll never forget her for it.

The Man on the Highway to Pasadena

The third time I met an angel, I worked in Pasadena, California. My wife and I had three young children and only had one car. One day, my wife was driving to pick me up from work with the kids in the back seat.

I was at work when a man asked for me by name. I didn’t recognize him at all. We were strangers.

He told me that my wife had been in a minor accident on the highway on her way to Pasadena. He’d stopped to make sure she and the kids were okay. Seeing her stranded on the side of the road, he’d asked where I worked and then drove 20 minutes out of his way to find me.

I got in his car without hesitation, and he drove me to where my wife and children were waiting. He made sure I got to them safely. And before I could properly thank him, he was gone.

To this day, I don’t know his name. I don’t understand why he did what he did. But his actions were pure, selfless, and unforgettable.

Reflections on Angels Among Us

These three moments, scattered over years and continents, have stayed with me. Each time, I was vulnerable, uncertain of what to do, and an angel appeared.

What strikes me most about these encounters is not just the kindness of these strangers but the way they acted without judgment. They didn’t stop to question whether I deserved their help. They didn’t expect anything in return. They helped—quietly, decisively, and with open hearts.

These experiences have shaped the way I see the world. They’ve made me more aware of how small acts can considerably impact. They’ve taught me not to make quick judgments about people, like I did with the homeless man at the station. They’ve reminded me that compassion often comes from unexpected places.

I believe there are angels among us. Sometimes, they’re easy to miss, but they are there—ready to lend a hand, often when we need it most.

Reflections on the Kindness of Strangers

In each of these moments, my dominant emotions were fear and panic. I might not have shown it outwardly, but inside, I was scared. When the homeless man grabbed my suitcase and ran, I thought my trip was ruined—that everything I’d planned was slipping away before my eyes. In Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, I felt a deep sense of hopelessness. I didn’t know if my rental car had been stolen, and I dreaded the possibility of spending my vacation battling paperwork with the rental company instead of enjoying the beauty of France. When the man walked into my workplace in Pasadena, telling me my wife and children were stranded on the highway, I had no choice but to believe him. I just took the risk that he was telling the truth.

In each case, I trusted these strangers because, quite frankly, I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t trust the homeless man at Huntington Station—my body reacted, chasing him in desperation. I trusted the twin sisters in France because they seemed harmless, and no one else offered to help me. And the man who came to get me after my wife’s accident? I took a chance. I had to.

But what each of these people did for me left me with only one meaningful response: gratitude—pure, enduring gratitude. They stepped in without being asked, gave without expecting anything in return, and made a difference in moments when I was vulnerable and powerless.

I don’t believe in fate. But I believe life holds countless mysteries we’ve yet to understand. As we evolve as a species, I think we’ll one day grasp more about the universe we inhabit. For now, I accept that some things are unexplainable—and that the kindness of strangers is one of the most profound of them.

These experiences changed me. They made me more open to helping others—whether giving money to someone on the street or finding small ways to make life easier for those struggling, especially children. But I’ll be honest: it can be overwhelming. The need in the world is vast. You can feel swallowed by it, like Nathanael West’s Miss Lonelyhearts, bearing the weight of endless suffering. But any help, no matter how small, makes a difference to the one person you reach. And while help can sometimes lead to dependency—another complex challenge we must navigate—it’s still worth doing.

I believe we all can be angels in each other’s lives. But too often, we suppress that desire. We tell ourselves we can’t make a difference or resign ourselves to inaction. These moments I’ve shared remind me that even the smallest gesture can matter. They inspire me to do the same for others in my own way.

Over the years, I’ve realized that I have been an angel to many people, just as others have been angels to me. This is how life should be, in my humble opinion. We are meant to lift one another—not in grand, sweeping acts, but in small, human ways that ripple outward.

I teach my children by example. I want them to see that if we look and listen, we’ll recognize the quiet pleas for help all around us. We can’t answer every call. We must pick our battles carefully or risk losing ourselves in the endless tide of need. But if we each do what we can—when we can—we keep that current of compassion flowing.

Because sometimes, in the moment you least expect it, you become someone else’s angel. And sometimes, an angel shows up for you.

A Jamaican Experience: Seeking Balance

By: Baron Stewart

Journeys Toward Balance

I don’t know if the incident with the mirror that Christmas was the catalyst, but something had shifted in me. My technical career had been the driving force behind everything I did for years. Success at IBM wasn’t just my ambition—it was my identity. But without realizing it, I had started to make different choices. Unexpected ones. Choices that pulled me away from the steady, logical, left-brain world where I had always felt so at home.

The order processing system development project was supposed to be completed in July, with Keith leading it. I had done my part—requirements, design, structure—but Keith was in charge now. And it wasn’t going smoothly. The deadlines kept slipping. July turned into August, August into September. The expectation was clear: I would stay with the project until the end. That was the way things were done.

But I had already scheduled a trip to Greece with Sundarii. A promise I made to myself long before Keith’s delays. It wasn’t just a vacation—it was the beginning of something I couldn’t fully name yet, but I knew it mattered.

So, I made a decision that surprised everyone, including myself. I left. I went on that trip.

The reaction back at IBM was predictable. John, my manager, was stunned. When the project was finally delivered, Keith and the rest of the team received awards. I did not. The official reason was that I had already received recognition the year before. But I knew the real reason. I had left before the finish line. In their eyes, I had stepped away.

But something in me had changed. I had spent years cultivating an overdeveloped left brain. Now, I was searching for balance. For something more intuitive, more creative. That decision—to leave the project behind—wasn’t about quitting. It was about choosing. And it was the first step in a search to define the next phase of my life.

Greece: The Awakening

My trip to Greece with Sundarii was eye-opening in every sense. We flew into Athens and stayed in the Plaka district, just beneath the Acropolis. At night, we drank the harsh-tasting retsina wine on the terrace and watched the glow of ancient stone under floodlights. During the day, we wandered through ruins, feeling history beneath our feet.

But it wasn’t until we left Athens that the real journey began.

From Piraeus, we caught a ferry to Mykonos. We had no plans, no reservations. As the ferry docked, locals stood along the pier offering rooms. We chose a kind man and followed him to his house outside town. It looked fine—until we took our showers, and the drainage failed. Water ran out of the bathroom and across the floors. That was all we needed to see.

We packed up and walked back into town, laughing at the unpredictability of it all. Eventually, we found a small, clean, simple place in the center. We dropped our bags and set out to explore.

At one point, we stepped into a photographer’s shop, admiring the stunning images of the island hanging on the walls. As I crossed the threshold, I heard a voice behind me. “Oh my! A Jamaican.” I turned to see the photographer smiling at me, and for a moment, I thought he might be making a pass. It was playful, curious, and warm but caught me off guard. SSundariand I exchanged a glance, chuckled, and slipped out of the shop. I was starting to realize that Mykonos was not an ordinary place.

The First Night: Dancing and Discovery

That first evening, Sundarii ran into a friend she knew from her travels who invited us to a beach party at Elia the next day. But for now, we stayed in town and found ourselves at a bar owned by a charismatic Greek man. He was surrounded by women, hosting in a casual, chaotic, and compelling way.

At his table was a beautiful blonde woman who we soon learned was Margarette.

We hit it off with her almost immediately. She didn’t speak much English but smiled easily and radiated warmth. After a few drinks, we decided to dance. The three of us went to the dance floor, where the music was loud, the air warm, and the energy electric.

As I danced with Margarette, I felt completely present in my body, something I hadn’t experienced in a long time. But it wasn’t simple. Throughout the night, gay men would deliberately bump into me—seeking my attention, flirting boldly. Some were playful, others more forward. I wasn’t used to it, and I was still adjusting. Growing up in Jamaica, where homophobia was deeply ingrained, I carried a lot of internalized discomfort. Now, I was confronting it in a place where everything was more complimentary, where the boundaries I’d always known didn’t exist in the same way.

Later, the photographer from earlier found me and asked me to come with him to his shop. I declined, and when I stepped outside for air, a German man approached me directly, asking if I would sleep with him. No games. Just a simple, startling question. I politely said no.

It was a wild night. Sensory overload. The realization that this was a different world from anything I’d known was settling in fast. And yet, I wasn’t running from it. I was trying to find my footing.

As the night ended, Margarette invited us to have breakfast with her the following day. We said yes.

The Next Day: Elia and the Beach

The following morning, we met Margarette at a small café for breakfast. Afterward, as planned, we caught a boat out to Elia Beach to meet Sundarii’s friend.

As we sailed past Super Paradise and Paradise beaches, I noticed something I hadn’t fully understood the night before. Groups of naked men sunbathed in large numbers. That’s when it hit me: Mykonos was a gay island. I wasn’t opposed to anyone’s lifestyle, but the deep-seated cultural conditioning from Jamaica made it physically uncomfortable for me at times. And then there was the nudity. Most beaches were clothing-optional, but nobody seemed to wear anything in practice.

When we arrived at Elia Beach, Sundarii’s friend welcomed us—completely naked. Looking around, we saw beautiful women sunbathing nude, entirely at ease. Without much hesitation, Sundarii and I stripped down and joined them. Margarette did the same; soon, we were lying together on the sand.

The party atmosphere was relaxed. We drank beer and enjoyed the sun. My quiet task that day was rubbing suntan oil into Sundarii and Margarette’s bare skin. It was hard to believe this was my life—there, on a beach in Greece, with two beautiful women. I tried to stay composed, though I suspected anyone nearby could sense my excitement.

At one point, as I massaged oil into their backs, a man walked over and asked if he could join us. I smiled and politely declined. He left without any fuss. It was that kind of place—boundaries were fluid, but respect was part of the culture.

We stayed on the beach until late afternoon, then returned to our apartment. Sundari and Margarette showered and dressed for the evening. In Mykonos, you’re naked by day and nearly naked by night. They wore light, flowing fabrics that hinted at everything and revealed almost nothing. Heads turned as we walked through town together.

That Night: An Invitation

We had dinner together and, once again, received the best table without asking. There was something about the three of us—the energy, the connection. We drew attention everywhere we went.

Later, we returned to the Greek man’s bar. He was holding court as always, surrounded by women, juggling relationships with little concern for convention. I watched him with curiosity, but I was focused elsewhere.

At some point in the evening, Margarette spoke softly to Sundarii. A look passed between them—one I didn’t fully understand then but followed without hesitation.

“Let’s go back to your place,” she said.

What followed isn’t something I can easily explain. It wasn’t what I expected. But it changed me.

Some experiences don’t need to be shared in detail. They stay with you because of how they open you. They show you a world far larger than you believed and that you are freer than ever.

Afterward: Departures and Serendipity

After that, we spent a couple of days with Margarette, exploring more of the island and even taking a trip to the volcanic islands nearby. But eventually, things shifted. Word spread that the Greek man—our charismatic host—had realized Margarette was missing from his usual crowd. People said he was looking for her.

It felt like the right time for her to leave.

Before she did, we exchanged contact information with quiet promises to meet again. Then she was gone.

Sundari and I continued traveling, visiting Ios, Naxos, and Santorini. Each island had its rhythm and gifts. Then, we boarded the ferry back to Athens.

During the ride, Sundarii noticed a man watching her. There was something familiar about him. She walked over and struck up a conversation.

“Are you from New York?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“From Long Island?”

“Yes.”

“Stony Brook?”

He smiled. “Yes.”

“Sheep Pasture Road?”

He laughed. “Yes.”

He was her neighbor—thousands of miles from home, on a ferry in the middle of the Aegean Sea.

We live in a small world. No matter how far you go, some things—and people—are closer than you think.

My time in Greece began as an escape or maybe a search for something I couldn’t yet name. But by the end, it had given me so much more: encounters with people who opened doors, experiences that challenged my sense of self, and a new understanding of internal and external freedom.

I came to Mykonos thinking it would be a vacation. When I left, I knew it had been the start of something much more significant.

Reflections on a Life Reimagined

Looking back, I think I left IBM’s project not because of the delays or frustration but because I was searching for a better fit. It was like living in a cave; someone told me there was life outside. I didn’t know what that life was, but the possibility of it pulled at me. I was ready to leave the shadows behind and step toward something I couldn’t yet define.

Sundarii was my girlfriend then. We had successfully traveled to Italy the year before, and I think, in many ways, she was the catalyst for what I now call my “right-brain life.” She helped me see the need for balance, which I had neglected for too long. My professional life has been sharp, analytical, and relentlessly logical. But I was starting to sense the imbalance in myself, and Sundarii helped me name it.

Mykonos became a symbol of what I didn’t know that I didn’t know. That trip opened me up in ways I never imagined. In one week, I experienced more than I had in my entire life up to that point. It broadened my perspective on so many things—homosexuality, nudity, personal freedom, boundaries I hadn’t even realized were there. It was disorienting, exhilarating, and ultimately transformative.

Sundarii and I traveled to Germany the following summer to spend two weeks with Margarette. We drove together to Amsterdam and shared more good times. And in the end, as often happens, relationships shifted. Sundarii and Margarette remained friends while I quietly faded out of the picture. It wasn’t dramatic; it was just the way life moved.

After that period, I returned to IBM but wasn’t the same man who had left. I became an analyst. Later, I joined the Faculty Loan program, eventually becoming an executive instructor in IBM’s customer education programs. These roles offered something different—engagement, creativity, and a chance to teach and connect with people on a different level. I may not have stayed on the purely technical track, but I carved out a place to bring both sides of myself into play.

Today, my life feels balanced. I carry those lessons forward and do my best to teach my children the same—how important it is to seek balance, to honor both the analytical and the intuitive, the logical and the creative.

Now that I am retired and living on my pension benefits, I sometimes think about the technical career I left behind. If I had stayed on that path, my pension would have been larger, and my financial life might have looked different. But I’m not sure I would have enjoyed my life as much as I did had I not made the choice to seek something deeper.

I have a few regrets. But mostly, I have gratitude.

This story, I realize now, is about reinvention and embracing my humanity. I was uncertain what I would find about stepping out of the cave and into the light, but I was willing to take the risk. It was about learning to live beyond the lines I’d been taught to stay within. About balance, yes—but also about becoming who you are.

A Jamaican Adventure: Never Jumping for Joy Version 3

By Baron Stewart

Never Jumping for Joy I was only five when my mother left me at Palisadoes Airport—now known as Norman Manley International Airport. My tiny hands clung to her dress, my heart pounding with a fear I couldn’t yet name. I didn’t understand why she had to go, why I was being left behind. The memory of her walking away remains seared into my mind—a silhouette fading into the distance, swallowed by an airport terminal I was too young to comprehend.

Years later, I felt a similar, gut-wrenching ache when I dropped my children off at kindergarten. The forced smiles, the reassuring words hiding the quiet devastation inside—I recognized it. Only then did I understand the weight of my mother’s choice.

For my mother, the decision to leave must have been unbearable. After waiting forty years to have a child, she faced an impossible dilemma: raising me alone in Harlem while working full-time in White Plains or entrusting me to my father’s care in Kingston. She chose what she thought was safest. But a child doesn’t understand logic—only presence and absence. I didn’t understand. All I knew was that she was gone.

Standing in the dimly lit living room of Mrs. Maxwell’s house, my small body stiff with defiance, I listened as Mrs. Hinchcliff introduced this stranger as my “new mother” and this unfamiliar house as my “new home.” My birth mother was somewhere far away, and no amount of reasoning could explain why she had left me here. I locked away my grief, sealing it behind silence and rebellion—an armor that I carried for nearly forty years.

Only when my mother came to live with me in Los Angeles before her passing did I begin to glimpse the depth of her sacrifice. But even then, some wounds refused to heal.

In those early days at Mrs. Maxwell’s house, I cried endlessly, my petite frame racked with sobs that no one could soothe. I blamed Mrs. Maxwell. I blamed Mrs. Hinchcliff. I blamed everyone who wasn’t my mother. But the actual weight of my loss didn’t settle in until much later—when I unwittingly placed another soul in the same position.

That soul was a dog named Lucky.

Lucky was a lively, affectionate pup born into my home in Los Angeles. Nestled against her mother and brother in the warmth of our family, she was happy and safe until I gave her away.

My childhood friend Ronald McLean had mentioned that his ten-year-old son, Anthony, longed for a dog. I wanted to honor our lifelong friendship, so I sent Lucky to them in New York. It felt like the right thing to do—Ronald would provide her with a good home.

Preparing Lucky for her journey was bittersweet. I bathed her, took her on long walks, and gave her extra attention. On the day of her departure, I made her a special meal, brushed her coat, and took her on one last car ride—her favorite thing in the world. She wagged her tail at the airport, unaware that this was not just another adventure. Then, she was placed in a crate and taken away.

She didn’t understand.

Just as I hadn’t understood when my mother walked away from me.

The next day, Ronald called to tell me Lucky had cried all night, hiding under every bed and refusing food. Her tiny body trembled with confusion and loss. Hearing this, something deep inside me cracked open. Her heartbreak was my own, reflected in me.

A year later, I visited Ronald in New York. Lucky was well cared for, but she barked, growled, and snapped when she saw me. She remembered me—but she was angry—just as I had been when I saw my mother again after twelve years. My mother had rushed toward me at Kennedy Airport, her eyes filled with longing and guilt, but I had stood frozen, rejecting her touch, my heart hardened by years of unanswered longing.

Six months later, Ronald called again. His wife was allergic to Lucky’s fur—she had to go.

I brought her back to Los Angeles, uncertain how she would react. Would she still be angry? Would she even remember me?

When I arrived at the airport, she saw me, and instantly, her body erupted with joy. She leaped, wagging her tail wildly, covering me in kisses. She had been lost, and now she was found.

Unlike Lucky, I had never jumped for joy at my mother’s return. I had only clung to my resentment, unable to embrace what had been lost, what could never be fully restored.

My mother’s move to New York might have been the best decision for her, but for me, it was a wound that never really closed. As I grew up in Mrs. Maxwell’s Boarding House at 31 Victoria Avenue, all the children around me had mothers. I had only faded pictures and distant letters. I envied them. I wanted my mother to be the one tucking me in, keeping me safe, and making the world feel steady beneath my feet.

One of my earliest memories was Hurricane Charlie.

It was 1951. My mother, forty-four years old, and I lived in a cramped 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 like a son. She made her living selling food from a pushcart, working tirelessly to provide for me.

Then, the hurricane came.

On August 17, 1951, Hurricane Charlie slammed into Jamaica as a Category 4 storm. The wind howled, tearing at the flimsy zinc roofs of the tenement houses. Rain poured in through the cracks, flooding the floor. My mother and Kenneth scrambled, catching the water with pots and pans, their bodies tense with urgency.

