A Jamaican Experience: Coming To America

By: Baron Stewart

A New Life in America

In the summer of 1966, it was time to leave Kingston College (KC) and move to America to live with my mother. I had completed the General Certificate of Education (GCE) in mathematics, physics, and chemistry at the ordinary level, along with mathematics at the advanced level. With these credentials, I could gain admission to an average college in the United States.

However, I was hesitant to leave. I felt deeply attached to Molly, my first love and the thought of parting from her weighed heavily on me. We promised to write and keep in touch, and I held on to the hope that we would see each other again someday. Years later, we did—at a reggae concert on Long Island.

At the same time, I dreamed of an extraordinary life in America. I imagined it as a land of opportunity, where money flowed freely, and the streets were paved with gold. But I also knew there were warnings.

Patrick, a Trinidadian dancer who lived at the top of Clovelly Road, right behind KC's back gate, had already made the journey to America. He returned with troubling stories of mistreatment. He told us that the only place he saw equality for Black men was in the Turkish baths—where many Black men were homosexuals, something considered a major taboo in Jamaica at the time. His words were a warning, but Ronnie and I didn’t listen.

We had a future to build. Ronnie would become a dentist, and I aspired to be a college professor. He was coming to live with my mother and me in the Bronx, and together, we set out to raise the money for his plane ticket. Once we had it, we would be on our way.

Arriving in New York

When Ronnie and I arrived in New York in the summer of 1966, my mother, Griselda, lived on Noble Avenue in the Soundview section of the Bronx. Her new home was just around the corner from Rosedale Avenue, where she had lived when I first visited in 1964 to see the World's Fair.

By then, my mother had become Griselda Mackey, having married a man to secure her American permanent residency. However, she lived with a taxi driver, Mr. Brown, who had a wife in Jamaica.

I liked Mr. Brown. He was a jovial, large man who seemed to be a good partner for my mother. He carried himself with an easygoing warmth, and I was grateful that he kept my mother safe. But beyond that, he had little influence on my life.

We lived in a nicely furnished three-bedroom apartment, its living room adorned with plastic covers on all the furniture—a detail that immediately stood out to me.

My first impression of New York was one of awe but also disappointment. It was massive, bright, and full of life, but it wasn’t the paradise I had imagined. Life in the Bronx felt strange. We were among the few Black people in a primarily white neighborhood, and the atmosphere was tense. People refused to sit next to me on the train. The police targeted me on several occasions. Racism was rampant in 1966 America, and though I will write about those experiences later, there were too many to include in this section.

The relationship with my mother was complicated—a love-hate dynamic. She loved me but also resented me in ways I didn’t fully understand.

Work, Tragedy, and Change

Roy and Cherry lived across the street on Noble Avenue with their two daughters, Renee and Mellody. They also had a tenant, Mr. Paysley. Roy and Cherry ran a car upholstery business in Lower Manhattan, while Mr. Paysley owned a foreign car repair shop nearby.

Ronnie loved working with Roy and Cherry, and because Roy’s last name was also McLean, he felt a special bond with him. There was a sense of connection, almost like they were distant family.

During our first weeks in New York, Ronnie enthusiastically took to his work, helping out at the upholstery shop. Meanwhile, I went with Mr. Paysley, who was assisting at his repair shop. Mr. Pasley specialized in repairing and selling Jaguars, and it was always exciting to ride around with him in those sleek, powerful cars.

But our time in these jobs was short-lived. Not long after Mr. Paysley’s teenage nephew arrived from Jamaica to work at the shop, tragedy struck. He was working on a car when the vehicle caught fire. He was trapped and burned to death.

His death changed everything. The repair shop never felt the same again. Work slowed, and the energy that had once filled the place seemed to vanish. We learned very little about either business because, after that tragedy, everything stopped.

My mother, always resourceful, found Ronnie and me jobs as elevator operators in a Manhattan hotel. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was steady work, and for now, that was enough.

Then, just as we were settling into our new reality, Ronnie received devastating news from Jamaica—his teenage girlfriend was pregnant. He had no choice but to return home at the end of the summer to take responsibility for his child. Just like that, our plans of building a new life together in America had to pause because he had to return to Jamaica to take on the responsibilities of a teenage father.

A Mother’s Love and a Harsh Reality

Later that summer, I caught a nasty cold that wouldn’t disappear. My mother, who was working three jobs at the time, became very concerned. She barely had time to rest, yet she still made sure to take care of me.

Her daily routine was grueling. She started each morning around 6 a.m., cleaning a doctor’s office on Park Avenue before heading to Manhattan, where she worked as a maid in a hotel. She cleaned another office in the evening before finally returning home to cook dinner. Despite her exhausting schedule, my illness alarmed her enough that she arranged for the Park Avenue doctor to see me.

I went with her to his office, and after examining me, he agreed—I had a severe upper respiratory condition and needed to see a specialist. He referred me to the ear, nose, and throat clinic just around the corner from his office on Third Avenue.

My mother and I went to the clinic as instructed. After checking in, we gave our names and the name of the doctor we were waiting for. Then, we sat and waited—for at least an hour.

Eventually, a nurse appeared and asked us if we were sure we were there to see the specialist she worked for. We assured her we were, but she seemed skeptical. After another 30 minutes, my name was finally called, and we were told where to find the specialist’s office.

We took the elevator to the third floor. As we stepped off, a man suddenly emerged from the shadows before we could even reach the office door. His presence was sharp and abrupt. He glared at us and demanded, “Where did you get my name?”

My mother panicked. I had never seen her like that before—so nervous, so servile. Her voice shook as she pleaded, “My boss, the doctor from Park Avenue, gave me your name. My son is very sick, and he thought you could help him.”

She was trembling, overwhelmed by the moment. I stood there in silence, watching.

The man turned to me and barked, “Let me see your ear!”

I turned my head, and he took a glance. Barely a second later, he snapped, “You’re fine. Go home.”

That was it. We hadn’t even reached the door of his office.

The message was clear—he didn’t want people to know he treated Black patients. He wanted no association with us, no chance of his white clientele seeing him provide care to someone like me. I felt humiliated, insulted, and utterly demeaned.

My mother, desperate to help me, had begged this man to see me, and he had tossed me aside like I was nothing. I had experienced racism in many forms since arriving in America, but this was different. This was not a cop harassing me or a stranger refusing to sit beside me on the train—this was a doctor, someone who had taken an oath to heal, openly rejecting me because of my race.

We left, defeated. My mother didn’t say much as we walked out of the building, but I could feel her heartbreak, her helplessness.

Yet, in that moment, I also saw her love. She would do almost anything to keep me safe—even if it meant humbling herself before a man who didn’t see us as human.

I never received proper medical care beyond what my mother could offer at home.

Jamaica in My Heart, America as a Means to an End

No matter how long I stayed in America, I was always a Jamaican. America was never home—it was a means to an end. It was a place of opportunity, but not where I felt I belonged.

Over the years, I experienced countless racist insults and acts of discrimination, far too many to include here. I will write about them separately because they deserve their own space.

However, my perception of America did change over time. It improved during my graduate studies and my career at IBM. During those years, I could carve out a life for myself, achieving things I had once only dreamed of. However, after retiring from IBM, my perception of America began declining. The realities of racism, inequality, and how America treats its aging Black citizens became more apparent than ever.

For all the opportunities it provided, America never truly embraced me, and I never truly embraced it.