The Jamaican Experience: The Chesters Experience and Heritage

By: Baron Stewart

I lived with Cipe in Stony Point, New York. I crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge weekly to work at IBM in Hawthorne. It was a steady life, but my world stretched far beyond Westchester when the workday ended. My social life still pulled me back to Stony Brook, Long Island, where I had gone to graduate school. Even though I made regular pilgrimages into Manhattan to dance to reggae at a club on Varick Street—Ones, they called it—my heart always beat strongest back in Stony Brook.

Stony Brook was where I had fun. And for me, fun meant Chesters.

Chesters was a bar tucked on the corner of Route 25A and Old Town Road—a weathered old building you might miss if you didn’t know where to look. A hand-painted sign hung above the door, worn by wind and rain, its letters peeling at the edges like it was shrugging off time. But inside… inside was timeless.

The place was dim, lit chiefly by strings of colored bulbs. The walls were covered with old band posters and Polaroids—grainy snapshots of people laughing, hugging, and lost in dance. Behind the bar was a tattered Jamaican flag draped like a curtain and a photo of Bob Marley, slightly crooked, overlooking everything like a watchful spirit.

Every Thursday night, rain or shine, Chesters transformed into something more than a bar. It was a home, a sanctuary, and the Full Hand band was the center of it all. They played reggae the way it was meant to be played—deep, soulful, with basslines you didn’t just hear, you felt in your chest before you even got through the door. It was like the rhythm was calling you from the parking lot.

The crowd was a cultural melting pot, a family made by choice. Jamaicans made the trip out from the city every week, blending effortlessly with local Long Islanders and students from Stony Brook. Everyone was there for the same reason: the music and the feeling it gave us. It didn’t matter where you came from—Montauk, the Bronx, Kingston—inside Chesters, we belonged to each other.

The air was thick with heat and rhythm, and the faint tang of weed if you stepped too close to the side alley. It was sticky—sweat on your back, condensation running down beer bottles—but no one cared. It was all part of the groove.

And then, there was Joanne.

She was already dancing when I noticed her—she always was. She had this way of moving—effortless like the music was carrying her, not the other way around. Dark brown hair cut short, loose strands catching in the breeze from the ceiling fan. A flowing skirt that spun when she did and a smile that lit up her whole face. She was a single mom and a teacher during the day, but at night, she was pure rhythm, pure joy.

We’d cross paths on the dance floor, exchanging smiles as we moved. Then, one night, during Full Hand’s version of “Get Up, Stand Up,” she grabbed my hand and pulled me into her orbit. We danced without words, no need for them. The music spoke for us, connecting us in ways I still lack language.

After that, we danced together every Thursday. We laughed when we were too sweaty to keep going, sharing cold Red Stripes on the front steps, catching our breath under the stars. Sometimes, we talked about our weeks—her students, my job at IBM—but mostly, we just were. At the moment. In the music. In Chesters.

Those nights at Chesters weren’t just about fun. They were about belonging. About finding family where you least expected it. About dancing until your legs ached and your heart was wide open. It was about Thursday nights that felt like they could stretch on forever.

And for a while, they did.

Yani, Ken, and Ilse were always posted by the bar, holding down their corner like royalty. Yani had a laugh you could hear over the band, and Ilse had this way of raising an eyebrow that said more than most people could in an entire conversation. They knew everyone, and everyone knew them. If you were new, they would bring you in, hand you a drink, and ensure you found your place.

Ilse's crew from Ronkonkoma was a force. They rolled deep, packed tight in a little orbit of their energy.

Later, there was Fred and Harriette. I met them one night at the bar because Joanne couldn’t come and instructed me to meet them. Joanne said they’d take care of me, and they did. They treated me like an old friend when I walked up to them. Fred, with his easy grin and calm presence, and Harriette, sharp-eyed and kind, both held space at that bar like they’d been doing it for years. That night, I realized that even without Joanne, I belonged there.

And then Elsa—the blonde from Latvia like Ilse and Yani - had a style all her own: long, straight hair that caught the colored lights as she danced and this incredible, quiet energy that made you think she was always listening, always taking everything in. She’d show up some nights like a breeze through the door and dance with me before slipping into the crowd.

At the center of it all was Quamy. He was the leader of the Full Hand band, tall and lean with long dreadlocks that swayed when he played. Quamy didn’t just lead the band—he conducted the night. His voice carried stories; his rhythm set hearts beating in time. When Quamy locked eyes with you mid-song, you were the only person in the room. He made sure every Thursday night at Chesters was unforgettable. He made it sacred.

And then there was Al Anderson. Before his name was etched into reggae history, he was just Al before he was standing on stage with Bob Marley and the Wailers. He lived in Stony Brook, and it wasn’t unusual to see him at Chesters. Some nights, he was at the bar, others on stage, guitar slung low, fingers moving across the strings like they remembered something sacred.

Long before people whispered about who he played with, Al played with Quamy and the Full Hand band. Back then, it wasn’t about fame—it was about the music. The groove. He was part of the heartbeat of those Thursday nights. You’d see him walking in the door like anyone else—maybe nodding hello, laughing with Ken’s crew, or giving Yani and Ilse a quick hug before setting up on stage—just Al.

At the time, it didn’t register how rare that was. He was just part of the family. Another player in a band that made Thursday nights at Chesters feels like magic. But later—after—when we saw him on album covers and tour posters when he was up there on stage next to Marley playing those same soulful licks, it all clicked. We had been in the presence of something special all along.

Fred and Harriette became lifelong friends. That night at Chesters, when Joanne sent me to meet them, was one of those small moments that changed everything. They welcomed me without hesitation and made me feel like family. Over time, they became family. Fred married Harriette not long after those days at Chesters, and to this day, Fred is like a brother to me. We’ve stood together through life’s ups and downs like family does.