Then, a massive mango tree crashed onto the roof.

"Put the baby on the dresser!" my mother shouted.

It was the only dry place left.

I remember the way she looked at me then—fierce, determined. I felt her love in that moment, raw and desperate. She was protecting me.

Even though I could not understand the depth of the war she waged within herself to leave me behind, as a parent, I now see it.

Her letters, the occasional phone call, and the clothes she sent for Christmas were not enough to replace her presence. And yet, looking back, I see what she endured: a sleep-in maid in White Plains during the week, a cramped room in Harlem on the weekends, a life filled with sacrifices that I only began to piece together years later.

There was a story about how she once fell asleep while cooking dinner and burned down her apartment building. She escaped unscathed, but I imagine the fear, the exhaustion, the endless struggle.

Now, I see her not as the woman who left but as the woman who survived.

And though I never jumped for joy, in my way, I came home to her love.

Reflection

Looking back now, I see that my early separation from my mother left deep imprints—ones I carried for decades, mostly in silence. I didn't trust easily. I often sought affection from women, as if I were still trying to fill the void left by that little boy at the airport, reaching for his mother’s dress. Underneath was always anger and low self-esteem, shielded by a quiet yearning to be seen, chosen, and loved without condition.

We never spoke openly about the day she left. Not once. But she knew. She could feel my unresolved resentment in the spaces between our words and how I withheld parts of myself even when she came to live with me in Los Angeles. Still, it wasn’t until I participated in a Werner Erhard and Associates seminar that I began to find the language for forgiveness. The seminar introduced me to the concept of “completion”—not erasure, not justification, but the kind of acceptance that allows healing to begin.

When I gave Lucky away, I was, unknowingly, recreating my trauma. But this time, I had the power to change the ending. I was doing for her what no one had done for me. I was empathetic. I was present. And when she came home to me—bounding, leaping, covering me in kisses—I saw the pure release of joy I had never allowed myself. In her return, something in me softened.

I often wonder if my mother ever had a moment like that—if she ever thought about my heartbreak like I thought about Lucky’s. But my mother lived in the now. She was always fighting to survive, not looking back. Reflection wasn’t something she had the luxury to indulge in. Still, I wish she had visited me—just once—in those twelve long years. It might have changed everything.

Raising my children helped me understand her choices more clearly. I saw how exhausting parenting could be, even with support. She didn’t have support. She worked as a maid in Westchester during the week and lived in a cramped Harlem room on weekends. I understand now: she made the right decision for herself. But understanding doesn’t erase the wound. Presence matters. And for a child, absence becomes its kind of trauma.

I’ve heard many stories of Harlem in the 1950s—harrowing stories, dangerous stories. Jamaica may indeed have been a safer place for me. But even if the body is secure, the heart still longs. “Doing the best you can” may satisfy the adult making the decision, but it doesn’t always meet the needs of the child who’s left behind. That is the paradox many parents silently carry.

I’ve tried to write this story for years. Technology may have made it easier, but time has made it possible. I needed to live, hurt, love, and forgive more. I’m not writing this out of grief or bitterness. I’m writing it because I want others to see what I finally saw: resilience is not just surviving the storm. It’s having the courage to revisit the wreckage, to rebuild something honest in its place.

The title, Never Jumping for Joy, still holds true. I never did. Not when she returned. Not like Lucky did for me. But before my mother died, I thanked her for being my mother. It wasn’t a grand moment. It was quiet, like healing often is. But in that moment, I came home to her love—just in time.

A Message to the Reader

1. Honor your childhood pain, but don’t let it harden your heart. Acknowledging the hurt and confusion you carried as a child is okay. Your story matters. But healing begins when you allow yourself to see those who hurt you not just as villains but as people—flawed, burdened, and sometimes doing the best they could with too little.

2. Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting—it means releasing. True forgiveness is not erasure. It’s not about pretending the pain didn’t happen. It’s about releasing your grip on resentment to move forward with greater freedom.

3. You can break the cycle. What was done to you should not be repeated. Whether with your children, your relationships, or even your pets, you can do differently to offer what you didn’t receive—and in doing so, begin to heal the past.

4. Resilience is not about being tough—it’s about being authentic. Real resilience isn’t a mask. It’s the courage to feel deeply, revisit old wounds, and choose compassion anyway, especially for yourself.

5. Ask the questions while you still can. Don’t wait too long to have the hard conversations with those who shaped your life. Silence can become its kind of inheritance. Give yourself the chance to ask, to listen, and maybe even to understand.

6. Let love have the last word. Even if there’s no reunion, no perfect ending—choose love as your final act. Sometimes, a quiet thank you is the loudest declaration, even if it comes at the end.

A Jamaican Adventure: Norman, The Good Soldier

By: Baron Stewart

The Good Soldier

As the streetlights flickered on each evening and the scent of fried dumplings wafted through the Kingston air, I climbed the fence at Mrs. Maxwell’s house and waited. I waited for the silhouette of a tall man in a felt hat bobbing through the crowd. That shape meant everything to me—it meant Norman was coming. My father.

Impeccably dressed, with an old-world charm that could disarm even the most stoic, Norman was in his fifties when I was born. He ran the Printing Department at The Daily Gleaner, Jamaica’s most-read newspaper. A self-made man. A family man. And unknown to me for years, a man with a wife and five other children.

He met my mother, Griselda, when she sold lunches from her pushcart outside the Gleaner office. Her beauty caught his eye, and their brief romance led to a pregnancy. Griselda was forty; Norman was fifty. I imagine they must have talked about whether to keep the baby. But in the end, my mother prevailed—and became a single parent with almost nothing.

She never acknowledged Norman as my father. I don’t remember ever seeing them in the same room. And yet, despite his double life, Norman visited me daily. At Mrs. Maxwell’s boarding house, he was the only person who made me feel seen. We talked philosophy, watched movies together, and I clung to his presence like a raft in a storm.

“If you can’t be good,” he’d say with a smile as he left each night, “be careful.”

Acts of Rebellion

I wasn’t always careful.

Most nights, after Norman left, I’d squeeze through a tiny window and roam the streets with friends. My favorite escape was Crown and Anchor, a fast-paced dice game played in smoky gambling dens with loud cheers and whispered curses. It was my way of fighting the loneliness left by my mother’s absence and my father's complicated presence.

Norman never asked questions. He didn't confront me when word of my misbehavior eventually reached him. Instead, he fell back on his mantra: “If you can’t be good, be careful.” It was as close to discipline as he could manage without disturbing the delicate arrangement of his life.

The Mirror

As time passed, I noticed Norman's attention drifting from me to Mrs. Maxwell, the same woman who treated me like a house servant. I fed her chickens, mixed sugar and butter for her cakes, and ran errands. When she began closing her bedroom door behind my father, I felt something inside me shift.

One evening, I knocked softly, needing to ask him something. The door had been left slightly ajar. A mirror on the wall revealed the truth: my father, sitting on her bed, was helping her undress. I froze.

Anger—sharp and breathless—gripped me. I hated her. I hated him.

He had chosen her.

Leaving Home

I told my father I wanted to leave. I didn’t say why—I hoped he’d understand without needing words. Instead, he gave me an ultimatum: if I left, he’d never come to see me again.

He meant it.

One night, I packed my things and disappeared, moving in with my friend Ronnie McLean’s family. I kept going to school blocks away, but no one came looking for me. Not Norman. Not Mrs. Maxwell. No one.

As a teenager, I was grateful for the freedom. As a father now, I’m stunned. How do you let a child vanish and not even try to find out where they’ve gone?

I tried to stay in touch. Once, I caught him on the street on the way to Mrs. Maxwell’s. I asked for money for room and board. He gave it to me, but our exchange was cold and clipped. Something had cracked between us.

The Goodbye That Never Was

When I prepared to leave Jamaica to join my mother in the United States, Norman didn’t come to say goodbye. I waited. I hoped. But he never appeared.

I wrote him several times after I arrived in America, but his silence fed my anger. Eventually, I stopped writing.

A Door Half-Open

Eleven years later, I returned to Jamaica and visited my old math teacher and mentor, Althea Young. During one of our long talks, she asked if I had reconnected with my father.

“No,” I said, unsure whether guilt or pride held me back.

She encouraged me to reach out. I found his number in the phone book—he lived on East Avenue in Greenwich Town. I called.

“Hello, this is Baron.”

“Hello, Baron. How are you?” he said, sounding relaxed and cheerful.

I realized he thought I was someone else—a friend, not his son.

Althea drove us to his house in her MG convertible. The journey from Jacks Hill to Greenwich Town felt endless. My stomach churned. What if he slammed the door in my face?

Instead, when he opened the door, his eyes widened. “Baron! Baron, how are you?”

“I’m doing well,” I replied, introducing Althea.

“This visit calls for a drink of rum!” he declared, but a woman’s face appeared behind him before he could move. His wife.

With unease, he turned and said, “It doesn’t matter now, but this is my son.”

Her face froze. I extended my hand, and she left it hanging. He forced her hand into mine—it was limp and quick to retreat.

I turned to him. “Dad, it looks like this isn’t a good time.”

I walked away before he could answer.

Final Silence

Back in the U.S., I received a letter. Not from Norman—but from one of his daughters, a woman I’d never met. She explained that Norman had died. While sorting through his things, she’d found letters he had written to me—letters he never sent. She had only just learned I was her brother.

I wrote back. I thanked her. I promised to visit if I ever returned to Jamaica. But I never did.

Her mother’s cold rejection had been enough.

Peace at Last

Years later, I attended a personal development seminar on healing emotional wounds. We were asked to speak to someone in the workshop and say the things we never got to say.

I spoke to Norman.

I told him I loved him, that I needed him. Watching him choose sex with Mrs. Maxwell over being my father left a wound I carried for decades. I cried—loud, wrenching sobs that had waited a lifetime to be released.

In that moment, I realized I had always loved him, even when I hated him, even when I left.

And finally, I felt free.

Reader’s Epilogue – What You Might Still Be Wondering

You may be wondering why Norman never came looking for me. I’ve asked myself the same question a thousand times. The only answer I can offer is this: Norman was a man of his word. If he said he would, then he would. If he said he wouldn’t, then he wouldn’t. When he told me, “If you leave, I’ll never come to see you again,” I didn’t believe him. But he meant it. His silence was not forgetfulness—it was discipline. Pride. Maybe even shame.

I believe he was sad when he read my letters. The fact that he kept them hidden all those years, and the light that filled his eyes when he saw me again, tells me he loved me. But not enough. Not enough to choose me over sex with Mrs. Maxwell.

He was late and tried to make amends in his own way. He came on a picnic with me, my wife Lennette, and Mrs. McLean. I learned the backstory of my visit to his house from that afternoon—his side. It didn’t erase the pain, but it showed me he was still watching and reaching.

As a child, I didn’t think of myself as “the hidden one.” I just knew something was off. I knew I was being mistreated, and Norman let it happen. When I complained, he’d say, “You’re still alive, aren’t you?” as if survival was enough. It is as if being kept breathing made up for not being kept safe.

I didn’t reconnect with my half-siblings, though I thought about it often. Pride got in the way. Sometimes I regret that.

I know this: I was never determined to be like my father when I became one. I made a vow—quiet but firm—that I would never leave my children behind. And I never did.

As for Mrs. Maxwell, I never saw her again after I left her house. I never confronted her, never forgave her. She ceased to exist in my world. I'll never know whether she loved my father or just used him. She never spoke of him when I was around. She never spoke to me at all, really—only barked commands.

In the end, what helped me forgive my father was the same thing that made me so angry in the first place: my deep love for him. I wanted more from him because I loved him. When I finally cried in that seminar—cried like a child who had held back for too long—I realized how badly I’d needed him and how much I still cared.

If I had five more minutes with him, I would say:

I waited for you to choose me. I stayed behind fences, in letters, and the silence of my pride. And now, I understand you couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. But I loved you, even then. I love you still. And I’m okay now. Really. I made it.

Jamaica, for me, is a complicated place. I carry pain from there—music, mangoes, mischief, and memory. I didn’t belong to a family or a home or a father. Not really. Not until I built one of my own.

That’s when I finally belonged to something I could trust.

Life Lessons from “The Good Soldier”

1. Love Alone Is Not Always Enough

“He loved me. But not enough to choose me.”

Lesson: People can love you sincerely but fail to show up for you. Their limitations are not a reflection of your worth.

Recommendation: Don’t measure your value by how others treat you. Learn to distinguish between someone’s love and their capacity to act on it.

2. Promises, Even the Painful Ones, Can Define a Life

“If he said he would not, then he would not.”

Lesson: Words carry weight—especially the words of a parent. The promises they keep or break can shape a child’s emotional landscape.

Recommendation: Be intentional with your words. Whether as a parent, mentor, or friend, don’t promise anything you’re not prepared to honor—or undo.

3. Silence Can Wound as Deeply as Words

“No one ever came to check on me.”

Lesson: The absence of effort, acknowledgment, or presence speaks volumes. Silence can be a kind of abandonment.

Recommendation: When in doubt, reach out. A simple “I see you” or “Are you okay?” might be the lifeline someone needs.

4. Unforgiveness Can Become Its Kind of Prison

“I never forgave Mrs. Maxwell… She was never important to me.”

Lesson: Holding onto anger can seem like power, but over time, it may quietly diminish your freedom to move forward.

Recommendation: Forgiveness isn’t always about the other person—it’s about reclaiming your peace. You can forgive without reconciliation, and you can release without approval.

5. Sometimes You Must Create the Belonging You Were Denied

“I only felt I belonged when I created my own family.”

Lesson: The family you’re born into may not provide the love or stability you need. But that doesn’t mean you’re doomed. You can build something better.

Recommendation: Be deliberate in creating chosen family—people who affirm your worth, show up for you, and let you do the same for them.

6. Pain Needs a Voice Before It Can Be Healed

“I cried like a baby for hours.”

Lesson: Bottled pain doesn't disappear—it calcifies until the right moment breaks it open. That moment, however painful, can be your rebirth.

Recommendation: Make space for your grief. Whether through therapy, journaling, workshops, or trusted friendships, let the pain speak so healing can begin.

7. Even Imperfect Fathers Leave an Imprint

“I was going to be the opposite of my father.”

Lesson: We are shaped by both the presence and absence of love. Your story doesn’t have to mirror your past, but you must first understand it.

Recommendation: Reflect on what you inherited emotionally. Then choose—consciously—what to pass forward, and what to leave behind.

8. Not All Relationships Will Have Closure—And That’s Okay

“I never saw her again… and sometimes I regret not meeting my siblings.”

Lesson: Life doesn’t always offer neat endings. You may have to make peace with unfinished stories and missed connections.

Recommendation: Accept the incompletions. Tell the truth about what hurts—and permit yourself to keep living anyway.

Parting Words for the Reader

Your story matters—even the broken pieces.
Love fiercely, even when it’s hard.
Forgive when you’re ready, not when you’re told.
And above all, build a life where you no longer wait behind fences for someone to choose you.

A Jamaican Adventure: Where Dreams Were Born: Life on Victoria Avenue

By Baron Stewart

During the 1950s and 1960s, Victoria Avenue served as the gateway to Kingston’s vibrant center. Just three months after my sixth birthday, in November 1953, Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip visited Kingston. Thousands of flag-waving schoolchildren, including myself, gathered at Sabina Park, Jamaica’s legendary cricket grounds, just a short walk from my home. The air was electric as we stood in neat rows, waiting for a glimpse of the Queen. I remember the smell of freshly cut grass mingling with the faint scent of baked goods from nearby vendors. My small voice joined the cheers that rose like waves as their motorcade passed, leaving an indelible memory of wonder and pride.

Throughout my formative years, Victoria Avenue was alive with excitement. Crowds gathered to cheer as Winston Churchill, Princess Margaret (the Queen’s sister), and Emperor Haile Selassie of Ethiopia visited. I vividly remember the Junkanoo dancers parading down the street on special holidays like Boxing Day and New Year’s Day. Their elaborate costumes, rooted in African traditions, shimmered in the sunlight while the vibrant beats of drums and horns reverberated through my chest. As a child, I often climbed onto our front yard bench for a better view, savoring every sight and sound. It felt like magic—a window to a world larger than mine.

Victoria Avenue wasn’t just a street; it was a lifeline. To the west, East Queen Street led to downtown Kingston, where bustling markets and vendors sold everything from tropical fruits to handmade crafts. To the east, Windward Road opened the way to the parishes of St. Thomas and Portland, the Palisadoes International Airport, and the legendary pirate haven of Port Royal. Standing at the bus stop directly in front of our house, I would imagine where the buses were headed, picturing lives and stories I’d never know. It made me dream of one day seeing the world beyond the borders of Kingston.

31 Victoria Avenue: My Small World

The house at 31 Victoria Avenue was my entire universe. It was one of only two homes between Clovelly Road and Widows Lane, making it feel isolated but significant. At the top of Clovelly Road stood Kingston College, the secondary school I attended for seven years. A block east of Widow's Lane was the Palace Theatre, where I watched my first James Bond film, Dr. No, shot right here in Jamaica. Half a mile west was the East Queen Street Baptist Church, where I attended Sunday school and sang in the choir.

Behind the church was Calabar Primary School, where I attended kindergarten before starting Kingston College in 1960. These landmarks were the anchors of my childhood, yet none felt more alive than Mr. Headley’s Bicycle Shop on Widow's Lane. After work, Mr. Headley hosted domino tournaments, drawing ice cream vendors and locals alike. I would sit quietly, watching their intense debates and bold moves. These games taught me early lessons in logic, strategy, and critical thinking—tools I would carry for life.

A Life of Contrasts

Our yard at 31 Victoria Avenue was both a haven and a battleground. In the front yard, a massive mango tree shaded a small garden where banana trees and tropical flowers grew. Many nights, I sat on the bench beneath the mango tree, savoring ice cream and watching buses come and go, imagining distant places and adventures. It was my sanctuary—a place to dream.

The backyard, however, was chaotic. Dogs barked and played among the clutter, and the sounds of laughter and arguments spilled over from Mr. Headley’s shop. The vibrant life of the yard often clashed with the harsh realities inside the house. Overcrowded and noisy, the five-bedroom home was shared with unrelated tenants. Privacy was a luxury we couldn’t afford. The outdoor bathroom, shared by everyone, offered only cold showers. On many nights, the locked icebox was a quiet cruelty that symbolized how invisible I felt, left hungry, unacknowledged, and alone.

I shared a room with one or two young girls for much of my childhood. Sex came early in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time. Later, I was moved to a cramped space barely ample enough for a chair and a single bed. The small window offered the faintest glimpse of the outside world—a fitting metaphor for how I often felt: insignificant and unwanted. Yet, even in that space, I found ways to dream.

