A Jamaican Experience: A Jamaican Flower

By: Baron Stewart

I was only five when my mother left me at Palisadoes Airport. Terrified and confused, I couldn’t understand why she had to go. Years later, I felt a similar heartbreak when dropping off my children at kindergarten. For my mother, the decision was agonizing. After waiting forty years to have a child, she faced the heart-wrenching choice of leaving me behind as she migrated to New York. Raising a young child in Harlem while working full-time in White Plains was nearly impossible. Entrusting me to my father’s care in Kingston seemed the safest option.

Still, I couldn’t grasp the weight of her decision. Standing in the living room of Mrs. Maxwell’s house, I listened in confusion as Mrs. Hinchclif introduced this stranger as my “new mother” and her house as my “new home.” I silently rebelled, clinging to this resistance for nearly forty years—until my mother came to live with me in Los Angeles shortly before her passing.

In those early days, I cried endlessly, blaming Mrs. Maxwell and Mrs. Hinchclif for taking my mother away. The depth of my loss didn’t hit me fully until years later when I faced a similar situation with my puppy, Lucky.

Lucky was a happy, energetic dog who lived with her mother and brother in our Los Angeles home. When my childhood friend Ronald McLean mentioned wanting a dog for his 10-year-old son, Anthony, I gave Lucky to them. It was my way of honoring our lifelong bond, knowing Ronald would provide her with a good home.

Preparing Lucky for her journey to New York was bittersweet. I bathed, took her on long walks, and gave her extra attention. On the day of her departure, I made her a hearty meal, brushed her coat, and took her on one last car ride—her favorite activity. At the airport, Lucky was excited, thinking it was just another adventure, until she was placed in a crate and taken away. She didn’t understand what was happening—just as I hadn’t when I was left at Mrs. Maxwell’s house.

The next day, Ronald called to tell me Lucky had cried all night and hidden under every bed. Her heartbreak mirrored my own when my mother left. A year later, I visited Ronald and his family in New York. Lucky was well cared for, but she growled, barked, and snapped when she saw me. I could tell she remembered me, but she was angry—just as I had been when I saw my mother again after twelve years of separation. My mother had been overwhelmed with love and guilt, but I rejected her affection, still carrying the pain of her departure.

Six months later, Ronald called to say Lucky wasn’t working out. His wife was allergic to her shedding fur, so I brought Lucky back to Los Angeles. I wasn’t sure what to expect when I picked her up at the airport, but she was ecstatic as soon as she saw me. She jumped joyfully, kissed me, and settled back into life with us as if nothing had happened. Unlike Lucky, I never “jumped for joy” around my mother.

Hurricane Charlie

Griselda left when I was five and didn’t see me again until I was seventeen. It might have been the best decision for her, but it wasn’t for me. I clung to my few memories of her, including the Hurricane of 1951.

In 1951, my forty-four-year-old mother, Griselda, lived in a tenement yard on Bendas Lane in downtown Kingston. She shared the space with me, her four-year-old son, and Kenneth Rodgers, a twenty-four-year-old man she had raised since childhood. Tenement yards, often memorialized in reggae songs, were clusters of substandard dwellings packed closely together, sharing resources like running water and toilets.

Our lives revolved around East Queen Street. My mother sold food from her pushcart there, and I attended kindergarten at Calabar Elementary School behind the East Queen Street Baptist Church. Our lives were simple, but they changed dramatically after we heard of a hurricane forming in the Eastern Caribbean.

On August 17, 1951, Hurricane Charlie hit Jamaica as a Category 4 storm with 150-mile-per-hour winds. Tenement houses, with their flimsy zinc roofs, stood no chance. Buckets of rain poured into our home, flooding the floors. My mother and Kenneth scrambled to catch water with pots and pans and used newspapers to soak up the mess. As the wind howled and a massive mango tree crashed onto the roof, my mother shouted, “Put the baby on the dresser! It’s the only dry place in the house.” Her words remain etched in my memory because I felt her love then.

By morning, the storm had passed, leaving behind a trail of destruction. Houses leaned precariously, the streets were flooded, and chicken feathers littered the ground. The damage was immense, especially in rural areas, where the storm wiped out the banana industry. Schools were closed for weeks, and life took months to return to normal.

My Father, Norman Stewart

Norman became my anchor during these turbulent times. He was a tall, impeccably dressed man in his fifties with a charm that captivated everyone. Despite having another family, he visited me daily for all the years I lived at Mrs maxwell's house, keeping his promise to my mother. Each evening, I would climb the fence to watch for his felt hat bobbing among the crowd. Our conversations and occasional movie outings became the highlight of my life. Before leaving each night, he’d playfully remind me, “If you can’t be good, be careful.”

