A Jamaican Adventure: There is good news in your future

By: Baron Stewart

arly on a Tuesday morning in the fall of 1974, I took the subway from my mother’s apartment on Noble Ave in the Bronx to the bus station at the George Washington Bridge, where I caught a bus to Congers, New York. My destination was Rockland Country Day School (RCDS), where I taught mathematics. Usually, I would have driven my 1972 BMW 2002, but it was in the repair shop, so the bus was my only option.

As I settled into the back of the bus, the lively chatter drowned out the hum of traffic. I didn’t take long to recognize the familiar cadence of West Indian voices—Jamaicans, Trinidadians, and others from the smaller islands. I listened to the various accents and dialects, wondering why so many West Indian women and a handful of men were on a bus headed to Rockland County. Then it dawned on me: these women were housekeepers, like my mother, heading to work in the homes of the wealthy. The men were likely gardeners. And then there was me—a math teacher.

What happened? Given my humble beginnings, how did I escape the trajectory set for me?

When I arrived at RCDS, my mind lingered on that question, searching my surroundings for answers. The school had another Black staff member—a groundskeeper who lived on the property. The students, perceptive as ever, often pointed out that I sounded just like their housekeepers. It was an unsettling reminder that, in their world, Black voices carried a specific role. I was the exception, not the norm.

At the time, RCDS had three Black students and two students of mixed Black and Asian heritage. Two of the Black students were the sons of a garbage collector. The other was the child of two Black professionals in the area. The mixed-race students were the sons of doctors who taught at Columbia University. RCDS was, in many ways, an integrated family, essentially free of overt racial discrimination. But there were unspoken expectations, subtle social boundaries, and the uncharted territory of Black professionalism in an elite space.

Jean Lythcott, the school's headmistress, had made my role clear: beyond teaching math, I was there to model what Black professionalism looked like. By most measures, I succeeded. There were moments straight out of Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner and To Sir, with Love—awkward encounters, quiet reckonings, and a slow but steady shifting of perspectives. But in the long run, it worked.

I had been given an education, an opportunity my family had never had. My mother, though uneducated, was street-smart. My so-called cousin had been a farm worker, but he owned three four-story brownstone apartments in the Bronx by the time he passed. My father, back in Kingston, was a manager at a major newspaper. They were people who had left their mark on society without formal education. My path was different—I had the education, and now, it was up to me to decide how I would make an impact.

The moment on the bus was the first time I connected the dots. For most of my life, I had seen myself as less than, not more than. Sitting among the West Indian housekeepers and gardeners, I recognized that I had taken a different path, yet I still carried the weight of my origins. How did I escape the trajectory that had been set for me?

That bus ride was an awakening, but the first real turning point had come much earlier. It was Althea Young, my math teacher, who made me believe in my own potential. Over the years, countless small shifts—moments of challenge, encouragement, and realization—helped me embrace my strengths.

My identity was shaped in Kingston, Jamaica, where I learned resilience, determination, and self-respect. But the Bronx was a different world. It was a place where I had to use that identity to survive. I pursued education because it was the only clear path to upward mobility. I had seen firsthand that life was an uphill battle without it.

I was fortunate to have mentors who guided me: Althea Young, Cipe Burtin, and Shelly Weinberg. They saw something in me that I had not yet fully recognized. I wanted to be a university professor, but when that didn't happen, I became a math teacher. It wasn’t the original plan, but looking back, I see it was exactly where I needed to be.

The difference between my education and that of my peers in the Bronx was stark. Many people I grew up with never finished high school, while I eventually earned a graduate degree. My mother supported my education, not because she fully understood its value but because she loved me and wanted the best.

Surprisingly, I never faced resistance from my community. Instead, the pushback came from white people who thought I was arrogant for believing I could compete at their level. But the most valuable thing I inherited from my family was inner strength. My mother was a powerful woman, and most West Indians I knew carried an unshakable determination.

At RCDS, I never experienced discrimination. It was a racially inclusive community where I was accepted and respected. The students loved me, and I became part of the school’s folklore over time. There were many memorable moments, but some of the most striking was when the students became my teachers—especially on the ski slopes, where my incompetence was undeniable, and they were absolute wizards.

My story is proof that there are pockets of America where Black people are not only accepted but nurtured. RCDS was one of those places. Stony Brook was another. While the 1970s had their challenges, things have changed for the better. There are now far more educated Black professionals in all areas of society, and opportunities have expanded in ways that once seemed impossible.

I hope readers take away the lesson from my story: bright minds exist in every corner of the world, across all races and socioeconomic backgrounds. Our future depends on nurturing that brilliance wherever it is found.

My time at RCDS wasn’t just a job—it was a catalyst. The relationships I built there led me to my next role at IBM, and my impact on students continued far beyond the classroom. Many of them have told me that I changed their lives by teaching math and being an example of what was possible.

If I could speak to my younger self on that bus in 1974, I would tell him to stay the course. There is good news for you in the future.