Early Hardships

My childhood was fraught with neglect and instability. At Calabar Primary School, I struggled with low self-esteem, craving the safety and love needed to build a sense of identity. I longed for someone to notice me, to tell me I mattered. Instead, life seemed to be a series of unpredictable disappointments.

The one bright spot was singing in the Baptist church choir. My clear, beautiful voice earned me a rare pride as the only male in an all-girls choir. Performing Christmas carols at school or singing at the Ward Theatre in downtown Kingston brought brief moments of joy and confidence. For those fleeting moments, I felt seen and valued.

But joy often turned to heartache. At thirteen, I auditioned for the choir at Kingston College, nervously singing O Come All Ye Faithful. My voice cracked on a high note, and I was rejected. The sting of failure silenced me; I never sang publicly again. That rejection felt like a door slamming shut on something precious.

Recklessness and Resilience

With few sources of encouragement, I began seeking validation and meaning in risk, sometimes with painful consequences.

One day, while playing barefoot at school, I stepped on a rusty nail. Too scared to tell anyone, I pulled it out and limped home. Days later, my father noticed my swollen, infected foot and rushed me to a doctor. The pain of the infection was nothing compared to the fear of being ignored.

Other incidents left their marks—literally. A girl once slashed my face during a fight, leaving five scars. Humiliated, I smeared black shoe polish over them, hoping to hide my shame. Another time, I nearly electrocuted myself trying to wire a zinc fence as a prank. When the electricity surged through me, I was sure I would die. Miraculously, I survived—shaken but determined.

One of the most humiliating moments came when I lost a one-pound note that Mrs. Maxwell had sent me to get changed. It slipped through a hole in my pocket. A girl claimed to have seen a man pick it up, but I never found him. Too scared to go home, I sought refuge with my relative Kenneth. Instead of helping, he returned me to Mrs. Maxwell, who accused me of stealing. She paraded me through local shops, asking if I had spent the money. Though no one confirmed her suspicions, the humiliation stayed with me. I felt small, powerless, and desperate for stability.

A Return to Victoria Avenue

Nearly forty years after leaving Victoria Avenue, I returned. But Victoria Avenue no longer existed. The street had been renamed East Queen Street, and the neighborhood I once called home was unrecognizable. The house at 31 Victoria Avenue, once the center of my small world, was in ruins—its frame collapsing, its history crumbling. My taxi driver, hesitant to even enter the area, agreed to drive past my old landmarks only after I paid him extra.

What I saw broke my heart. The neighborhood looked like a tornado had ripped through it, leaving devastation and decay. The vibrant, bustling community I had known as a child was now a shadow of its former self. The only symbol that remained intact was the East Queen Street Baptist Church, its walls still shining with faith and resilience. But even this beacon was surrounded by piles of garbage—a stark contrast to its spiritual significance. I wondered: was religion the only value left in this neglected corner of Kingston?

There is now a new Kingston—modern and thriving. But the Kingston that shaped me had been forgotten. I mourned the physical loss of the neighborhood and the erasure of the world that had given me my earliest dreams and my first lessons in resilience.

Shaped by Adversity

Looking back, I see how those challenges shaped my resilience and resourcefulness. Watching the domino players taught me strategy. Singing in the choir gave me fleeting moments of pride. Even the sting of rejection taught me how to keep moving forward. If I could speak to my younger self, I would say, “You are stronger than you realize. As painful as these moments are, they will become the foundation of who you are.”

Victoria Avenue was a place of contrasts—vibrant celebrations and harsh realities, moments of joy and deep hardship. It taught me the value of compassion and the power of hope. Despite the struggles, it was home. It was where I learned to dream, endure, and rise above the challenges that shaped my journey.

Places shape us, but they also live in us—changed, but never erased. As I write this now, I wonder: what parts of Victoria Avenue still live in others who walked its length? What forgotten streets might one day return through the stories we choose to tell?

Based on my story, here are seven life lessons and corresponding recommendations that could speak powerfully to you, whether you are a young person searching for direction, an adult reflecting on your past, or an elder trying to make sense of where you've been.

Life Lessons & Recommendations from Victoria Avenue

1. Hardship Can Be a Hidden Gift

Lesson: Adversity, while painful, often becomes the forge where our most enduring strengths are shaped.
Recommendation: Instead of avoiding discomfort, lean into it with curiosity. Ask yourself not “Why is this happening to me?” but “What can this teach me?” Journaling through tough times can help turn pain into purpose.

2. Small Joys Matter Deeply

Lesson: Moments like singing in a choir, watching a parade, or sitting under a mango tree can provide emotional refuge and sustain hope.
Recommendation: Cultivate small rituals of joy in your daily life. They don’t have to be grand—listening to music you love, sitting under a tree, or preparing a favorite meal can become anchors in turbulent times.

3. Your Circumstances do not define you

Lesson: Even in overcrowded rooms and neighborhoods forgotten by time, one can imagine, dream, and grow.
Recommendation: Please don't confuse your environment with your potential. Make room for imagination, learning, and mentorship—seek them out or create them, even when they feel out of reach.

4. Rejection Hurts—But It Doesn’t End You

Lesson: The rejection from the choir was devastating, but it didn’t erase my voice—it transformed it.
Recommendation: When rejection comes—and it will—grieve it, but then pivot. Channel that energy into another pursuit, another creative outlet, another dream. The world still needs your voice, even if it must sing a new song.

5. Storytelling Heals

Lesson: Revisiting the past, even painful memories, can be cathartic. In telling your story, you reclaimed it.
Recommendation: Share your story through writing, speaking, or creating art. Your truth may be the mirror someone else needs to find their reflection and healing.

6. Community Shapes Us—For Better or Worse

Lesson: Domino games, choir rehearsals, church gatherings, and even a neighbor’s suspicion all left lasting impressions.
Recommendation: Be intentional about the communities you join or build. Choose environments that reflect your values and encourage growth; if none exist, be the catalyst for one.

7. Remembering Is a Radical Act

Lesson: Revisiting the ruins of my childhood home revealed the power of memory—and the fragility of legacy.
Recommendation: Honor where you came from, even if it’s painful. Preserve family history, document your journey, and teach younger generations the lessons your path has revealed.

Final Thought to Offer Your Readers

“You may have come from places no one remembers—but your story, once told, can illuminate paths for others still searching for light.”

A Jamaican Experience: Meeting the One

By: Baron Stewart

At the height of my career at IBM, I requested to join the IBM Faculty Loan Program. The Faculty Loan program was one of the ways IBM contributed to the community. IBM would pay their employees' total salaries and lend them to universities around the United States, where they would work on projects that made a difference to the world. I was sent to New York City to work at Columbia University for two years on the Comprehensive Math and Science Program (CMSP) project. This experience changed my life forever but almost destroyed my career. I will discuss the career portion of this story later. I will discuss one significant aspect of the following life-changing events and flesh out the full story later.

IBM's policy required that IBM provide me with an apartment in New York City because my commute from Rockland County to Columbia University would be much longer than my usual commute to IBM near Suffern, New York. This apartment was my first bonanza. I would keep my apartment in Rockland County, get an all-expenses-paid apartment on Park Ave next to Grand Central Station in New York City, my entire salary, and additional money to cover the higher New York costs. You would say, "Wow! Baron, you lucked out." I would answer, "Yes. You are correct, but this is nothing compared to the other riches which came into my life." I met the ONE. You know the One. Yes. That One. The One who makes your heart skip a beat when she walks into the room. The One who you can't take your eyes off. The One who you will drive miles to see for a few minutes.

Now you get it. The biggest reward of this move was a thirty-year marriage and three beautiful kids.

I was with a real estate agent on an elevator in the West Village when I saw her for the first time. I was standing on one side of the elevator with the agent in front of me. He was trying to sell me the apartment we had just seen in the building. Behind him was this gorgeous, long-legged, natural blonde in jeans and cowboy boots. My eyes left the agent to enjoy this extraordinary sample of feminine beauty behind him. To my surprise, I noticed she was trying to tell me something. She could hear what the realtor was saying and would give me a thumbs up or thumbs down based on her perception of the actual value of his comments. She did this two or three times as the elevator descended two floors. My mouth opened independently, and "Are you European?" rolled out. "No," she answered. "I am from Arkansas." The elevator arrived at the ground floor without further comment, and we walked purposefully out of the building.

We turned left to return to the Central Village, and she turned left, too. As we walked the long city block, I looked back several times, and she received my glance with a smile. I read that smile as a signal—I was welcomed. Running back to ask for her number was utterly intuitive. We were clearly from different worlds: I was in my IBM blue suit, and she was in her cowboy boots and blue jeans. But I had to know.

We reached the end of the block and were about to turn right when I got the bright idea to get her telephone number. I looked at the agent and said, "Wait a minute, I want to get this girl's phone number." He protested. "I don't have time for you to pick up girls on the street!" I ignored him and ran to her. When I reached her, I realized just how different we looked together. This relationship would never work. But I asked for her number just the same, and she gave it to me. Wow! My success impressed the agent. He was no longer in a rush. He now wanted my coaching on how to pick up beautiful women on the street.

I was ecstatic, but my euphoria did not last long because she did not answer the phone the first three times I called. Maybe this was not her number, and she gave it to me to avoid an embarrassing situation. However, I called one more time. She answered the phone. I was jumping for joy in my skin, but I spoke as calmly as possible. "Hello. I am the guy who asked for your number on the street last week." We exchanged names, so I was still the man on the street. She hardly remembered me and said she was busy and had no time to date. Now, my following words were pure genius. I said, "You work at night and must have dinner in the evenings when you work." She agreed. I continued, "Tell me when and where you typically go to eat, and I will show up and sit next to you." She giggled and told me when and where we could meet.

She would have dinner early in the evening near the same building where we met. To seize this opportunity, I had to leave work early and drive around 40 miles from Suffern, New York, in peak traffic to the West Village, find a parking spot, and be dressed immaculately. When I entered the bar, she was sitting there with that now familiar smile. I don't know how I would have felt without her presence. But the thought did not cross my mind. She was happy to see me but not overwhelmed. We drank and talked, then left the bar to eat some catfish at a nearby restaurant. The conversation continued, but still no breakthrough.

The magic happened when we left the restaurant and sat on the curb facing the West Side Highway. I casually asked her about her birthday, and she answered August 6th. I responded, "Wow! That's my birthday, too." We looked at each other in disbelief.

My body reacted instantly. My heart pounded. It seemed like everything—my long drive from Sterling Forest, my persistence through unanswered calls—had paid off. That moment felt destined. I knew then that she was someone I could marry. And since I was so close to deciding to move to Europe to be with Veronika, I had to find out.

I don’t know what Berkeley saw in me—perhaps the stability of my IBM job, or maybe she was drawn in by curiosity and the confidence it took to approach her that day. But something clicked. And I had to follow it. She agreed to our first date.

Veronika and the Twist of Fate

Veronika was a prolific letter writer. She wrote me a letter every day since I left her in Vienna, and she came to New York to visit me for a couple of weeks around Christmas of 1983. Our relationship was building toward marriage. Veronika wanted me to go to Vienna that summer to get engaged. I was in total agreement and looked forward to a new life in Europe. I even explored how to get a transfer to IBM Europe. Everything was moving smoothly toward marrying—until that elevator ride that day in the Village.

I had my airline tickets and was set to fly to Vienna when a terrible rainstorm in New York canceled all flights to Europe. I had to call Veronika and let her know what had happened and that I would be delayed indefinitely. Veronika was distraught and didn’t believe my story. She thought I had met a new woman and was reneging on my promise. She was partially correct and confused, but I was determined to keep my promise.

I called the airlines to reschedule my flights, and they told me that the storm was an act of God. All reservations were canceled, and the earliest rebooking available was in September. This was July. That was not acceptable. I needed to get to Europe quickly. I went to JFK, sent my bags to Vienna, and planned to stay at the airport until I got on a flight.

Around 3 p.m. the following day, after trying every possible option to get a seat on a plane heading to Europe during the peak summer season, I heard an unbelievable announcement: “Anyone going to Europe, go to Gate 7.” I ran. I boarded a flight to Munich and, from there, caught a connection to Vienna.

I tried to reach Veronika but couldn’t get through. I contacted her father, who picked me up at the airport and dropped me off at her apartment. Veronika wasn’t home, but he left me there to wait.

I was calm, even proud. I felt I had moved mountains to keep my word. Around 2 a.m., the front do2 a.m.ng opens. Veronika walked in. Without saying hello, she screamed, “Have you found another woman?”

Usually, I would’ve said no. But Berkeley had made a big impression on me.

“Yes,” I said, “but—”

That was all she needed. She exploded—yelling in German, too angry to speak in English. I stood frozen, unsure what to do.

Then Veronika collected herself. “We will solve this in the morning,” she said. “We will go to my shrink and tell him what happened, and I will do whatever he instructs me to do.”

The next day, I sat in her psychologist’s office, listening to Veronika speak in rapid German. After about 30 minutes, it was my turn. I told him my side of the story. I never found out what he recommended, but Veronika decided we would spend the month’s vacation together—and then end the relationship.

I was of two minds. I could calm her down, and we could proceed with our plans. But if that didn’t work, my new relationship with Berkeley was still waiting.

Once the decision was made, we continued as if nothing had happened. We traveled across Austria, drove to Budapest and Salzburg, and spent time with her parents and Hon. Our engagement party was The highlight of the month. Veronika didn’t want her friends to know we might be breaking up, so she told them we were getting engaged. I went along with it. I bought her a ring. We celebrated—knowing it was pretend, hoping it might become real.

She did not relent. At the end of the month, she took me to the airport, hugged me, and said goodbye.

I felt a strange mix of relief and sorrow. The decision had been made for me. I had been torn. Now, I look forward to returning to Berkeley.

That feeling was short-lived.

She came over when I returned to New York, eager to see Berkeley. The first words out of her mouth were, “Who did you go to see in Europe?”

“Ahh… Ahh…” I stammered.

A mutual friend had told her I went to Europe to visit my girlfriend. She dumped me.

Reflection on a Twist of Fate

I had strong romantic love for Veronika. She was an educated and cultured woman, full of beauty and sexual energy—driven, sophisticated, and hard to resist. I was in love with her and could see a life with her. She matched my analytical, left-brain life at IBM. But she was intense, always moving with purpose and precision.

Conversely, Berkeley was much more relaxed, grounded in a creative, intuitive rhythm. She matched the side of me that was beginning to emerge—my right-brain self, who would later become a teacher, speaker, and storyteller.

In many ways, these two women mirrored my inner transformation. Veronika represented the life I had known—structured, logical, full of ambition. Berkeley described a life that had not yet fully revealed itself but was pulling me toward something more open, expressive, and human.

Yes, I felt very divided. And yes, I told Veronika the truth because I couldn’t deny my growing interest in Berkeley. When she asked if I had found someone else, I said, “Yes, but…” because that “but” held all the confusion, conflict, and hope I felt.

The months in Vienna and Budapest were beautiful but based on false premises. We both hoped it would work, but we knew it would fail. The storm—the literal act of God that delayed my flight—gave me time to pause. If that storm hadn’t happened, I would likely be married to Veronika today. I might be more financially stable. But I wouldn’t be as happy.

She already had a 15-year-old son, and I wasn’t sure she wanted more children. If I had gone through with our engagement, there would have been no three children from my marriage to Berkeley, no thirty-year journey of love, growth, and discovery.

The storm didn’t ruin my plans. It revealed my path forward.

A Jamaican Experience: Life After Veronika

By: Baron Stewart

After Berkeley's rejection, I stared blankly out of my Park Avenue apartment window, the city's vibrant energy starkly contrasting to the void I felt within. Nights were restless, filled with racing thoughts and the oppressive weight of uncertainty.

Reflecting on my journey, I marveled at how far I'd come. Born to a Jamaican hotel maid, my early years were marked by modest means and humble beginnings. At twenty, I worked as a $70-a-week elevator operator, immersing myself in the stories and experiences of those I transported. Determined to change my trajectory, I pursued education relentlessly, balancing classes during the day and work at night. This unwavering commitment led me to earn a scholarship, opening doors I had once only dreamed of.

Now, I resided in a beautiful Park Avenue apartment and had a retreat in Cipe's house in Stony Point. My circle included cherished friends like Fred and Harriette in Stony Brook. Professionally, I held an office at Cooper Union University in the Village, a testament to my academic pursuits. My prized BMW was parked in Brooklyn, which is a practical decision given the exorbitant garage fees on Park Avenue.

Yet, despite these outward markers of success, I couldn't shake the profound sense of despair. My mind acknowledged the blessings and the remarkable journey from my Jamaican roots to this metropolitan life. Still, my body bore the unmistakable signs of sorrow: slumped shoulders, weary eyes, and a gait that lacked its usual purpose. The dichotomy between my life's external achievements and internal struggles painted a complex portrait of a man grappling with the shadows of loss amidst the glaring light of success.

At 37, I found myself in Manhattan's Greenwich Village, navigating the vibrant streets and immersing myself in its rich cultural tapestry. One day, amidst the city's bustling energy, I met Jose, a 21-year-old au pair from the Netherlands enjoying her day off from her job in New Jersey. Eager to explore New York, she was drawn to the city's artistic enclaves.

I introduced Jose to the Village's iconic spots, including the renowned Village Chess Shop, a beloved establishment since 1972 that had become a hub for chess enthusiasts and cultural exchanges. We also wandered through the neighborhood's eclectic art galleries, absorbing the creativity that pulsed through the area. Our connection was rooted in a shared appreciation for the arts and the city's dynamic atmosphere. Our bond, while deeply enriching, remained platonic. Jose was committed to her boyfriend in France, and despite her host family's disapproval of our friendship due to racial prejudices, she maintained our connection. Her resilience and open-mindedness provided me with solace during a period of personal upheaval.

Eventually, Jose's boyfriend visited New York, and they became engaged, naturally redefining the boundaries of our relationship. Despite these changes, our friendship endured. To this day, I cherish visits to her home in Avignon, where we reminisce about our shared experiences in Manhattan and the enduring power of cross-cultural friendships.

Desperate to feel whole again, I reached out to Veronika again, hoping we could rekindle what we once had. To my astonishment, she agreed and planned a two-week visit to New York at the end of October.

With Veronika in my city, I eagerly introduced her to the myriad delights of Manhattan. We wandered through the hallowed halls of the Metropolitan Museum, strolled beneath the autumn-kissed canopies of Central Park, and delved into the eclectic charm of the Village's art galleries and chess shops. Our adventures culminated in the vibrant revelry of the Village's Halloween Parade, where the city's creative spirit was on full display. Throughout her visit, Veronika appeared to revel in every moment, and I dared to believe we were finding our way back to each other.