Despite his efforts, I often rebelled. Almost every night after he left, I’d climb through my tiny window and roam the streets with my friends. One evening, my friend Ronnie and I sneaked into a gambling den to play Crown and Anchor, a thrilling dice game. Those nights were my way of escaping the void left by my mother’s departure.

Friends often ask how I survived Kingston’s streets without falling into crime or ruin. The truth is, I didn’t escape unscathed. Physical scars remain on my face and forehead, and emotional wounds still surface occasionally. Yet, I avoided jail, violence, or a life of crime thanks to a mix of luck and support.

Key figures shaped my survival: the McLeans, who became my surrogate family; Ronnie, whose good morals never led me astray; my father, who kept his promise to my mother; and Althea, my math teacher, who inspired me to strive for more. They kept me grounded during turbulent times, while Kingston's vibrant people and places kept me curious and learning.

One such place was Mr. Headly’s bicycle shop, a hub of problem-solving and community. Located in Mrs. Maxwell’s backyard, the shop doubled as a gathering spot for domino enthusiasts. I spent hours watching, keeping score, and eventually playing. Monroe, an educated man who had fallen on hard times and slept in the shop, took me under his wing. He taught me the intricacies of dominoes, carpentry, and even how to pick winning horses at the racetrack. Mr. Headly's bicycle repair shop drew ice cream vendors for evening domino games and political debates. 

Next door to Mr. Headly’s bicycle shop was a Jamaican patty shop offering me a business taste. Jamaican patties, as beloved in Kingston as hamburgers are in the U.S., became my breakfast and payment for odd jobs. I’d climb the fence at dawn to help, spending summer days making patties and delivering them in the van. To the east, the Palace outdoor movie theater offered escapism, where I watched countless films with my dad. Westward on Victoria Avenue stood the East Queen Street Baptist Church, where I attended services and sang in the choir until my voice broke. My education began at Calabar Elementary School in the 1950s and culminated at Kingston College in the late 1960s, both institutions shaping my path.

My Love of Dogs

Feeling unloved as a young boy,  I sought affection from the dogs around me. It all started with my dog. Shane, who was my protector. I named him after the hero in Alan Ladd's movie Shane. I remember the little boy in the film chasing after his hero, crying out, "Shane! Shane!" as the man rode away toward an epic gunfight in town. That image stayed with me, and when I had the chance to name my hero, I called him Shane.

Shane was black, skinny, fast, and bright. He was an extension of how I saw myself—except he was also brave and strong, qualities I wished I had. I was weak and afraid, and our relationship became codependent. I needed him, and he needed me.

In the 1950s, Kingston had few dog regulations; if any existed, everyone ignored them. Dogs roamed freely, and if you were unlucky enough to encounter an aggressive one, you'd get bitten. I learned the hard way after an unexpected confrontation in someone's yard. "Beware of Bad Dog" signs were common, warning visitors about the fierce guardians of people’s homes. Dogs were effective deterrents against thieves, but they posed risks to everyone.

One night, as I walked past one of those gates with the infamous warning sign, Shane followed me, keeping a cautious ten yards behind. I didn’t want him to come; it was dark, and I had to cross busy streets. I repeatedly told him, "Go home, Shane," but he would run back a few yards and resume trailing me.

It turned out to be a good thing he did. A snarling dog rushed toward me as I passed the open gate of a yard. Before I could react, Shane dashed forward, locking the other dog in a fierce battle. Eventually, the dog retreated, and Shane calmly joined me by my side as we continued through Kingston's dark streets. He had saved me.

Shane was my first love but not my last. Years later, in Southern California, I met Lucky. Or rather, she found me. One day in the late 1990s, I discovered a dog sleeping in my car. When I opened the door, she bolted. I thought I’d never see her again, but she was tied to my front porch when I got home. My wife had coaxed her to stay with food and water. Lucky, a beautiful collie with bright, loving eyes, arrived when I desperately needed a friend. I had just been diagnosed with diabetes and decided to take up running to manage it. Lucky became my running partner, and together, we ran five miles every morning, rain or shine.

Over ten years, we became local legends in Whittier, California. People recognized us as we jogged through town, and our runs even made the local newspaper when we completed a ten-mile trek over Turnbull Canyon with my kids on bicycles. Occasionally, we’d run from our house to Disneyland, and my wife would pick us up afterward. After a good run, I’d often carry Lucky the last few hundred yards. She loved it.

