A Jamaican Adventure: My Experience with Racism in America

By: Baron Stewart

A Life Under Suspicion, A Life of Strength

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thirty minutes later, five police cars surrounded me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I never let them break mine.