However, the reality was far from my hopeful expectations. Unbeknownst to me, Veronika's trip served a different purpose. She sought a tangible reason to present to her family and friends for our impending breakup. After she had returned home, I called to ensure she had arrived safely, only to be met with a cold directive: "Do not call this number again." Subsequent letters were returned unopened, leaving me in a chasm of confusion and heartache. The resurgence of despair was inescapable, pulling me back into the depths of melancholy I hoped to escape.

I intended to purchase a ticket at the Lexington Avenue Subway station during one of my darkest periods. To my astonishment, Berkeley stood at the ticket booth. Approaching with caution, I was met with her exuberance. She embraced me warmly while I remained stiff, attempting to mask the whirlwind of emotions surging within. "How are you? I'm so happy to see you," she exclaimed.

Caught off guard, I managed a subdued response, "Good to see you too."

The encounter left me reeling, a mix of hope and apprehension intertwining as I grappled with the unexpected reunion.

“Let’s do something together,” Berkeley offered with a sudden lightness that caught me off guard. I accepted, though I didn’t expect much to come of it. Still aching from our earlier parting, I saw no harm in a bit of companionship.

I invited her to Long Island to visit Fred and Harriette the following weekend. That evening, on our way to dinner, I found myself reclining in the backseat of Fred’s car, my head resting comfortably in Berkeley’s lap. Fred was driving, with Harriette riding shotgun. I drifted into a brief nap, lulled by the motion of the car and the warmth of her presence.

When I opened my eyes, Berkeley was gazing down at me. Her expression was tend but distant, as if she were caught in a thought she hadn’t meant to say aloud.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” I asked, half-smiling, genuinely curious.

“Oh. Nothing,” she replied quickly, looking away.

“Ahh, come on. Tell me—what’s on your mind?”

She hesitated, then said it quietly, almost apologetically. “I was thinking... I could never marry you.”

I blinked, taken aback. “Wow. Who’s asking you to marry me?”

The words hung between us, fragile and heavy all at once. We said nothing more about it then, but something had shifted in the silence.

By mid-December, Berkeley had left for Arkansas to spend Christmas with her family. On New Year’s Eve, she returned to New York, and the following day, she arrived early morning at Fred and Harriette’s to spend New Year’s Day with us.

As we drove back into the city that evening, something unspoken but solid passed between us. We decided she should move into my apartment.

On Valentine’s Day, she proposed. By the end of June 1985, we were married.

We built a life that lasted thirty years. Together, we raised three beautiful children. While the road ahead would be filled with its twists and turns, that quiet moment in the backseat, when nothing was promised and everything was possible, was where it all began again.

After reflecting on my journey,  these are some of my takeaways;

Embracing Resilience and Intuition

In moments of loss and disappointment, I've followed a guiding principle: move forward with a clear mind and a calm heart. This philosophy has been my anchor, enabling me to remain present and think clearly, even amidst adversity.

Cultural Integration and Embracing Diversity

As a Jamaican immigrant navigating a multicultural landscape, I've consciously embraced individuals from diverse backgrounds rather than confining myself solely to my Jamaican heritage. This openness has led to enriching experiences and, admittedly, some challenges. Yet, I wouldn't have it any other way, as these interactions have broadened my understanding and appreciation of the world.

Building Meaningful Relationships

Establishing lasting relationships requires active listening and adaptability to new people and environments. While these adjustments can be complex, the rewards are profound, fostering deeper connections and mutual growth.

Self-Belief Amidst Challenges

My belief in myself has been tested numerous times. Despite these challenges, I've maintained an unwavering conviction that I can overcome obstacles and rise to the occasion, no matter the circumstances.

Life as a Chessboard: Strategic Decision-Making

I perceive life's decisions as a chess game: the problems and solutions are laid before us, waiting to be recognized. Many shy away from confronting these choices due to fear or other inhibitions. By brive to assess situations objectively and make informed decisions.

Challenging Social Norms

Societal norms have minimal influence over my personal choices. For instance, my attraction to white women and my choices for dating them are based on personal preference, not societal expectations. This perspective may diverge from the norm, but authenticity guides my actions.

Message of Resilience and Intuition

The overarching message from my journey is the importance of resilience and trusting one's intuition. By staying true to oneself and embracing the lessons embedded in each experience, we can navigate life's complexities with grace and fortitude.

A Jamaican Experience: The Wedding Day Scenes

By: Baron Stewart

Scene 1: The Wedding Plan That Shifted

Berkeley wanted a celebration—not just a wedding—a full-blown Arkansas-style family affair, with music, dancing, barbecue, and at least fifty people telling us how good we looked together. She was one of seven, raised in Corning, where weddings were community events. You didn't just marry the person—you married the town.

I, on the other hand, was an only child. And I had already been married once — at 22 — to a lovely woman from Trinidad. That wedding taught me a few things. When you mix Jamaicans and Trinidadians at a formal event, ensure the dance floor is big enough for both styles… and have a referee on standby.

We even had two wedding cakes—a Trinidadian and a Jamaican—because neither side could agree on what counted as a proper celebration. The Jamaicans said the Trinidadian cake was too dry, and the Trinidadians said the Jamaican cake was too heavy. A near fistfight about the playlist between the first toast and the third reggae track broke out. I remember thinking, "Never again."

So when Berkeley started talking about a big party, I froze.

“I just want something beautiful,” she said one night, flipping through bridal magazines. “A moment I’ll remember forever.”

I nodded. “What about a honeymoon you’ll remember forever?”

She looked up, suspicious.

“I’m serious. We could get married in Europe — somewhere stunning and quiet. Then, spend a month traveling. No RSVPs. No table centerpieces. Just us.”

But I had an ace up my sleeve.

“There’s another way,” I said. “San Martino. A little hilltop town in northern Italy.”

I knew the mayor there—we had met during a previous trip. He was a kind, dignified man with a broad smile and a love of music. I wrote to him, explained the situation, and within days, he replied: Come. I will marry you myself.

Berkeley's eyes lit up. Suddenly, this wasn’t just a workaround — it was a story.

After some hesitation, she agreed. Though I could tell she was still accepting the idea of being walked down the aisle.

We went to the Italian Embassy in New York to start the paperwork. I fantasized about them handing us a stamped document and saying, “Buon viaggio!” Instead, the official frowned. “I wouldn’t recommend it,” he said. “There’s no guarantee the U.S. will recognize the marriage.”

Berkeley shot me that look — the one that said, So much for your grand idea.

Scene 2: The Guest List

We’d get married in our apartment on Park Avenue, then fly to Europe two days later for our honeymoon. No grand venue. No long speeches. Just love, intention, and a few people who mattered most.

“Let’s keep it small,” I said.

“How small?” Berkeley asked.

“Four people.”

She raised an eyebrow, but after a long talk — one of those pre-marriage negotiations that feels small on the surface but touches deeper waters — we agreed.

Berkeley invited Cassandra Wilson, her childhood friend and a brilliant jazz singer, and another friend whose name escapes me now. I asked Fred and Harriette — family in every sense but blood.

She found a minister from Harlem to officiate. I didn’t know him, but she said he had a good energy. Then came the surprise: he planned to bring his girlfriend.

“I’m not sure that makes sense,” I said. “We’re keeping this tiny. I’m not even inviting people I’ve loved for years. Why should a stranger be there?”

Berkeley, ever gracious but immovable when she needed to be, insisted.

“She’s important to him. He wants her there.”

I didn’t understand it. I didn’t like it. But in the delicate balance of soon-to-be-married life, I let it go. Berkeley won the argument, and on June 30, 1985, the minister showed up — girlfriend in tow.

The wedding was lovely—awkward at moments, imperfect, but full of sincerity. We said our vows in front of the expansive Park Avenue windows, the city humming below. Afterward, we walked next door for dinner at our favorite Chinese restaurant on Park near 37th Street, then took a slow carriage ride through Central Park—or, at least, that had been the plan.

Scene 3: Dinner with Strangers

We ordered everything on the menu. It felt right — abundant, joyful, a kind of edible celebration.

Berkeley sat across from me, glowing. The minister’s girlfriend sat to her right — the guest I hadn’t wanted. To my right sat the minister himself. Fred and Harriette, Cassandra, and Berkeley’s friend made up the rest of our eight-person table.

And then, just as the tea was being poured and the first dishes arrived, Berkeley turned to the woman beside her and said calmly:

"My husband didn’t want you here."

The woman’s mouth fell open. Her eyes bulged. She turned to me in shock, and before the silence could stretch any further, I said,

"That’s true. But now that you’re here, I’m glad you came."

I watched a wave of relief cross her face, her shoulders settling back into the evening. I still don’t understand why Berkeley said it. Maybe she needed to name the moment. Perhaps it was her way of balancing some unseen emotional scale.

We kept eating. Plate after plate arrived: duck, dumplings, sizzling beef, and tofu in bright red sauce. The table is filled with color, steam, and conversation.

Then, somewhere between the fifth and sixth dish, the minister put down his chopsticks, looked around the table, and said:

"Your wedding is legal, but I want you to know I am from another planet."

There was a pause.

No one laughed. No one asked which planet. No one even blinked.

I glanced at his girlfriend, who was now watching me again, waiting to see how I’d respond. But I didn’t.

We just kept eating.

Because by then, I was learning that marriage — like life — isn’t about controlling every detail. It’s about letting the unexpected pull up a chair at your table and learning to pass the dumplings anyway.

Scene 4: The Ride That Didn’t Happen

After the last dish was cleared and the minister returned to whatever galaxy he came from, the night wasn’t over.

Berkeley still had one thing she wanted: a carriage ride through Central Park.

It had been part of the plan—a romantic finale to our small wedding day. I had agreed to it, promised it, and even imagined it: us bundled under a thin blanket, the soft clop of hooves on pavement, trees overhead, the city humming quietly in the background.

But by the time dinner ended, I was spent. The emotional push and pull of the day — the guest list debates, the awkward moment at dinner, the minister’s planetary confession — had taken something out of me. I felt drained, like I had run an invisible marathon.

“I don’t think I can do it tonight,” I said.

Berkeley looked at me, surprised. Her disappointment filled the space between us before she said a word.

“But we planned this,” she said. “It’s our wedding night.”

“I know. I just… I need to rest.”

The air changed. There wasn’t a fight, exactly. But there was an argument — the kind born from mismatched expectations, unspoken emotional debts, and the weight of a day that hadn’t gone quite how we had imagined.

There was no carriage ride. No quiet laughter under the stars. No cinematic ending.

Instead, our wedding night was uneventful. Quiet. A little sad.

And though I didn’t know how to name it then, I carried something heavy into sleep that night — a minor ache of regret. I had made it through the ceremony, the dinner, the surprises. But when it came time to give just a little more — to finish the day the way she had dreamed — I pulled back.

I told myself I was too tired. And maybe I was. But love, I would learn, often lives in those small last efforts — the moments when you give just a little more, not because you feel like it but because you know the moment matters.

That night, I didn’t know that yet.

But I would.

Reflection: The Ripple

I wish I had taken her on that carriage ride.

Not because it would have made the night perfect — nothing about that day was perfect. But because it would have been a small, beautiful act of presence. A gesture that said, I see you. I know what this means to you. I’m still showing up.

At the time, I told myself we’d done enough. The ceremony, the dinner, the surreal company—it was a full day. The ride felt like a footnote—unnecessary.

But it wasn’t.

The truth is, I wasn’t yet attuned to Berkeley’s emotional rhythms. I didn’t fully understand how much meaning she packed into moments or how much my dismissals — however quiet — could echo.

We weren’t intimate that night. There was no great rift, no lasting wound, but there was a ripple — a quiet signal that I had missed something important. And I would forget things again. In the early years of our marriage, I often struggled to see her emotional world with clarity. I was still operating from the head — rational, measured, often self-protective — not yet comfortable in deep feeling.

But I would learn. Slowly. Unevenly. Through both joy and friction.

During our honeymoon, I started to recognize some of her patterns—like how she would pick fights every time we arrived somewhere new. It took me a while to understand that it wasn’t really about me—it was about uncertainty, anxiety, and the discomfort of transition. Once she settled, she returned to her calm, thoughtful self.

That first night — the ride that didn’t happen — didn’t break us. But it did mark something. A signal from the universe that I still had to grow.

And I have.

That night was part of my slow pivot — from left brain to right, from logic to empathy, from self to us.

A Jamaican Experience: Honeymoon: A Journey Through Light and Distance

By: Baron Stewart

Honeymoon: A Journey Through Light and Distance

Barcelona: The Opening Frame

This was Berkeley's first trip to Europe, and I wanted to show her everything—the hot spots I had either heard about or experienced myself. She was wide-eyed with curiosity, and I was thrilled to be her guide, companion, and partner in discovery.

One thing we both loved, maybe even needed, was photography. I carried my Nikon—faithful, rugged, reliable. She brought her Leica, that quiet, elegant little machine with lenses that seemed to drink in light. Her eye was sharper than mine—more poetic. I composed like a documentarian; she composed like a dreamer.

Barcelona was a blank page for both of us. I had never been, but I had long carried fantasies of it. We would ramble along the Ramblas together, camera straps slung across our bodies like sashes of purpose, stopping every few steps to frame a corner, a face, a moment. I imagined the two of us documenting everything in sight, then sitting in cafés comparing our images like two painters holding their sketches to the sun.

Arrival

We landed early in the morning, the Barcelona light still soft and tentative, like the day was stretching itself awake. The airport buzzed with unfamiliar accents and the kind of travel energy that makes even fatigue feel like anticipation.

We had booked a hotel right on the Ramblas—prime territory. I had chosen it deliberately, wanting to drop right into the city's heart, step out the door, and straight into the rhythm of Barcelona. My mind was full of expectations: camera in hand, map in my pocket, street scenes unfolding like film reels I had only imagined until now.

When we arrived at the hotel, I dropped my bags, practically vibrating with energy. I turned to Berkeley, ready to hit the streets.

But she was already drawing the curtains closed.

Before I could say anything, she slipped under the luxurious white blankets, curled up with a satisfied sigh. She was going to sleep.

I stood there for a moment, baffled. Wasn't she excited? Didn't she want to grab her Leica and join me on this adventure? I had imagined us rushing out together, eyes wide, snapping photos of everything in sight. Instead, she vanished into the sheets, letting the city wait.

She told me later it was the softness of the bed, the feel of the sheets, the weight of the pillows—that after the long flight, they seduced her. I laughed when she said it, eventually. At the time, though, I felt that quiet dissonance of traveling as a couple: two bodies in the same place, on different clocks.

Still, something was tender about it—her surrender to comfort, my restless eagerness. We were starting our journey together, but we each took a different state at that moment.

Wandering Alone

While Berkeley slept, I took to the streets alone. My Nikon felt heavier than usual, not because of its weight, but because I had imagined this first day differently—imagined us moving in sync, photographing together, sharing first impressions like secrets.

Barcelona dazzled, but I moved through it with muted awe. I snapped pictures—shadows on tiled walls, children chasing pigeons, an older man reading beside a fountain. The camera became my company, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I was photographing for two. I hadn't married to see the world alone. I'd married to share it—with her.

She woke up that evening, fresh-faced and glowing from her nap, and we found a small bistro just around the corner from our hotel. The lighting was low and warm, the wine crisp, and the food spectacular—just as I had expected, maybe even hoped. Over dinner, we found our rhythm again. We talked about tomorrow, walking the Ramblas together, and where we'd go next. I could feel the trip beginning to bloom.

The next day, we finally did what I'd dreamed of—we strolled the Ramblas side by side, stopping for coffee, photos, or nothing. We walked to the port, the breeze salty and bright, our cameras clicking in gentle conversation.

That night, we found a flamenco show tucked inside one of the venues off the Ramblas. The dancers stomped and spun like the room itself was on fire. Berkeley's eyes lit up—she had never seen anything like it. Neither had I. At that moment, it felt like the actual start of our honeymoon.

I had hoped to visit Mallorca next—Amanda, a friend from London, had a vacation home there and had extended an open invitation. But, travel plans have a way of reshaping themselves. That fell through, so we booked tickets on a ferry to Ibiza instead.

A shift in the wind.

And we were ready to follow it.

Ibiza: Into the Light

We took the ferry from Barcelona to Ibiza overnight. It was one of those gently surreal crossings—darkness all around, the engine's hume, the sense of drifting across water and deeper into our honeymoon. Berkeley was finally hitting her stride. She brought out her Leica, and we took turns photographing the low light of the night—the glow of distant port cities, shadows of fellow passengers dozing on benches, and reflections of stars on the sea.

There was something quiet and intimate about that ride—no big declarations. Just shutter clicks, shared glances, the occasional squeeze of the hand.

We docked early the following day, the sky still pale and sleepy. Rented a small car—something low to the ground, slightly beat-up—and drove off toward our resort. The place itself was forgettable, honestly. Clean enough, but nothing special. No charm. No story. But that didn't matter.

Because the island was the story.

Driving through Ibiza felt like gliding through a Mediterranean dream—sun-baked cliffs, deep blue coves, groves of olive trees. We stumbled upon nude beaches, where the bodies—sun-kissed, unselfconscious—seemed to belong to another, freer world. Berkeley smiled at my fascination. The women were beautiful, yes—but it wasn't lust. It was admiration—a kind of reverence for the elemental beauty of the place and the people who let themselves dissolve into it.

Ibiza Town was vibrant and relaxed all at once. We wandered the narrow streets, peeked into boutiques and galleries, and took hundreds of photos. Our cameras never left our shoulders.

That weekend, we slowed down, letting go of itineraries and letting the sun, the sea, and the strangeness of it all take over. We made love in the middle of the afternoon, napped in beach towels, laughed over simple meals, and stayed up late talking about places we still wanted to see.

On Monday, we caught the ferry back to Barcelona, both a little more sunburnt, a little more in sync, and a little more ready for the next chapter.

Avignon: Between Curiosity and Celebration

We decided to rent a car and drive from Barcelona to Avignon—not for the scenery alone, though the coastline didn't disappoint, but because my young friend Jose was getting married there that week. She was 21, a former au pair from the Village days in New York. We had stayed in touch. I was curious to see the man she was marrying and the life she was about to build.

The drive was long but luminous—coastal light flickering off the Mediterranean as we passed through Perpignan, then Arles, and finally turned inland toward Avignon. It was July, and the air shimmered with heat and promise.

When we arrived, the city was alive. The Avignon Festival was in full swing—actors and dancers spilling out of cafés, costumes brushing against tourists, music around every corner, street art, and language everywhere.