Lucky had her adventures. One day, two unleashed bulldogs spotted us from across the field as we prepared for a run at the high school track. They charged. Lucky slipped out of her leash and took off up Whittier Boulevard, the bulldogs close behind. I stood frozen, helpless,g as they disappeared into traffic. Hours later, the bulldogs returned, but Lucky was nowhere to be seen. Heartbroken, I went home—only to hear a tap at the door. It was Lucky. She had outrun the bulldogs and found her way back.

Lucky had three litters of puppies, including Little Lucky, her spitting image, and Spike, her polar opposite. Spike was skinny, athletic, and fiercely loyal, while Little Lucky was chubby, sunny, and friendly to strangers. At one point, I had sixteen dogs after Lucky and another dog, Sally, both gave birth within weeks of each other. It was chaos but also joy. Eventually, I found homes for the puppies, but not before experiencing the fun of twelve yelping pups trailing behind me at feeding time.

Spike stood out among them all. As a puppy, he slept on my chest under my shirt while I worked, and that bond never faded. He was fiercely protective of me, even chasing off mail carriers and visitors, which once led the post office to suspend deliveries to our home. Spike had his quirks, like his hatred of water. I tested his loyalty at the dog beach by walking into the surf. Though hesitant, Spike followed me step by cautious step, swimming when the water grew too deep.

Each dog left an indelible mark on my life, but Spike’s sad, thoughtful eyes haunt me most. Dogs are more than companions—they are family, teachers, and heroes. They give us courage when we have none and remind us of the best parts of ourselves.

Collateral Damage

Despite these positive influences, other incidents profoundly damaged me, and I faced many hardships. The six years I spent at Calabar Elementary School were some of the most challenging of my life. My reality was erratic, painful, and marked by little success. These formative years, when I needed to feel safe and loved to develop a positive identity, were instead filled with neglect and instability. As a result, I struggled with low self-esteem and a lack of confidence.

My life between the ages of six and eleven was a series of ups and downs. One of the few areas jzamanI found success was singing in the Baptist church choir. As a child, I had a beautiful voice. I was the only boy in an all-girls choir and sang at a concert at the Ward Theater in downtown Kingston. During Christmas, I sang carols for the entire school, which became a source of pride and self-esteem. I would sing loudly as I walked home each day for lunch, proud of my voice.

However, that joy was fleeting. When I was thirteen, I auditioned for the choir at my secondary school. Singing "O Come All Ye Faithful," my voice cracked on a high note. I didn’t make the choir, and I never sang again. The sting of disappointment was profound and mirrored many other failures I experienced during those years.

Neglect during childhood often led to reckless decisions, and my life was no exception. I saw this tragic example in my Whittier, California neighborhood in 2013. A thirteen-year-old boy named Nick, who was frequently left unsupervised, was shot and killed by another boy on a day off school. I know how fortunate I was to survive my childhood despite the many dangerous situations I found myself in.

One of those moments was when I played at school without shoes, and a rusty nail pierced my foot. I mustered every ounce of strength to pull it out and walked home without telling anyone. I didn’t realize the seriousness of the injury until my father visited days later and saw my swollen, infected foot. He immediately sought medical attention. My judgment was just one incident in a pattern based on neglect. During play, other children busted my head open multiple times, and I, once a girl at my boarding house during a fight, left five long scars across my face. I was so embarrassed by the disfigurement that I used black shoe polish to try to cover the wounds.

The worst incident occurred when I was almost electrocuted. It was entirely my fault. At ten years old, left so often to my own devices, I concocted a reckless plan to electrify a zinc fence separating East Queen Street Baptist Church from my school. A neighbor had electrified his zinc roof to keep children from climbing on it, and I decided to extend the electricity to the fence as a prank.

I connected one end of a wire to the fence and repeatedly threw the other end at the roof, trying to establish a connection. When I finally succeeded, I didn’t release the wire quickly enough. The circuit closed, and electricity surged through my body. I thrashed violently on the concrete schoolyard, unable to let go. As I thought it was the end, the violent shaking dislodged the wire, breaking the circuit. I fell flat on my back, got up, and ran to the church as fast as I could, shaken but alive.

I remember these years as filled with poor decisions and missteps. One day, I snapped under the weight of my circumstances. Mrs. Maxwell sent me to the local market to get change for a one-pound note. Unbeknownst to me, the pocket I put the money in had a hole. By the time I arrived at the store, the note was gone. Panicked, I retraced my steps, asking everyone I passed if they had seen it. A young girl told me she had seen a man pick up some money and walk away. Desperate, I ran in the direction she pointed, searching for this stranger. I ran until exhausted, then wandered, too scared to go home.

