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.”