We toured the Palace of the Popes and wandered its vast, echoing halls. It felt like walking through a stone heart that had stopped beating long ago. Then there was the famous Pont d'Avignon—the bridge to nowhere—stretching out halfway across the Rhône before it abruptly ended. We stood at its edge, laughing at its absurdity and marveling at how something unfinished could still feel grand.

Street musicians played everywhere—some good, some spectacular. One flamenco guitarist held the square silent for a full five minutes. And the food—God, the food—was a revelation. Even the most straightforward meal tasted elevated, like the French knew something the rest of us had only guessed at.

We never made it to Jose's wedding. It was scheduled for later in the week; by then, we'd already set our sights eastward. But being there—catching just a glimpse of her new world, the pulse of the city she would call home—felt like enough.

Nice into Monaco: A Lesson in Surprise

We headed to Nice through Aix-en-Provence, and Berkeley and I argued somewhere along the way. She loved to drive, but I didn't. She wanted to take the high, mountainous roads she saw on the map, but I resisted—my fear of heights outweighed any desire for dramatic views.

We debated until we finally compromised and stuck to the main highway. It was a little boring for her, but perfect for me. The tension dissolved when we reached Nice and walked along the Promenade des Anglais.

The next day, we took a short drive to Monaco. I had long fantasized about visiting the Casino de Monte-Carlo—maybe placing a bet or two, to say I had. But Berkeley wasn't interested. She didn't even want to go inside. That surprised me. I thought she'd be swept up in the glamour, the spectacle. But she stayed calm and detached.

We walked around the outside, took some photos, and lingered among the luxury cars and tourists dressed like extras in a Bond film. But we didn't cross the threshold.

People are different. They are different from you and who you imagined they would be.

I wasn't disappointed that night as we drove back along the glittering coastline. I was a little more aware and more attuned to the woman beside me.

Florence: Where the Journey Opens

We got rid of the car in Nice and took a train to Florence. We stayed at the Balestri Hotel, where I had stayed at least twice before. It felt like coming home to a city I already loved.

I took Berkeley straight to a street artist I had met on a previous trip. I had once invited him to dinner, but he had politely declined. I never knew why. But when I returned to Berkeley, something changed. He lit up, sketched her gracefully, then invited us for drinks.

That night, he invited us—along with two American tourists, one of whom used a wheelchair—to a festival in the Tuscan countryside. To make it possible for them to come, he rented a motorbike with a sidecar for the girl in the wheelchair. Just like that. No grand gesture. Just kindness.

We went with his brother, riding for over an hour until we reached a Communist festival in a village that felt untouched by time. The food and activities were simple. But the music—guitar, voices, songs rising into the dark—was unforgettable. Bats flew overhead, silhouettes against the stars.

That night was not in any guidebook. It was messy and magical. And it became the beating heart of our trip.

Venice & Beyond: A Marriage in Motion

From Florence, we took the train to Venice. Gondolas, canals, the obligatory ride through narrow waters—it was all there—and somehow, it didn't feel clichéd. We arrived just in time for a local festival with fireworks, music, and crowds.

It felt like Italy was celebrating our marriage.

We left Venice happy. It is not perfect without disagreements but it is closer and more in sync. The rhythm of the trip, the rhythm of marriage, was starting to make sense.

We spent a couple of quieter days in Milan. Walked. Ate. Reflected.

And then we flew back to New York—in time to celebrate our birthdays at a Mets game.

Reflection: Learning to Travel Together

Before Berkeley, I had spent years traveling with women—three years with Sundarii and two summers with Veronika. I thought I knew what it meant to share the road with someone. But this was different. This was marriage. This was Berkeley's first time in Europe, and with each new city, each train, each hotel check-in, we were not only discovering new places—we were finding the nuances of each other.

I didn't expect the tension that crept in whenever we moved locations. Looking back, I realize that international travel was still foreign to her, and the rhythm I was used to—move, absorb, move again—wasn't easy for her to adjust to. When we stayed in one place for a few days, she relaxed. But the energy shifted as soon as it was time to pack up and leave. I didn't fully understand that then.

In truth, I was beginning to learn about myself—my shortcomings, my strengths—as a husband. There was no manual for this. My first marriage hadn't taught me the emotional tools I needed. Empathy wasn't something I'd been trained in. It took years of missed cues and moments of distance to understand what was happening between us in those early trips.

And yet, we stayed married for thirty years. That, to me, means something. It means success—not because it was easy, but because we kept choosing each other. We kept traveling—not just across countries but across the shifting landscapes of who we were becoming.

A Jamaican Experience: Being Right Versus Being Related

By: Baron Stewart

For most of my life, I worked hard to be correct. Being right earned me promotions at work and more money in my pocket. It built my self-esteem and caused people to trust what I had to say. So, you can imagine how surprised I was when the love of my life, Berkeley, told me our relationship would not work because I was always right and she was always wrong. She said I was always making her wrong. In my mind, I thought I wasn't making her wrong—she just was.

Berkeley had been trying to fix this situation by inviting me to a course by Werner Erhard and Associates called the Erhard Seminar Training (EST). I responded that I was not a dog and didn't need to be trained. She answered, "See! This is hopeless. You will never change." I realized she was serious and that I had better do something, or I would lose her. So, I looked at the courses Erhard offered and selected the Communication Workshop because we could all improve our communication skills. I said, "I will do this one. I will take the Communication Workshop." She grudgingly said okay but continued to say that she did not expect any miracles.

The workshop started at 6 p.m. on Friday and continued until late Sunday evening. On Friday evening, I was very combative, with my left brain going into overdrive. I questioned everything the leader said and asked him to substantiate his claims. I was sure he could not. During the first break, some of the workshop staff pulled me aside, offered me my money back, and invited me to leave because I was getting in the way of people who wanted to change the quality of communication in their lives. I panicked. They tried to kick me out. I couldn't return to Berkeley with this result—that would be the last day I saw her. So, no, I didn't want to leave. I promised to shut up and not interrupt the class as much. They allowed me to stay under scrutiny from the staff.

Once I settled down and listened instead of judging and criticizing everything and everyone related to the course, I started to see some value. I did group exercises that stirred me deep inside, and I began to see the logic behind their actions. I was a conceptual communicator without much emotion. Because of my painful childhood, I learned to suppress my feelings to survive the painful experiences I endured. I got very excited. Instead of detracting from the class, I became one of the class leaders.

One exercise in particular left a lasting impact on me. We were instructed to say "I LOVE YOU" to someone in three different ways: conceptually, emotionally, and sourcefully. Each person would then provide feedback on how our communication made them feel. This was an eye-opening experience because I realized that my way of speaking put people to sleep. My logic was not enough; the people I talked to wanted more. This exercise highlighted the necessity of integrating emotion into communication.

By Sunday evening, I was jumping out of my skin—euphoric and positive. I had made a significant change from always wanting to be right to choosing to be related instead of right.

I went home to Berkeley ecstatic, but she remained skeptical because she thought my euphoria would soon wear off, and I would return to the righteous person I had been. After a while, she embraced that I had changed, and being with me became a safe space.

This journey taught me that being right isn't the foundation of a strong relationship—being connected is. By letting go of my need to always be correct, I opened the door to deeper understanding and intimacy with Berkeley, transforming our relationship and myself.

The transformation didn't stop there. After that workshop, every aspect of my life changed. That was when my right-brain transformation finally took off. I left programming and became a professional speaker and educator for IBM. Reflecting on this journey, I understand why my PID colleagues once gave me a mirror as a Christmas present with the word "PROBLEM" written on the front. It was a playful yet insightful commentary on my approach to problem-solving, suggesting that self-reflection is crucial in addressing challenges.

My journey from prioritizing being right to valuing connection offers profound insights into my personal growth and the dynamics of relationships. I asked myself the following questions and looked for answers to them:

1. What were the Implications of Always Being Right?

The compulsion to always be right stems from my deep-seated need to succeed. Being right got me what I had, but it seemed bankrupt when I wanted to deepen my relationship. This is a widespread situation where what brought me here will not take me forward. This shows up in business very often.

2. What is the role of Emotional Intelligence in Effective Communication?

Emotional intelligence (EI) is pivotal in understanding and managing emotions and empathizing with others. High EI enhances communication by enabling individuals to navigate complex social situations, resolve conflicts, and build strong relationships. Developing EI involves active listening, empathy, and self-awareness, essential for meaningful connections.

3. What was the Impact of Prioritizing Connection Over Correctness?

Shifting the focus from being right to being connected transforms relationships. Emphasizing understanding over winning arguments fosters deeper connections and mutual respect. This approach encourages collaboration and strengthens bonds, leading to more fulfilling interactions. Prioritizing Connection with Berkeley got me a 30-year marriage and three beautiful kids. 

4. How to Grow Through Embracing Humility?

Embracing humility involves acknowledging one's limitations and being open to others' perspectives. Balancing pride and humility allows for personal growth and improved relationships. Cultivating humility requires self-awareness and a willingness to learn from others, enhancing personal and professional interactions. I had to be humble and accept my shortcomings.

5. The Importance of Recognizing and Interpreting Social Cues

Effective communication relies on accurately interpreting social cues such as facial expressions, tone of voice, and body language. Misinterpreting these cues can lead to misunderstandings and strained relationships. Enhancing one's ability to read social cues fosters better communication and stronger connections. Learning to listen was key to any success I had with Berkeley.

A Jamaican Experience: How Black is he?

By: Baron Stewart

Some stories don’t just live in your memory—they breathe there. My story with Berkeley is like that—an oven full of grit, love, and moments that shook and shaped us. It’s not perfect, but it’s real and ours.

We married in the pulse of 1980s New York—a city of dreams, noise, and corners humming with music and tension. And then, interracial couples didn’t exactly blend in. When Berkeley and I walked through Manhattan, hand in hand, people noticed. Eyes turned. Yes, lingering. And when her pregnancy started to show, those silent stares became even louder.

But we kept walking.

Berkeley never made me feel like I had to shrink any part of who I was. She stood beside me like a lighthouse, never blinking. My blackness wasn’t something to be explained or apologized for—it was part of the rhythm we were building together.

Wanting to dig deeper into who we were as individuals and as a couple, Berkeley suggested we do this personal development program—The Forum. Picture this: a dimly lit ballroom in a midtown hotel, walls echoing with the quiet hum of anticipation, two hundred strangers in folding chairs, and three long, soul-shaking days. We went in as observers of our lives and came out with new eyes.

One moment cracked me wide open.

Berkeley stood in front of that crowd—back straight, voice steady—and shared a story that still resonates with me. She talked about the moment she told her mom about me.

“Mom, I’m dating this Jamaican man,” she said.

There was a pause. Her mom asked, “From Jamaica, Queens?”

“No, Mom. Jamaica, Jamaica.”

Another pause. Do you mean he’s Black?”

“Yes, Mom. He’s Black.”

Then came the question that hung in the air like incense: “How Black is he?”

Berkeley didn’t flinch. Black, Black, Mom.”

The room exhaled with her. Some people laughed, not mockingly, but like they’d just witnessed a truth break free. It wasn’t just about race. It was about choosing to be seen, heard, and loved wholeheartedly.

Not long after, we went down South to visit her family—Little Rock, Arkansas, thick with heat and history. Her brother, whom I’d never met,  took me in his truck to meet some friends at a local joint filled with families and old stories. He looked them in the eye and introduced me without skipping a beat: “This is my brother-in-law.”

Just like that.

A group of Black folks nearby caught it and burst out laughing—not mean, more like a “damn, alright then” kind of laugh. The type of laughs that recognizes a shift in the usual script. Her brother could’ve gone vague, said “friend,” and played it safe. But he didn’t. He claimed me. That meant the world.

Then there was the Boxing Day trip to her uncle’s farm—an open stretch of land under a vast sky, where the air smells like hay and possibilities. It was me, Berkeley, her mom, and our son, Madison. Berkeley´s extended family was curious to see the Black man their niece had married.

By then, I was used to that curiosity—the questions dressed up in politeness, the eyes searching my face like they were trying to solve a puzzle. I gave them the answers, but more than that, I gave them presence. I stayed open. By the end of the evening, her uncle—gruff, weathered, and silent most of the time—wrapped me in quiet hugs. A man saying, “You’re alright, ” was the only way he knew how.

Over the thirty years Berkeley and I shared, we went through it all. Her mother, who once hesitated at our union, became a warm and devoted grandmother to our kids. She transformed. We all did.

I remember my mentor, Cipe Burtin, pulling me aside one day and saying, “Marriage is hard enough, already. Are you sure you want to add race into the mix?” I understood she wasn’t wrong, but when I looked at Berkeley, I knew I wasn’t walking away from this woman. I married her, and I’ve never regretted it.

Those sideways looks from strangers faded. What stayed were the laughter at our kitchen table, the arguments that taught us how to fight fair, the long trips to Europe with our kids, the quiet Sundays, and the loud victories. Life is a big, messy, beautiful life.

To anyone considering an interracial relationship, I’ll say this: Be ready. Life will still throw shade. But if the love is confirmed, you’ll weather it. You'll come out stronger—maybe even softer. Our story didn’t break us—it built us.

And it’s still building me.

Q&A and Reflections for Interracial Couples

Q1: What was the most challenging part about being in an interracial relationship?

A: Honestly, the most challenging moment for me regarding race with Berkeley was when Berkeley got a graphic design job with Walmart in Bentonville, Arkansas, which required us to move there. At first, I said that I might do it, but after some consideration, I decided that I did not want my children to grow up in that racially toxic environment. Berkeley was very disappointed, and one day, as we drove to Palm Springs, a Walmart truck drove next to us. When I looked at Berkeley, she was crying. I felt terrible. 

What helped was creating an environment of friends like Fred and Harriette, who were also an interracial couple, where we felt very safe and acknowledged. Fred, Harriette, and my other like-minded friends mattered more than any glare or sideways comment.

Q2: What would you tell someone whose family disapproves of their partner’s race?

A: First, I see you. Hatred runs deep. It’s not always loud—it can come in silence, of being left out, of small digs wrapped in politeness. Here’s the thing: You can’t live for someone else’s comfort. Especially when it costs you love.

I hope you have the hard conversations. Let them know this isn’t a rebellion—it’s a relationship. Give them a chance to grow. You don’t shrink yourself to keep the peace. Peace that requires you to disappear isn’t real peace.

Q3: What’s your most significant advice for making it work?

A: Two things: communicate and protect each other.

Talk openly about race. Talk about culture. Talk about the small stuff before it becomes big stuff? When the world pushes back, you have each other’s backs. It’s not about rescuing or fixing—it’s about standing with. Always felt safest when Berkeley stood beside me, not in front or behind me. That made all the difference.

Also, laugh together, build traditions, take trips, and make memories that are yours, not built in reaction to the outside world but just for joy.

Q4: What do you say to people who think love “shouldn’t see color”?

A: I say: Love isn’t blind. IT’s brave.

Color is part of our story. Your backgrounds, struggles, and beauty bring you together in a relationship. Pretending not to see that doesn’t get you closer—it builds a wall. True love sees it all and says, “I’m here for all of you.”

Q5: What if one person is more aware or vocal about racial issues than the other?

A: That’s common. It can also cause tension if not handled with care.

One of you might live in the thick of it daily, while the other has the luxury of stepping in and out. That gap has to be acknowledged. The key is staying teachable, open, and willing to accept discomfort. You won’t always get it right. Still, if you’re committed to growing together, that gap will start to close.

My Top 5 Recommendations for Interracial Couples:

1. Talk early and often about culture, family, race, privilege, and identity. These aren’t “deep end” topics—they’re the foundation.

2. Build your rituals and language. Whether it’s how you handle holidays, show affection, or debrief after a tough encounter, make it yours.

3. Travel together and see how the world responds to you as a couple in different places. It will deepen your bond and your awareness. Could you create a support circle? And other couples or individuals who understand what you’re navigating. Solation can make things more complicated than they need to be.

4. Celebrate the job. Don’t let the challenges define the relationship. There’s beauty in blending lives, cultures, and histories. Remember to dance in that light.

A Jamaican Experience: From Skeptic to Seminar Leader

By: Baron Stewart

At thirty-nine, I had no children, a steady job in tech, and a quiet apartment on 38th and Park in New York City. I also had a new wife—Berkeley. She was brilliant, emotionally articulate, wildly intuitive, and, much to my confusion, convinced that the way I communicated needed an upgrade.

In my mind, I was doing just fine. I stated my points clearly. I used logic. I didn’t yell. I rarely interrupted. That, to me, was communication. On the other hand, Berkeley seemed to be playing an entirely different game where words were only half the story, and presence, energy, tone, and something called “emotional resonance” were the rest. I couldn’t see the rules, let alone play by them.

She asked me to take a course—not just any course—a workshop by Werner Erhard and Associates—the kind of course people raved about or ridiculed. I was skeptical—deeply skeptical—but I loved her. And underneath my skepticism was a quiet fear: I might lose her if I didn’t learn to communicate the way she needed.

So I signed up, crossed my arms, and showed up. Within the first day of the three-day course, something cracked.

The first fundamental shift happened during a communication exercise. Nothing flashy. Just eye contact, repeated phrases, and the uncomfortable realization that my default tone—cool, calm, rational—wasn’t reaching anyone, least of all my wife. But the connection was immediate when I added a flicker of honest emotion. I could feel it. So could everyone else. I wasn’t just speaking. I was being heard.

That moment rewired something in me. The shift deepened in the Forum, where I was introduced to the power of presence. Not the kind of presence that comes from a loud voice or a big personality—but the quiet, grounded kind. The "Be Here Now" kind. That phrase alone changed the trajectory of my life. Suddenly, I understood that listening was more than waiting for my turn to talk. Being present was more than showing up on time. It was a powerful force.

Berkeley noticed the change before I thoroughly did. She laughed more and touched me more. I realized she enjoyed me when I communicated from presence—when I brought logic and feeling to the table. And, to be honest, I enjoyed myself, too.

I was shocked at how much more effective I became at work. My coworkers responded differently, and friends opened up more. My left-brain software engineer's approach had gotten me far, but these emotional upgrades unlocked a new level.

Still, I didn’t become a seminar leader overnight. It took five years. I began by assisting in the Communication Workshop for about a year, absorbing the course's design and refining how I spoke, listened, and responded. Then Berkeley and I took the Forum together, and that sealed it. I was all in.

The New York Center was just a short walk from our apartment. I made that walk many times, often buzzing with anticipation. Then came the 6-Day Course—a deep dive into living 100% present, six days in a row. That course jump-started something in me. It wasn’t just about self-improvement anymore. I wanted mastery.