Eventually, I remembered that my relative Kenneth lived nearby. I went to his house and explained what had happened, hoping he would take me in. Instead, he dressed and took me back to Mrs. Maxwell. She was furious and accused me of stealing her money. To humiliate me, she paraded me through the local shops, asking if I had spent any money there. None of the shopkeepers confirmed her suspicions, but she made me promise that my mother would repay her.

That incident marked a turning point for me. It was a sobering reminder of how vulnerable I was and how much I craved stability. Despite my many challenges, these experiences shaped me into who I am today. They taught me resilience, independence, and the importance of compassion—lessons I carry with me as I navigate life and reflect on my journey. 

Finding a New Home

The incident with Mrs. Maxwell catalyzed me to find a new home. My father’s weakness for women eventually overshadowed his commitment to our relationship. After a few years, he became involved with Mrs. Maxwell, our boarding house manager. He still visited me, but his attention shifted increasingly toward her as I got older. One evening, after my father disappeared into Mrs. Maxwell’s room, I needed to ask him a question. I approached her door and knocked softly. The door was slightly ajar, leaving a small gap that allowed me to glimpse their reflection in a mirror. My father was sitting on the edge of her bed, pulling down her dress.

When they finally allowed me in, I asked my question without commenting on what I’d seen. But that image stayed with me, etched into my memory.

Recognizing I could never compete with Mrs. Maxwell for my father’s attention, I boldly asked him to let me move in with my best friend, Ronnie McLean. My father issued a chilling ultimatum: if I left Mrs. Maxwell’s house, he would never come to see me again. His words were a devastating blow—he was my only source of support.

Late one night, despite the risk, I packed my few belongings and quietly left without telling anyone. I had made arrangements with McLean to move in with them now that they had moved to a larger house in the suburbs of Kingston. To my surprise, no one came looking for me. True to his word, my father never came to see me again, and when I needed to pay for room and board at the McLeans' house, every month, I would intercept my father on the street as he made his way to Mrs. Maxwell’s. I would ask him for money to cover my expenses, and he would oblige, but our exchanges were brief and strained.

Even when I was preparing to leave for the United States to live with my mother, my father didn’t come to say goodbye. His absence hurt deeply because, despite everything, I still loved him. I wrote to him a few times after arriving in the States, but the anger and resentment from his rejection eventually silenced my attempts. This separation left emotional scars that I didn’t fully understand until much later in life.

My Mother's Choice

At Palisadoes International Airport—now Michael Manley International Airport—it was common to see Jamaicans boarding planes in their Sunday best, heading to England or, to a lesser extent, America. Kenneth Rodgers, the young man Griselda helped raise, went to Florida to work as a farm laborer, while Griselda went to New York as a housemaid. Her cousin, Mrs. Hinchcliff, encouraged her to take this opportunity, arranging for her to work as a live-in maid for a family in White Plains, New York. Mrs. Hinchcliff, the daughter of Charles Appleby’s brother, had the fair complexion and good looks often associated with the Appleby family. Taller and slimmer than my mother, she carried herself with elegance. I only knew her as "Mrs. Hinchcliff," her married name, as I never learned her first name.

The decision to migrate was a difficult one for Griselda. In the 1950s, leaving for New York City was considered prestigious, and her friends marveled at the opportunity. To them, New York was a magical place, home to the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, Wall Street, Broadway's dazzling lights, Times Square, Central Park, Park Avenue, and St. Patrick’s Cathedral. They imagined the streets paved with gold, promising opportunities for a better life. Her family and friends expected her to return transformed—well-dressed, wealthy, and bearing gifts and money for everyone. Mrs. Hinchcliff had achieved this transformation, and her glorious return to Jamaica was my mother's catalyst to leap.

However, my mother faced a significant hurdle before leaving: ensuring my care. She needed my father, Norman, to look after me in her absence. Norman wanted me to live with him and his wife, but my mother refused, fearing his wife might not treat me well. Instead, she convinced Norman to pay for my boarding with Mrs. Maxwell at 31 Victoria Avenue for as long as she was abroad. With this arrangement in place, Griselda was ready to leave.

I will never forget the day my mother left. Standing by a small fence at Palisadoes International Airport, I watched her board a KLM flight to New York, dressed in a hat and winter coat and clutching her handbag. I stood next to Mrs. Hinchcliff, feeling like my small world was falling apart. My feelings were not unfounded—I wouldn’t see my mother again for twelve long years. Her departure marked the beginning of a series of traumatic experiences under Mrs. Maxwell’s care at 31 Victoria Avenue.

Years later, I came to understand my mother’s choice. Speaking with other children who had accompanied their parents and guardians to Harlem and returned with horror stories of crime, violence, and murder, I realized she had spared me from a potentially more dangerous environment.