A Jamaican Experience: Angel or Devil?

By: Baron Stewart

The Blue Datsun: Angel or Devil?

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Car That Tested Fate

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

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

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

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

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

The Hudson River Incident

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

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

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

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

Then, fate—or something else—intervened.

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

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

I drove home shaking, the date wholly forgotten.

The Palisades Parkway Spinout

But the worst incident came on a summer afternoon.

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

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

Fourth to third gear—smooth.

Then, I made a terrible mistake.

I shifted from third to second.

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

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

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

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

I let go.

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

But then—another 180-degree turn.

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

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

Angel or Devil?

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

The answer came the day it died.

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

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

I never saw the Datsun again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And somehow, it always knew what it was doing.