So we enrolled in the Introduction to the Forum Leaders program—the gatekeeper to leadership within Werner Erhard and Associates. Six months of intensive training were designed to prepare you to lead seminars and enroll people in the Forum. There were fifty of us at the start. In the end, maybe six were selected.

I was one of them. Berkeley wasn’t.

That was bittersweet. We had taken the journey together, step for step, but now I was stepping forward alone. It was hard for both of us, but she supported me.

I led seminars four nights a week across the New York metropolitan area for the next eighteen months. I became one of the top three enrollers in the New York Center. My most memorable night was when I enrolled seven out of nine people at a single event—a level of effectiveness that made waves.

That performance opened a new door. I was invited to join the Seminar Director Program—a prestigious next step. Seminar Directors didn’t just enroll people; they led full seminars for those who had already taken the Forum and wanted to dive deeper into subjects like money, leadership, and commitment.

After another year of intense work, I was officially designated Seminar Director. The announcement was made in front of Berkeley and 500 others. I was proud. It felt like I’d graduated not just from the program but from the version of myself I used to be.

That role completed my transformation from a left-brain nerd into something more balanced. I could still write a mean algorithm, but now I could also speak from the heart. I understood enrollment, presence, and how the proper distinction could cut through confusion like a hot knife through butter.

I remember leading an introduction to the Forum when an IBM Executive Instructor approached me afterward. He looked me straight and said, "You are great. You should come work where I work."

That conversation ended my career as a programmer analyst at Software Distribution in Sterling Forest. I joined IBM Executive Education in New York City, launching an entirely new chapter of my life.

Not everything went right once I became a Seminar Director. Everything went wrong—but that’s a story for the next chapter.

What matters is this: I thought I was learning to communicate better for my marriage. I didn’t realize that I was becoming a different man—one who could lead, love, and listen—one who could be here now.

Mini-Epilogue

Looking back now, I can see things I couldn’t have seen then. I had resisted emotional communication not because I thought it was silly but because I had locked away my own emotions so tightly that I didn't know I had any. That suppression came from years of needing to be strong, rational, and self-sufficient—a survival mode that became my default.

When Berkeley wasn't selected for the IFL program, we both knew it wasn’t personal. She was there for personal growth; I was there to lead. We each got what we came for. Still, the journey tested our marriage. She was proud of me but lonely. I was becoming someone new but was not always present for the person who got me there.

The deeper I went, the more my identity began to shift. I had to bury the story of being a poor boy from Jamaica who didn't quite belong. I had to become someone who owned the room—even when some people wished I wouldn't. Being a powerful Black man in front of large groups of white people made some people uncomfortable. Some couldn’t believe someone like me had earned the role. But I had, and I knew it.
One of my most powerful moments was when I returned to the Shelton Towers Hotel on Lexington Ave, where I once drove an elevator for 70 dollars a week to lead a seminar. After the symposium, I walked to the elevator. It was still going up and down, but I no longer needed to drive it. I was a speaker in the hotel. My life had come full circle. 

My speaking began to carry emotional truth, and listening became a gift. People cried when I shared stories—not because I tried to move them, but because I finally let myself be moved.

What I gained through this transformation has never left me: presence, clarity, emotional honesty, and the courage to lead. My high school math teacher, Althea Young, once told me, "You can achieve anything you set your mind to." Turns out she was right.

The next chapter would test that belief in ways I never expected.

To-Do List for Your Personal Transformation Journey

If my story resonated with you and you're feeling the pull toward your transformation, here are a few steps to consider. They worked for me—and they might change the trajectory of your life, too:

1. Acknowledge your resistance.

   • Please take a look at where you feel skeptical or uncomfortable. That’s often where your most significant growth occurs.

2. I would like you to be present.

   • Practice "Be Here Now." Put down distractions. Look people in the eye. Listen like it matters.

3. Please feel free to add emotion to your communication.

   • Let your words reflect your inner life. Would you be willing to speak not just to let me know but to connect?

4. You can find a robust growth environment.

   • Whether it's a workshop, a community, or a mentor, immerse yourself in something challenging and stretching.

5. Work toward mastery, not just insight.

   • Insight is a spark, and mastery is a fire. Please commit to practicing what you learn until it becomes who you are.

6. Please don't hesitate to take action even when you're unsure.

   • Transformation doesn't wait for certainty. It rewards courage.

7. Could you let go of the story that limits you?

   • Whether it's your past, your upbringing, or your self-doubt—you can write a new story.

8. Own your space.

   • Especially if the world has told you you're too much or not enough—take up your rightful space with confidence.

9. Let your growth impact others.

   • True transformation isn’t just about becoming better for yourself. It’s about becoming someone others grow around.

10. Celebrate progress, not perfection.

• You don't need to be finished to be proud. Every step counts. Every effort matters.

Your journey will be your own. But if you're willing to dive in with openness, presence, and honesty, you'll be surprised who you become.

A Jamaican Experience: The Highs and Lows as a Werner Earhart Seminar Director

By: Baron Stewart

I had always believed that hard work and dedication would lead to success. My journey to becoming a seminar director was a testament to that belief—filled with triumphs, setbacks, and, ultimately, transformation.

In the beginning, I was a rising star. My gift for enrolling participants stood out, and there were whispers that I would be named a seminar director during the first of the quarterly training weekends. That was the fast track. That was the dream.

But it didn’t happen.

I wasn’t designated that weekend. I stayed the course, undeterred—until I unexpectedly lost my touch. My enrollment numbers plummeted. Week after week, my introductions to the Forum failed to produce a new participant. The contrast to my earlier success was stark. Concerned, Forum leaders reached out, trying to understand what had changed.

I began to reflect.

The moment I kept returning to was Christmas 1988. Werner Erhard had invited all seminar directors and candidates to San Francisco for New Year’s. I had just returned from visiting my in-laws in Arkansas, and at home was a newborn child. The idea of another trip during the holidays felt overwhelming. But when Werner calls, you go—at least, that's how it felt.

Still, I hesitated. I couldn’t bring myself to say I didn’t want to go. Instead, I told my coach I couldn’t afford the plane ticket.

We were at a training weekend when she suggested something unimaginable: She said I should ask the group—over 200 seminar directors—for financial assistance. I froze. As the only Black man in that room, the idea of publicly requesting money from a primarily white audience filled me with dread and shame. Before I could protest, she said she’d ask for me.

To preserve my dignity, I stood up and made the request myself.

The generosity was immediate. I received more than I needed. But something inside me shifted. From that day on, my enrollment efforts yielded nothing. It was as if a vital thread had snapped.

That experience taught me something I hadn’t yet understood: that authenticity matters more than performance, that pride, when left unexamined, can become a prison, and that even small betrayals of the self can have rippling consequences.

I went to San Francisco and spent New Year’s with Werner. The seminar that weekend sparked something powerful in me. I made a commitment I’d long avoided: to take full responsibility for my aging mother, who was now in her 80s and living alone in Florida. I vowed to make her feel loved and cared for—something that, in truth, I had never really done. That promise brought healing to one of the most painful parts of my life. I’ll share more about that later.

Not long after, I experienced a breakthrough in my career. I became an Executive Instructor at IBM, training top managers in Project Management, Team Building, and Computer Design. I worked out of IBM’s Manhattan Education Center, near the towering IBM headquarters. My days were spent in crisp suits, commuting from Westchester into the heart of New York City.

Berkeley and I had moved to a small cottage on the Hudson River in Nyack. Life was polished, professional—established. I had arrived.

Then IBM built a state-of-the-art education center in Palisades, just a few miles from home. My department was transferred there. The facility, managed by Marriott Hotel, housed some of IBM’s most advanced training programs. I had made it to the main stage.

I no longer teach entry-level courses. I taught Business Systems Planning and its implementation—a curriculum designed for CEOs, CFOs, and CIOs making high-stakes decisions about technology investments. It was thrilling.

But that success came at a cost.

Werner wasn’t paying me. IBM was. And that meant my availability to lead seminars vanished. I was flying across North America every week, teaching at a high level, and could not accept even one seminar leadership opportunity from Werner.

When I was offered the opportunity to lead a seminar in New York City, I declined all of them. The conflict between the two worlds—the one that had transformed me and the one that now paid my bills—persisted for an entire year.

Then came another training weekend.

I was living in Nyack with Berkeley and my young son, Madison. With only one car between us, an unexpected issue at home delayed me. By the time I arrived, the session had already begun. The door was closed. I waited outside for fifteen long minutes before the monitor let me in.

I barely crossed the threshold when the Forum leader called me to the front of the room.

Six hundred eyes were on me.

Without explanation or ceremony, he declared that I was no longer living in alignment with the distinction of Seminar Director—and from that moment forward, I was no longer one.

I wanted to speak, explain, and protest, but instead, I turned and strolled out the door.

Reflections: Behind the Scenes of a Crossroads

What did I feel when I stood in front of 600 eyeballs, stripped of my title?
Oddly enough, not shame. Not anger either. I felt… relief.
The endless back-and-forth between IBM and Werner’s organization was driving me crazy. I was deeply committed to my personal growth and tremendously grateful for what Werner’s work had opened up in me. But I could never bring myself to walk away. That moment on stage—though it felt like a public flogging—was almost a blessing in disguise. The decision was made for me. I was finally free.

Why did asking for help feel like such a breaking point?
Because I was lying, I had the money—I didn’t want to spend it.
I was exhausted from travel, juggling a newborn at home, and the strain of endless obligations. Yet, I couldn’t fathom saying no to Werner. So, instead of honoring my truth, I hid behind a fabricated excuse. And then I had to ask for help—publicly, from a room full of primarily white seminar leaders. As a Black man, I hated the optics of appearing needy. The whole thing struck a nerve that ran more profound than I knew.

What did I learn about identity—being Black in white spaces of power?
Most of the time, I’m relaxed about being Black in predominantly white spaces. I often don’t think about it—until a moment like that one forces the difference into the spotlight. That moment reminded me that identity, pride, and vulnerability are often intertwined in surprising ways.

How did I reconcile my public success with your private struggles?
I loved my work at IBM. I felt proud walking into those Manhattan offices daily in a tailored suit, confident in my expertise. But I also felt guilt. I tried to lead seminars on Saturdays to stay involved with Werner’s work, but those were reserved for senior leaders. My growth in one world meant absence in another.

What role did fatherhood play in my choices during this time?
My son was still an infant then, cared for by Berkeley. His presence, though, reminded me of what truly mattered. I had a family to feed and a future to build—not just for me but for him.

How did choosing IBM’s financial security feel over Werner’s transformational mission?
It felt like a minor betrayal. Not because I didn’t believe in what Werner was doing—I did, deeply—but because I chose stability over transformation. My family needed me to choose security, and I did.

Did I ever regret stepping back from seminar leadership?
I didn’t step back. I stepped sideways. I led seminars in the corporate world for executives who demanded rigor and clarity. They taught me to be sharper, more precise. If you weren’t on your game, they’d walk out. That sharpened me like nothing else.

How did Werner’s work shape my worldview in the long run?
It shaped everything. Even now, I live by the distinctions I learned decades later. The controversy surrounding Werner never shook me. I knew the value of his work because I’d lived it. It became a permanent lens through which I saw myself and the world.

What does “completion” with my mother mean, and how did it change me?
It meant everything. I brought her to live with me in Nyack. Our relationship, once strained and incomplete, found grace. The last thing I ever said to her was, “Thank you for being my mother.” That moment gave Peace to a lifelong wound. I’ll share the full story later—it deserves its own telling.

What was happening culturally in America during this time, and how did it affect me?
I was so immersed in my transformation and professional life that I didn’t closely follow the cultural shifts. 

How did my relationship with Berkeley evolve through all this?
She was my rock. Berkeley was proud of me and supportive every step of the way. Her steadiness allowed me to stretch toward these extraordinary opportunities.

What advice would I give to someone choosing between personal growth and professional advancement?
It’s not always either/or. But when it is, choose the one that keeps you in integrity with yourself. Sometimes, the “right” choice will cost you something. But what’s gained in clarity and Peace can outweigh the loss.

What became possible in my life because of these losses and crossroads?
I was poised to launch my seminars. I was ready. But when the opportunity finally came, I said no. I couldn’t take the risk—not with a young family depending on me. That decision closed one door but left others wide open. Some I’ve walked through. Others, I’m still approaching.

Advice for You Based on This Story

1. Don’t Confuse Reluctance with Weakness—It Might Be Wisdom

When I hesitated to fly to San Francisco, my body and soul were signaling something important: exhaustion, the need for boundaries, and the importance of family. Learn to listen to hesitation. Sometimes, it’s your inner compass, not your fear.

2. Tell the Truth—Especially to Yourself

The lie about not affording the plane ticket wasn’t just about money. It was about not knowing how to say, “This doesn’t feel right for me right now.” Being honest with yourself is often the first step toward absolute freedom.

3. Your Integrity Matters More Than Your Title

Being stripped of your Seminar Director title in front of 600 eyes didn’t diminish my worth—it clarified my path. Don’t cling to a role if it costs you your Peace. Sometimes, being removed is the most incredible release.

4. Don’t Let Pride Block the Help You Need

Pride is a double-edged sword. It can protect your dignity—or isolate you from support. Asking for help under pretenses is painful. Asking for help from an authentic place can be life-changing.

5. Growth Doesn’t Always Look How You Imagined

I thought my future was with Werner’s seminars—but it was actually with IBM, in tailored suits, speaking to CEOs. Stay open. The path to your purpose may look nothing like you expected.

6. Blackness Is Not a Limitation—But It Is a Lens

I learned that race doesn’t define every moment but can shape pivotal ones. See that acknowledging their context without being defined by it is a form of liberation.

7. Completion with a Parent Can Heal a Lifetime of Pain

I made Peace with your mother late in her life, which changed mine. I encourage you not to wait too long to say what you need to say. Healing delayed is not healing denied.

8. You Can Be Both: A Provider and a Seeker

I chose IBM to support your family, even though my soul longed to do transformational work. That wasn’t a failure—it was maturity. Learn to balance practicality with purpose.

9. When the Door Closes, Ask: What’s Opening?

Losing my seminar title led to a new chapter that eventually positioned me to build my voice and vision. Remember that loss is often the beginning, not the end.

10. Make Peace with the Roads You Didn’t Take

I was ready to start my seminar but chose not to. That’s not failure. That’s a choice I made with love, responsibility, and clarity. Regret fades when Peace enters.

A Jamaican Experience: My first Child, Madison

By: Baron Stewart

In the quiet of a Sunday night in July 1988, the world as I knew it was about to shift. The bedroom was dark and still, and the deep silence settled when the day had let go. Then Berkeley’s urgent voice cut through it, panicked and sharp: “My water just broke. We have to go. Now.”

I was up in a flash, my heart pounding and adrenaline washing away my sleep. We’d rehearsed this moment in our minds, talked through it over dinner, during walks by the Hudson, in bed while the baby kicked gently inside her. But nothing prepares you for when your child announces, without words, that they are ready to enter the world.

We lived in Nyack then, in a small two-bedroom cottage on a hillside with a deck overlooking the vast, quiet Hudson River. It was our sanctuary, filled with art and laughter, early morning coffee, and the rhythm of a couple in sync. The basement belonged to Berkeley—her sacred space for painting, splattered with the colors of her world. Our landlords, a sweet older couple who lived next door, would soon become surrogate aunt and uncle to the baby we were racing toward.

The hospital bag was already packed. We grabbed it and headed for the car—our trusty BMW 320i, a compact rocket that felt like the safest vessel for this midnight mission. As I steered toward the George Washington Bridge, a thousand thoughts flew through my mind. Why were we going to Columbia Presbyterian in Manhattan when Nyack Hospital was just minutes from our house? But that’s where Berkeley’s doctor practiced, back when we still lived on 37th Street in the city. Familiarity breeds trust, especially when you're bringing life into the world.

The drive was surreal. The roads were mostly empty, and the city skyline in the distance was glowing softly under the night sky. Berkeley was breathing heavily beside me, alternating between deep concentration and cries of pain. Her plan had always been to deliver naturally—no drugs, no shortcuts. She wanted to feel everything, to be present, to greet her child in full consciousness. But by the time we arrived at the hospital, that plan was unraveling fast.

The staff whisked us into a private room. Nurses moved with a mixture of urgency and routine. Berkeley was in agony. "I need an epidural. I need my mother," she groaned. But the window had closed. It was too late. The baby was coming.

I held her hand through the worst of it, helpless in the way all fathers are in the birthing room—witness to something primal, powerful, and utterly beyond control. The woman I loved was transforming before my eyes, bringing our child into the world with a strength and vulnerability that shook me.

And then—he was here.

July 11, 1988. A Monday morning. Quiet, sacred, new.

I don’t remember the exact time, only the feeling: a strange mix of awe, terror, and joy. Berkeley was exhausted, her body finally still, her face soft with relief. Madison had arrived—our son, our miracle. The pain melted away into something transcendent, and as the nurses carried him off for cleaning and measuring, I just stood there—dumbfounded, grateful, changed.

For a while, I wandered the maternity ward while Berkeley rested. I found myself handing out cups of ice to thirsty mothers recovering in their beds. It was something small I could do while my head and heart were still catching up. The room was filled with hushed voices, newborn cries, and the quiet miracle of new beginnings.

It took a while before I held Madison in my arms. The nurses, Berkeley, hovered protectively over him, nurturing and fussing. I had to wait. And in that waiting, something in me shifted. I was used to being the center of my wife's attention, the driver of our shared life. But this? This was bigger than both of us.

When I finally held him, everything went still. He was warm and soft, his eyes closed, his mouth forming tiny reflexes. I stared down at him and felt the weight—not just physical but spiritual. A life. My son. This little being who would carry our name, our legacy, our love into the future.

The following day, I called Delta Airlines. Berkeley wanted her mother there—she needed her. It was one of her few explicit requests in the blur of labor. Usually, getting a mileage ticket would take a week, but when I explained the situation to the agent—told her my wife had just given birth, and all she wanted in this world was her mama—the rules melted away. A seat was found. Her mother was on a flight that day.

And so our home in Nyack transformed. Berkeley turned her focus toward Madison, her new love. Her mother, always full of energy and direction, took over the kitchen, the laundry, and the rhythms of daily life. I became a father and, for a while, a bystander in my house. I had to learn to navigate that—not with resentment but humility.

There were moments I felt like an outsider. But there were also many moments when I’d hold Madison against my chest and feel joy that had no language.

He was beautiful. Curious. Present. He felt like the future. My future.

