A Jamaican Adventure: New York Lessons

By: Baron Stewart

New York Lessons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you cruising?" he asked.

"Cruising? What is cruising?" I responded.

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

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

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

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

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

So, I said no.

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

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

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

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