Even now, decades later, I remember that moment in the hospital room: Berkeley asleep, Madison swaddled in cotton, the soft hum of machines and nurses’ shoes on the linoleum floor. I think about how unprepared I was for how much love could stretch, bend, and reshape me.

That Monday morning, I walked into a hospital as a man. I walked out as a father.

REFLECTIONS 

When Madison was born, I stepped into a role I’d only imagined but never fully understood. I had no roadmap—just a quiet vow to be better than the man who had raised me.

My father wasn’t cruel, but he was distracted and distant. When I was young, I remember him threatening to leave me. I was still a boy, and he was my whole world. That moment stayed with me. I made a promise to myself, even then, that I would never put my child in that position. I didn’t know what kind of father I’d be—but I knew what not to be.

So when Berkeley told me she was pregnant, I wasn’t afraid. I was hopeful that I could give my child a different story. I was 41—as ready as I’d ever be.

But nothing prepares you for the emotional complexity of new fatherhood. I was unexpectedly jealous in those early hours after Madison’s birth—not of my son, but of the attention he now commanded. I knew it was natural, even logical, but still, it stung. Berkeley, who had been my partner, lover, and muse, was now wholly absorbed by this tiny human. Her gaze, her energy, her love—all redirected.

It didn’t help that during labor, her pain was so intense, I could feel her thinking, “You bastard. You put me in this situation.” I supported her as best I could—held her hand, stayed by her side—but I couldn’t take away her pain. That helplessness was humbling.

Madison was born with blonde hair and Berkeley’s eyes. Beautiful. Alert. Full of life. We named him after Madison County in Arkansas, a nod to Berkeley’s roots. She had wanted to name him after me—Baron—but I gently discouraged her. So he became Madison Appleby Stewart. A new name, a new beginning, but still tethered to family.

His spirit was adventurous from the start. As he grew, he became not just our son but our teacher, guide, and source of love and support. I’ve turned to him more times than I can count, and he has always shown up with wisdom beyond his years and a quiet strength that humbles me.

Not long after he was born, Madison had to have an operation. A small valve in his stomach wasn’t closing correctly, and it caused him to vomit with alarming force. I remember sitting in the waiting room with Berkeley, holding our breath with every tick of the clock. In that moment, we became a team on a new level—united not just by love but also by shared fear and fierce protectiveness. We were more potent because of him.

Looking back, I would tell my younger self: You did okay. You weren’t emotionally prepared, but you showed up. You stayed. You loved. And that made all the difference.

I want Madison to know that from the moment he arrived, he was the center of our universe. His birth reoriented my entire life. It pulled my attention away from me and mine to you and yours. That single shift changed who I was at the core.

To be a parent is to own your responsibilities. I don’t understand men who walk away. My father, flawed as he was, stayed. And in doing so, he taught me one thing I’ve never forgotten: be a good soldier. Show up. Do your part.

Men experience birth differently. We’re not the creators—we’re the protectors. We don’t feel the contractions or the kicking from within, but we feel the urgency to make the world safe, clear the path, and be ready. And in that readiness, we find our identity.

In those early days, I felt like a secondary character in my own life. I was patient but also quietly frustrated. Yet, over time, the roles recalibrated. Love made space for all of us.

Being Madison’s father didn’t just change my life—it gave it direction, depth, and legacy.

Recommendations for Readers

1. Show Up—Even When You're Uncertain

You don’t have to be perfectly prepared to become a parent, a partner, or a support system. What matters most is your presence, willingness to learn, and commitment to love through the chaos. Being there is the first act of great parenting.

2. Break the Patterns That No Longer Serve You

Don’t be afraid to rewrite the story if your upbringing left gaps. Know what not to repeat, and allow love and intention to guide your choices. Legacy is not just what we inherit—it’s what we choose to pass on.

3. It's Okay to Feel What You Feel

Jealousy, frustration, and insecurity don’t make you a bad parent or partner. They make you human. Honor those feelings, talk about them, and let them evolve rather than suppressing them. Emotional honesty makes space for deeper connections.

4. Ask for Help—and Accept It

Whether calling the airline for your mother-in-law or letting nurses guide you through those first hours, know that asking for help is not a weakness. It’s wisdom. Building a village—biological or chosen—is part of becoming a parent.

5. Support Looks Different at Every Stage

Sometimes, supporting your partner means holding their hand during labor. Sometimes, it means doing the dishes, managing logistics, or quietly witnessing their transformation. Stay flexible. Stay kind.

6. Parenting Begins With Listening

Your child won’t always have the words, but they will have needs, moods, and energy. Learn to listen beyond language. Be the parent you wished you had—or the kind you were lucky to have.

7. Let Love Redefine You

If you let it, parenthood will expand your heart, rearrange your priorities, and reshape your identity. That’s not a loss—it’s an awakening. Embrace it fully.

8. Own Your Responsibilities with Grace

Walking away is easy. Staying takes courage. Commit to being a “good soldier” not out of duty alone but out of devotion. Your presence—especially as a father—matters more than you’ll ever fully see.

9. Celebrate the Imperfect Magic of Family

No family is perfect. But each shared moment, each small act of care, becomes part of the sacred fabric that binds you. Don’t chase perfection. Show up for the magic in the mess.

A Jamaican Experience: Sundarii and my Trip to Italy

By: Baron Stewart

It was Monday night in 1979, which meant one thing for me: I was dancing to reggae music at Ones, the club on Varick Street in Lower Manhattan. I could dance, and back then, dancing was my way of connecting—with the music, with the people, and often with women who responded to the pulsating, hypnotic beats coming out of Jamaica. I knew the moves and had a rhythm that drew them in. Ones was my regular spot on Mondays. On Thursdays, it was Chesters in Stony Brook: Saturdays, My Father’s Place in Roslyn, Long Island. I was 31, and my life revolved around the pleasure I found in reggae music. It was my entire social world.

But on this particular Monday night, something shifted. I noticed her immediately—a head of thick brown hair, a well-built body that moved like she was born to the rhythm, and a way of dancing that told me she knew the music. I not only heard it but understood it. I had to dance with her.

I slipped beside her without saying a word, letting my body speak. Rocking to the beat, matching her energy, and showing her I could carry the raw magnetism she was throwing out there. And she felt it. I could see it in how she began to move with me, not against me. We danced, sweat running down my face, completely locked in. We didn’t speak for a long time because there was no need—we knew.

Eventually, there was a pause, a moment where words fit. I extended my hand and said, “I’m Baron.” She smiled, eyes full of fire, and replied, “Sundarii.” She was young, Jewish, energetic, and restless. Fresh from Jamaica, she is in transit to Arizona, where her parents lived. She wasn’t too keen on Phoenix. I told her casually, “If you don’t like Phoenix, come back to New York.”

A few weeks later, to my surprise, she did. There is no place to stay, no real plan, just that energy to burn. I was living at Cipe’s house in Stony Point—no place for her to crash—so I negotiated with my girlfriend to let Sundarii stay in her apartment in Brooklyn until we could figure something out. Eventually, Sundarii found her place with friends in Manhattan, and life kept moving. But something between us had started, something I wasn’t ready to ignore.

Late spring arrived, and I asked Sundarii if she wanted to join me on a trip to Italy. A month-long adventure. She said yes without hesitation, and we were on a plane to Rome just like that. We played backgammon for hours on the flight over, fiercely competitive as always. We crowned a “champion of the plane” before we even landed.

Rome hit us like a wave. Even as seasoned New Yorkers, we were overwhelmed by the hustle, the scooters, the history pressing in from every angle. We dropped our bags at the hotel and hit the streets immediately. We stood in awe inside the Colosseum, walked the ruins of the Roman Forum, and tossed coins into the Trevi Fountain with quiet, private wishes. We wandered the Spanish Steps, slowly explored the Vatican, and craned our necks beneath the Sistine Chapel, marveling at Michelangelo’s genius. Before we left Rome, I sent a postcard to Althea—my high school math teacher and mentor. She had told me I could be anything I wanted to be, and every time I reached a new height, I sent her a card. This one was special. This one felt like I was living the promise.

From Rome, we took the train north to Florence. And that’s where my heart truly opened. Florence was everything I didn’t know I was missing. We got off the train without reservations and found a small boutique hotel overlooking the Arno River, just a block from the Ponte Vecchio, beneath Michelangelo’s Square, and near the Uffizi. It was perfect.

We spent our days sitting beneath the Uffizi, watching artists sketch portraits of families and travelers. At night, we dined late in beautiful restaurants, drank wine that left us glowing, and marveled at the food. One night, we ordered “mixed pasta,” expecting a simple plate with a blend of noodles. Instead, they brought course after course—spaghetti in tomato sauce, tagliatelle in cream sauce, tortellini in meat sauce—six different kinds of pasta, each with its own story and flavor. We laughed when the waiter smiled and asked if we were ready for the main course. We were packed to the brim, but at that moment, I surrendered entirely to Europe's generosity, abundance, and life. Maybe that dinner was the moment that changed everything for me.

During the days, Sundarii and I explored Pisa and Fiesole and made a trip to Siena, where we imagined the Palio horse race tearing through the narrow streets. Sundarii had an endless curiosity. She examined every piece of jewelry on the Ponte Vecchio like each held its own secret. She wanted to touch everything, to know everything, and I followed her lead.

After Florence, we rode the train to Venice. When we arrived, the city was flooded, and we trudged through ankle-deep water in Saint Mark’s Square to get to our bed and breakfast. We didn’t care. We dropped our bags and headed back out, taking a gondola ride through the misty canals and visiting the glassblowers on Murano. Sundarii was in her element, inspecting every piece of art, every trinket.

Our last stop was Milan, and from there, we caught a plane back to the U.S.—with another obligatory backgammon game on board, of course.

But I wasn’t the same man who left New York. That trip that month changed me. It cemented my love for Europe. I didn’t feel the same race issues I did back home. I felt free, entirely accepted, fully alive. I loved how Europeans respected tradition, savored their food, and honored their history. I fell in love with the beauty of Florence, which still calls me back today.

And maybe it was that mixed pasta dinner—course after course of unexpected joy—that made me realize I had surrendered to this way of life—a life where every moment was meant to be tasted, touched, and lived fully.   

What drove me in those days was a deep hunger to learn and grow.

I grew up on a small island, in a city, where I heard stories about places like Rome, Florence, and Vienna—but traveling to see them wasn’t something I could afford. Those places were distant dreams. But in 1979, that changed. I had Cipe behind me. I had IBM behind me. And with them came the freedom to go out into the world and learn.

Back then, I only had two weeks of vacation. But I wanted more. I needed more. So I took another two weeks without pay because I knew a month in Europe would give me something no paycheck ever could. On other trips, IBM even paid me both weeks, which felt like an open door—a wide, beautiful one.

And Europe? Europe didn’t disappoint. It matched every fantasy I’d ever had. It was as beautiful, as interesting, and as rich as I hoped it would be. But the best part? Unlike in New York, where I fought daily to be accepted, I didn't feel like an outsider. In Europe, I was part of it. I belonged to the experience, and it belonged to me.

At one point, I thought I’d marry an Austrian girl and move to Vienna. But as life unfolded, I eventually settled in Portugal—a place still feeding my spirit.

When I got home from those early trips, I held photographic exhibitions of the places I’d seen and the people I’d met. My photos captured the essence of the world I was falling in love with and kept me planning the next trip. Every journey brought someone new who would say, “You have to see this place,” and that’s where I’d go. My life became a living map drawn by the people I met.

My relationship with Sundarii became steady. We planned little excursions and picnics to recapture the feeling we shared in Italy. She was a compelling partner because her love of adventure wasn’t casual. It wasn’t surface-level. It was part of her DNA. She didn’t just want to see things—she wanted to experience them fully. And she inspired me to do the same.

My high school math teacher and mentor, Althea, was always there, quietly guiding me. She had told me I could be anything I set my mind to, and every time I reached another milestone, I sent her a postcard. We met whenever she visited New York to see her daughter, Serah, or when I returned to Jamaica. I remember one of my photography exhibitions—portraits of women wearing my black French beret. One of them was Althea herself. She wore that beret to that show in Nyack, New York. She was always there, standing in the background, steady through my ups and downs. Her belief in me was the driving force behind my life. I can’t put into words the difference she made. Some things are too big for words.

I’m still on the same path today. I’m 77 years old, and my life is still one continuous adventure. And I’m loving it.

The sense of freedom and joy I found back then—it’s etched into who I am now. I carry it everywhere I go.

If there’s one piece of advice I would give to anyone willing to listen, it’s this:
Make every effort to access what you don’t know, you don’t know. That’s where the real breakthroughs happen. Travel is one of the surest ways to open that door. Go beyond your comfort zone. Be willing to be surprised because life has more waiting for you than you can imagine.

The man I was then laid the foundation for the man I am today. And along the way, I was blessed with guides—Cipe, John Conway, Althea, Fred, Ronald, and many others.

They helped me become who I am. And I am grateful for every step of this journey.

A Jamaican Experience: My Blackman Group: Resilience in a Shared Journey

By: Baron Stewart

My Blackman Group: Resilience in a Shared Journey

Over the decades, I've been privileged to share my life with three remarkable men: Neil Brown, Fred Ferguson, and Ronald McLean. Our journeys have intertwined, creating a tapestry of resilience, camaraderie, and mutual growth. Each of their stories is a testament to Black men's enduring strength and transformative power navigating life's complexities. I invited all three men to come dine with me and my two sons at Amelie west village Bistro and Wine Bar in New York just after the pandemic in 2021.  Let me introduce you to my friends.

Neil Brown: The Steadfast Trailblazer men to 
Neil Brown stands about six-foot-two, with a build that makes it clear he’s no stranger to the gym. You notice all of it immediately: broad shoulders, upright posture, and sharp, searching eyes. He scans a room like he’s already made five calculations before you sit down. Something in his presence says: I’ve been through things I don’t need to explain. 

He came to America to study dental technology, but life had other plans. He was drafted into the U.S. Army right after graduation and sent to Germany. Though trained as an assault weapons expert, he served in Human Resources. Then came another sharp turn: he returned to New York and became an undercover detective with the NYPD. Imagine that—a young Caribbean man navigating racism, danger, and identity, all while in plain clothes.
But everything changed after the controversial killing of a 14-year-old Black boy by a white police officer. The child had been playing with friends. The tragedy shattered Neil’s morale and solidified his decision to leave the force. Though the FBI tried to recruit him, he’d had enough of the machine that chewed up minorities and crushed their souls.

He pivoted to corporate life, joining IBM, where he built a 35-year career. Rising through the ranks to become a Senior Deputy Project Executive, he managed both domestic and international operations. That kind of success wasn’t handed to him—it was earned through discipline, intelligence, and an edge honed on the streets. He brought street smarts into boardrooms, never letting either world strip him of who he was.
Neil’s style is clean and classic. He dresses like a man used to authority—no need for flash, just presence. When he speaks, it’s measured and intentional. You find yourself leaning in—there’s no wasted breath. That Sunday at Amelie, his girlfriend Francesca sat beside him, softening his silhouette with warmth and laughter. But the core of Neil—that fire-hardened strength—that never softens.

Fred Ferguson: The Compassionate Mentor
At 78, Fred Ferguson still carries the look of an athlete—tall, broad-shouldered, with the quiet confidence of a man who once ruled the tennis court. His body may no longer allow him the movement he once had, but nothing about Fred feels diminished. His presence, his voice, his commitment to others—all of it remains fully intact.

Born in Washington, D.C., Fred has lived a life of remarkable depth—professionally and personally. His path was shaped not just by achievement but by moments that carved into the soul. One of the most profound was the day his father died in his arms. It’s an experience that never leaves a person. For Fred, it became a quiet well of strength and compassion that has informed everything he’s done since.
For 42 years, Fred served as a professor of dentistry at the State University of New York, where he mentored generations of students. But teaching, for him, was never just about procedures or textbooks. He taught from the heart, helping young professionals understand that dentistry was a gateway to something more significant: trust, dignity, and the fundamental right to health.

Even after stepping away from academia, Fred never stopped serving. He has spent the last seven years working with One Brooklyn Health, a safety net hospital system, focusing on caring for those often left out of the conversation. Long before the term “health equity” became common, Fred was living it.
His passion for empowering patients led to MySmileGuide, a pioneering digital platform that helps individuals take charge of their oral health as a path to their overall health. But that was just one chapter. Today, his mission continues through Health Migration Consulting, a company he founded to encourage a new vision of healthcare—one in which health professionals see patients not as problems to be solved but as partners in health. It’s vintage Fred: bold, compassionate, and forward-thinking.

On the personal side, Fred is a devoted father to Tessa and Taylor and a loving grandfather to two grandchildren. Though divorced from Harriette, they remain partners dedicated to family. Most recently, he endured the loss of his adoptive mother, a woman who played a formative role in his life. That grief still lingers, but he carries it gracefully like everything else in his journey.

Fred lives on Long Island, New York, engaged with life and imagining what’s possible. Those who know him well don’t just admire what he’s accomplished—we admire who he is: a man of intellect, integrity, and enormous heart. His body may move slower now, but his mind and spirit remain in motion, always stretching toward a future where care is more humane, just, and whole.

Ronald McLean: The Lifelong Brother
Ronald McLean has been my friend for over 67 years. That kind of friendship becomes blood. We grew up together and worked the old elevator side by side to earn enough for college—long hours, steel doors, heavy cables, and heavier dreams. He was always steady and determined.
He came from the McLean family, which is well-known in Jamaica and respected for its athleticism, discipline, and community presence. His name carried weight long before he made one for himself. At school, Ronald was the opening batsman on our cricket team—calm, focused, and always prepared. That kind of poise under pressure defined him early and never left.

Like his two brothers, Ronald once embraced Rastafari, growing dreadlocks not as rebellion but as a spiritual and cultural claim to identity. Later, when it came time to pursue graduate school and dental school, he made the painful choice to cut them off. It wasn’t about giving up—it was about strategy. He knew the path ahead would be more challenging for a Black man with visible pride. So he trimmed the hair, kept the roots, and moved through doors that wouldn’t have opened otherwise.

He became a successful dentist in the Bronx and built a life and a thriving practice while raising five children. He’s been married three times, each relationship a chapter in a life that has never been stagnant. Today, he is married to the love of his life, Ramona; there is something solid, settled, and right about them.

 
He’s a little shorter than me, greying now, with that late-day beard shadow that speaks of a life lived. For most of his career, he wore suits like armor—always with a tie, always pressed, never loud. Since COVID, he’s let the fabric breathe a bit more. Still elegant. Still Ronald.

I spent last weekend in Nice, celebrating the 21st birthday of his only granddaughter, Camryn. She moved through that French celebration like she belonged there—confident, self-possessed, the product of a lineage that had crossed oceans and outlasted history. Ronald’s grandson, Kieran—the footballer with a lawyer’s mind—is headed to Oxford later this year on a study abroad program.

And I couldn’t help but think: How many generations does it take for a Jamaican man like Ronald—or like me—to have a grandchild accepted into one of the best universities in the world? For Ronald, it took two. The McLean name meant something in Jamaica. Now, it means something in Europe, too. That’s not just impressive. That’s legacy in motion.

Reflections on Lifelong Friendships and Shared Resilience

Reflecting on the decades-long friendships I've shared with Neil, Fred, and Ronald unveils a tapestry woven with shared experiences, mutual growth, and an enduring resilience in life's challenges. Each relationship's unique formation and evolution has profoundly influenced my journey, shaping my perspectives and fortifying my spirit.

Origins and Evolution of Our Bonds

• Ronald McLean: Our connection began in childhood as neighbors in Jamaica. The bond deepened when I lived with his family during my teenage years, solidifying a brotherhood that has withstood the test of time.

• Fred Ferguson: Our paths crossed at Chester in Stony Brook, where a shared appreciation for reggae music sparked our friendship. From the late 1970s onward, his home became my second, a sanctuary of camaraderie and understanding.

• Neil Brown: We met at IBM when PID moved to Sterling Forest and became adventure companions. Neil and I embarked on numerous escapades during our single years, each reinforcing our mutual respect and friendship.

Navigating Challenges Together

Our friendships were not without trials. Ronald's embrace of Rastafarianism introduced a period of distance; however, upon his return, we reconnected seamlessly, a testament to the strength of our bond. These experiences underscored the importance of patience, understanding, and the willingness to embrace each other's evolving identities.

Influence on Personal Growth

Each friend has been instrumental in my development:

• Fred imparted wisdom on health and the nuances of raising multicultural children.

• Neil provided invaluable lessons in financial management.

• Ronald, as my dentist, emphasized the significance of oral health, reflecting his care and commitment to my well-being.

Cultural and Societal Intersections

Our shared Jamaican heritage with Ronald fostered a deep cultural connection. With Fred, our mutual love for reggae music became a bridge linking our backgrounds. Working together at IBM, Neil and I served as sounding boards for each other, navigating the corporate landscape as Black men. These intersections enriched our relationships, allowing us to support one another in contexts where societal norms often posed challenges.

Shared Experiences Strengthening Bonds

Engaging in activities together fortified our connections:

• Fred and I found common ground on the tennis court.

• Ronald and I shared the soccer field during our college days.

• Neil introduced me to weightlifting, guiding me through the intricacies of the gym.

These shared pursuits brought joy and cultivated mutual respect and understanding.

Resilience Through Collective Experience

Our collective journey embodies resilience, particularly against systemic racism and inequity. We've navigated these adversities, drawing strength from our unity and shared experiences. This collective resilience has fortified our friendships and empowered us to confront broader societal challenges with courage and determination.

My friendships with Neil, Fred, and Ronald have been pillars in my life's journey. Through shared experiences, mutual growth, and unwavering support, we've cultivated a brotherhood that exemplifies the profound impact of enduring friendships and the resilience they foster.

Building and maintaining enduring friendships is essential for personal well-being and resilience. Here are some recommendations to help you cultivate meaningful and lasting relationships:

1. Choose Friends Wisely

   Select individuals who make you feel valued and supported. Look for qualities such as empathy, reliability, and mutual respect. Surrounding yourself with positive influences fosters healthier and more resilient friendships.

2. Invest Time and Effort

   Friendships require consistent nurturing. Regular interactions, such as weekly meet-ups or scheduled calls, help strengthen bonds. Prioritizing time together demonstrates commitment and deepens connections.

3. Communicate Openly and Set Boundaries

   Effective communication is vital. Please express your feelings, listen actively, and set clear boundaries for mutual respect. Understanding and honoring each other's limits fosters trust and longevity in friendships.

4. Adapt to Life Changes

   As life evolves, so do relationships. Be open to adjusting your friendship dynamics in response to significant life events like moving, marriage, or career shifts. Flexibility and understanding during transitions help maintain strong connections.

5. Engage in Shared Activities

   Participating in common interests or hobbies can reinforce bonds. Whether joining a club, attending events together, or simply sharing a hobby, these activities create shared experiences that enhance friendship quality.

6. Be Supportive and Reliable

   Offer support during both good times and challenges. Being dependable in your friends' lives builds trust and demonstrates your commitment to the relationship.

7. Prioritize Face-to-Face Interactions

   While digital communication is convenient, in-person interactions are invaluable. Face-to-face meetings foster deeper emotional connections, which are linked to improved mental health and longevity.

8. Practice Forgiveness and Let Go of Grudges

   Misunderstandings are natural in any relationship. Approach conflicts with empathy, address issues directly, and be willing to forgive. Holding onto grudges can erode trust; instead, focus on resolving disagreements constructively.

9. Be Open to New Friendships

   While cherishing existing relationships, please be aware that you're open to making new connections. Diverse friendships can enrich your life and provide fresh perspectives.

10. Reflect on Your Role

    You should be able to assess your contributions to your friendships regularly. Practice empathy, reliability, and open communication to ensure you're being the kind of friend you aspire to have.

By implementing these strategies, you can cultivate friendships that are not only enduring but also enriching, providing mutual support and enhancing overall well-being.

A Jamaican Experience: The Quiet Architects of My Life: A Tribute to Four Role Models

By: Baron Stewart

Introduction: The People Who Shape the Journey

We often think of role models as celebrities, public figures, or pioneers who changed the world on a grand scale. But for me, the people who inspired the deepest change—the ones who altered my direction and expanded my imagination—were not famous. They were real, present, and consistent.

They were the kind of people who offered guidance not through speeches, but through how they lived. People who didn’t talk about success—they modeled it in the quiet, powerful choices they made every day.

In my journey toward a satisfying life, four individuals stand out as cornerstones of character, vision, and grace: Kenneth Rodger, Cherry McLean, Althea Young, and Cipe Burtin. Each one taught me something irreplaceable. And each one left a mark that continues to shape how I live, love, teach, and grow.

Kenneth Rodger: Strength in Humility

My first memory is of a storm.
It was 1951, and Hurricane Charley had ravaged Jamaica. Water poured into our home like the sky itself had cracked open. My mother, Griselda Appleby, looked around for the only dry space left and said, “Put the baby on the bureau.” That baby was me—just four years old. The man she was speaking to was Keneth Rodger, known to me as cousin Keneth.

But Kenneth was more than that.
He was the young man my mother had raised after his mother, in her dying days, had begged Griselda to look after him. The irony—and perhaps the quiet tragedy—was that she spent more time raising Keneth than she did raising me. And yet, through that complex dynamic, something remarkable grew: a lifelong bond with a man who would become one of my life's most important role models.

Kenneth didn’t have an impressive résumé or a spotlight on his path.
He began as a farm worker in Florida. Then, he was a “go-for” in a ship's engine room—just another cog in the underbelly of international travel. But with perseverance and a deep sense of purpose, Kenneth turned that humble beginning into something genuinely admirable. He got a job at the Con Edison power plant on 14th Street in New York and stayed there until retirement.

But what Keneth did with what little he had—that’s what shaped me.
He saved. He planned. He bought three brownstone apartment buildings, side by side, on Watson Avenue in the Bronx. He became a man who offered shelter—not only to tenants but to family. When I couldn’t provide a home for my mother, he did.

Keneth Rodger never spoke of sacrifice. He lived it.
He never asked for admiration. But he earned it.
He gave me his time and his example. In a world where the loudest people often get the most attention, he showed me that real power lives in constancy, humility, and care.

Cherry McLean: The Power of Focused Ambition

Some people change your life with what they do.
Cherry McLean changed mine with who she was.

She was the daughter of a friend of my mother—uneducated by society’s standards, like Keneth—but brimming with something far rarer: ambition paired with fearlessness. Cherry had a strong presence, a voice that filled a room, and a mind always looking for the next opportunity.

She had a daughter, Mellody, from a previous relationship, before marrying Roy—a handsome American with hands that could reimagine torn upholstery into something sleek and new. Roy had the skill. Cherry had the vision. Together, they created not just a business but a future.

Their journey started modestly in the Bronx across the street from where my mother lived. I spent many afternoons soaking up their energy, their partnership, and their belief in something better. Then they moved to Florida, where they built a thriving auto seat repair business—so successful that they were able to buy multiple homes. They were the ones who encouraged my mother to move to Florida, a move that became possible when I bought her a home there.

What Cherry taught me couldn’t be found in books.
She taught me that ambition isn’t just about wanting more. It’s about focusing your energy like a light on something you can build. She showed me that partnership works best when one person dreams and the other does—and that fearlessness is a form of intelligence.

Cherry McLean was more than a friend of the family.
She was a blueprint for what’s possible when you refuse to be defined by what you don’t have.

Althea Young: Seeing the World Through a New Lens

Some role models teach with words.
Others teach by how they live.

Althea Young was my mathematics teacher at Kingston College, and in many ways, she opened my eyes to numbers and possibility. She didn’t just solve equations; she expanded the equation of what life could be.

She married David Young, a kind Englishman, and they had two children, Duncan and Sarah. It was the first time I saw someone like her—Jamaican, grounded, proud—create a life with someone so different from herself. That was her first quiet lesson: you can love—and live—with someone whose world doesn’t look like yours.

I did just that. I married Berkeley, someone as different from me as anyone could imagine. She had studied in England and traveled the world, including Brazil. Like Althea, I found myself drawn to people, places, and ideas far beyond my starting point. I studied in America and have walked the streets of many countries since.

But the similarities run deeper still. Althea taught math—so do I—but she also ran a Dojo for children in her community in Jacks Hill, planting seeds of discipline, courage, and inner strength. I didn’t run a dojo, but for years, I coached young footballers in Whittier, California. It's a different field, but the goal is the same: build young people from the inside out.

On one of my visits to Jamaica, Althea invited me to speak to the children in her dojo. I told them, “If you listen to Althea, and you trust her guidance, you will go further than you think. I did.” It wasn’t just encouragement—it was truth.

Althea Young reminded me—through her life, her marriage, her classroom, and her dojo—that the world is vast and that we are allowed to step boldly into it.

Cipe Burtin: The Finishing School Called Life

Every so often, someone enters your life who elevates not just your opportunities but your sensibilities.
For me, that person was Cipe Burtin.

I lived with Cipe for nearly ten years in her beautiful home on Filors Lane in Stony Point, New York. It wasn’t just a house. It was a school—my finishing school—a place where edges were softened, ideas were sharpened, and identity was given room to unfold.

Cipe taught me how to cook—not just to eat but to savor.
She introduced me to wine and dry vermouth, not for the drink, but for the ritual.
She taught me how to move through a room filled with educated, opinionated, influential people—and never feel small.
She opened my eyes to art—not only on canvas but in the art of living well.

But her most lasting gift was this: travel.
She said: “Live in my house and see the world.”
And so I did.

Because of Cipe, I began to see the world not just as a collection of places but as a mosaic of lives, ideas, flavors, and possibilities. She taught me that elegance has nothing to do with money and everything to do with curiosity, confidence, and grace.

In a world full of fast advice and self-help slogans, Cipe’s guidance was lived, not preached. She gave me her home, her trust, and her permission to grow.

Closing: Carried Forward

What all four of these people shared—despite differences in background, gender, culture, or profession—was a rare kind of integrity. They lived what they believed. They didn’t ask for praise. They gave. They built. They endured.

Because of them, I understood what was possible:
That a farm worker could own homes.
That a woman with no diploma could build a business empire.
That a math teacher could open the door to the world.
That elegance, generosity, and intellectual confidence could be passed on—not through lecture, but through presence.

I am who I am not because of what I achieved but because of who I watched.
In honoring these four, I also honor every quiet mentor and uncelebrated hero who changes the world one life at a time.

Reflections for the Reader

Here are five things I encourage you to consider as you reflect on the role models in your own life:

1. Look Beyond Fame—Find Your Real Role Models
   The most potent influences may not be celebrities but the quiet, steadfast people already around you. Pay attention. Who teaches you by example, not just by words?

2. Let People Inspire You in Different Ways
   Some people teach you how to endure; others teach you how to build, dream, or lead. Let yourself be shaped by many types of guidance.

3. Reflect on the Legacy You’re Building
   As someone was to you, so you can be to others. Your life is part of someone else's foundation.

4. Embrace Your Own Story of Growth
   You may already be walking the path that someone once showed you. Celebrate that progress. Honor that lineage.

5. Say Thank You—While You Still Can
   If someone helped shape you, could you tell them? And if they’ve passed on, keep their story alive. Gratitude is one of the deepest honors we can offer.

These lessons are not just mine—they are gifts passed on to all of us. And maybe, just maybe, someone is watching you now and quietly learning how to live.

A Jamaican Experience: The Living Room Years

By: Baron Stewart

The Living Room Years

I took the handles of her wheelchair like I was gripping a shovel. The attendant looked at me, eyes sharp. "Be nice to the old lady," he said. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My mother and I  had just landed at JFK from Miami, and I was there to collect her—not out of love, but out of something heavier: obligation.

She had lived in Miami for years, happily settled with her partner. But after he died, her health declined quickly—diabetes, poor vision, high blood pressure, and the heavy frame of a woman who could no longer care for herself. It was a yo-yo affair: in the hospital, out again, back in. The rhythm of her deterioration wore me down, not just because of what it required of me but because of what it unearthed in me.

In 1989, Cherry called to say she couldn’t live alone anymore. I flew to Miami, packed her bags, and put her on a plane to New York without giving her time to say goodbye to her friends. I couldn’t deal with the logistics of her life—only the logistics of her body. In my house in Nyack, she couldn’t even climb the stairs. She slept in the living room, the same space where my newborn son cried at night. My wife, Berkeley, was pregnant again. My resentment lived with us, too.

I hadn’t forgiven her. Not for leaving me in Jamaica. Not for choosing another path, another life. And now, she was here—sick, dependent, and unknowingly demanding an emotional reckoning I wasn't ready for.

The days were chaos. Caring for a baby, supporting a pregnant wife, making hospital runs, and juggling my job at IBM. Then came the transfer—IBM was moving me to Los Angeles. I was buying our first home, preparing to move across the country, and trying not to drown in responsibilities I never asked for. I secretly wished my mother would die. Not because I didn’t love her, but because the weight of everything was crushing me.

I asked my cousin Kenneth to care for her for a month that summer. Then, in a kind of rebellion against my collapsing world, I took Berkeley—with her protruding belly—and little Madison to Europe. London, Paris, Avignon. For one month, I let the colors of other countries paint over my gray life. I watched Berkeley laugh in the sunlit streets of Provence and held my son on my lap as we drifted down the Seine. For a moment, I remembered who I was without the weight.

But guilt travels well. It boarded the plane with me, slept at the foot of every hotel bed, and whispered through every glass of wine. I knew what awaited me at home. My mother is still fighting to live. I was still unwilling to let go of what she had done—and what I had become in response.

This was the season of my undoing and reshaping. The living room was her space, but it had become my crucible. Somewhere between the hospital visits and the laughter in Avignon, I began to see that caregiving was not the enemy—my unspoken grief was. And maybe, just maybe, it was time to lay that shovel down.

I truly forgave my mother after I took a seminar with Werner Erhard in San Francisco during the Christmas holidays of 1988. That experience opened a space in me where something tender could live again.

Her presence in my home revealed how confused I was about the situation. My mind told me to love my mother, but my emotions hindered me from achieving this until near the end of her life. I was sure that I would never do that to my children, and I made sure I did not.

The abandonment hurt because it was so long. It was 12 years—from when I was five until I was 17. There were many years of pain and anger built up during that time. That wound shaped my adulthood, influencing how I approached loyalty, trust, and family.

The situation deeply impacted my marriage to Berkeley. The strain was undeniable, but it also exposed our strength. We didn’t always talk openly about my inner conflict, but her patience allowed me to find my words. And when I did, she listened.

My son Madison, who was only one year old, was too young to understand what was happening, but caring for him helped keep me tethered to something soft and human in the middle of all that hardness.

My cousin Kenneth played a critical role. He loved my mother and came to Los Angeles for her funeral. Kenneth was more my mother's son than I was in some ways. I felt shame for not loving her as he did, but through his steady care, I began to understand what love might look like without resentment. She lived for many years in one of his apartments.

I’ve come to understand that caregiving is not heroic—it’s elemental. It's about showing up, about making someone else a priority even when you feel like you're falling apart. Sometimes, it’s wiping a mouth. Sometimes, it’s just staying in the room.

Love, the hard, enduring kind, is present. It’s listening. It’s interacting, providing, and above all, accepting someone for who they are—even when they’ve hurt you. Especially then.

Yes, my guilt lifted. I will explain that later.

My relationship with my mother symbolizes the struggles that migrants must endure to achieve success. The cost of opportunity is often measured in fractured families, extended absences, and unspoken grief. But somewhere in that cost, there is also resilience. There is a way forward. And this chapter—messy, unresolved, painfully human—is part of how I found mine.

RECOMMENDATIONS AND LIFE LESSONS FOR YOU, THE READER

On Family and Forgiveness

1. Forgiveness is a process, not a performance.
   I don’t owe anyone a perfect, peaceful resolution. Forgiveness often happens in fragments—moments of clarity, tears, or unexpected grace. Opening the door took a seminar, years of living with her, and distance.

2. Children carry what isn’t spoken.
   I was shaped by your mother’s absence and the silence around it. Even decades later, naming the pain is a powerful act of liberation.

3. We don’t inherit our parents’ choices, but we do inherit the emotional debris.
   I had to sort it, release it, and build something different for my children.

On Caregiving and Identity

1. Caregiving doesn’t require sainthood—just presence.
   I don’t have to feel noble or ready. I have to be there. Even imperfectly.

2. Resentment is a shadow of ungrieved loss.
   When I faced my resentment, I discovered it was rooted in long-unspoken grief—not cruelty.

3. Masculinity must make room for vulnerability.
   Pride and shame can keep us from asking for help or expressing our confusion. But real strength often lies in honesty, not stoicism.

On Legacy and Cultural Truths

1. Migration brings opportunity—and fracture.
   My family’s story shows how pursuing a better life often costs connection, culture, or closeness. Acknowledging those losses helps us honor both the struggle and the survivors.

2. Your parents’ flaws don’t erase their humanity.
   Learning to see my mother beyond the role she failed in—as a woman who struggled and had her own story—is a mark of emotional maturity.

3. We live out our healing in the lives of those we raise.
   How I parent my children differently is not just love—it’s redemption.