Yani and Ilse—those two were the heartbeat of Thursday nights. They moved away from Long Island years ago, but the distance never changed. We still talk. Still, check in. It’s the kind of friendship that picks up right where it left off every time. And Ken… Ken is still there, holding it down shop in Port Jefferson. When I go back to Long Island, I always make sure to see him. Sitting with Ken now feels like sitting on a porch with an old friend, remembering the rhythm of those nights at Chesters, even if we’re not dancing anymore.

Those nights gave me a community—not just people to share a dance floor with but people who became part of the story of my life. Chesters might be long gone, and the music faded into memory, but the people—my people—are still here. We still carry those rhythms inside us.

Joanne and I were on and off for years. We had a deep connection—something that felt easy and right whenever we were together—but there was always a distance she kept, a line she wouldn’t let us cross. It wasn’t because of us. It was because of her father.

Joanne’s father was a white German man, and she believed—no, she knew, or at least she thought she knew—that he would never accept a Black Jamaican as a suitor for his daughter. She told me more than once, “My father would kill me if he knew I was dating you.” She said it matter-of-factly, but there was a sadness in her voice each time as if she wished the world were different. Like she wanted, she could be different.

Still, we found each other again and again. Thursday nights at Chesters, dancing like nothing else mattered. Long talks on quiet nights. That kind of connection isn’t something you walk away from easily.

In August of 1977, I turned 30. Joanne and I spent the day together, celebrating in the city. Lunch at Rockefeller Center—outside, where the breeze carried the sounds of street musicians and the murmur of tourists—and then a Broadway play, the kind where you both lean in close to catch the subtle lines, where your hands brush together in the dark and it means something. It was one of those days you tuck away in a safe place, knowing you’ll take it out later and hold it again when you need to feel warm.

That day meant a lot to me—more than I think I let on at the time. So when February came around—Joanne's birthday — I sent her a huge bouquet of red roses: no card, no message, just the flowers.

Later that summer, when I saw her again, she told me what had happened.

Her father had seen the roses.

“Who sent you those?” he asked her.

“My Jamaican friend,” she told him. And she braced herself.

But instead of anger, he smiled. “I’d like to meet him,” he said.

When she told me that, I didn’t know what to say; after she’d told me how impossible it would be and how closed he was, a tiny crack of light suddenly came through the door. Perhaps it wouldn’t change anything. But it was something. It was hope. And sometimes, that’s enough to keep going.

A few days after telling me her father wanted to meet me, Joanne asked, “Would you be open to it?”

I paused.

I wanted to say yes without thinking, but something old and heavy sat in the back of my mind. A memory. Another house, another father. A white father who had slammed the door in my face the minute he saw me standing there, dressed neatly, ready to take his daughter out for a date. That door had closed fast and hard like it was trying to erase me from his world.

I still felt that door sometimes.

But this was Joanne. This was different. Or at least I hoped it was.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m open.” Cautious but open.

She nodded and picked up the phone, dialing her father. When he answered, she asked him if he still wanted to meet me.

“Yes,” he said. “You should come over.”

So we went.

We drove across the island, from Stony Brook to the south shore. The sky was clear, but I had a knot in my stomach that tightened with every mile. Joanne tried to keep things light, telling me about her day at school and laughing at something on the radio, but her voice had an edge that matched my mood. We were both bracing for something.

When we pulled into the driveway, her father was already at the front door. He stood there with a big smile, waving us in like an old friend was coming for dinner. His presence was solid but warm, and I let myself breathe momentarily.

But just behind him, her mother stood.

Her face was something else.

Panic. Not just surprise or uncertainty, but full-blown panic. The kind that tightens a person’s whole body. Her hands were clenched, and her eyes flicked between me and Joanne as if she was watching something about to come undone.

Joanne didn’t slow down. She took my hand briefly, squeezed it, and walked up together.

Her father stepped aside and gestured for us to come in.

“Welcome,” he said. His voice was steady, and he was still smiling.

Her mother didn’t say anything. 

Her father offered me a seat in the living room, and the women disappeared into the basement, supposedly to discuss Tupperware sales. It was their way of getting out of the way, leaving us men to talk. I found myself alone with him, sitting in a space thick with unspoken questions.

He picked up the television remote and started flipping through the channels. He seemed to be searching for something neutral that wasn’t a basketball game or All in the Family. After a few clicks and sighs, he settled on a nature program, something quiet and safe.

Once comfortable, he asked me, “What would you like to drink?”

“Sweet vermouth with a twist of lemon,” I said.

He looked surprised but got up to make the drink. Living with Cipe in those days had introduced me to sweet and dry vermouth after work. It had become a quiet ritual, and I liked the taste. When he handed me the glass, he studied me for a moment.

“Where did you learn to speak like that?” he asked.

I smiled. “I’ve spoken like this my entire life.”

That caught him off guard. He was holding me up to whatever stereotypes he had carried with him, and I wasn’t matching up. Then came the question I half-expected.

“Where do you work?”

“I’m with IBM,” I told him.

He nearly fell out of his chair. His eyes widened, and he sat back, taking it in. He owned a small business machine repair company himself, and working for IBM had been a dream he never quite achieved. It hit him then—maybe for the first time—that I wasn’t who he thought I’d be.

When Joanne and the woman returned upstairs, he turned to her with a grin.

“Honey,” he said, “you’re doing all right.”

Joanne could hardly believe it. Neither could I. We talked about it the entire ride back to the North Shore. Something had shifted that night.—maybe not everything, but something.

Later that summer, I saw Joanne’s father again. She was packing her house to drive cross-country to California, and I offered to help. When I arrived, her father was already there, sleeves rolled up, moving boxes with surprising energy. Her mother was in the kitchen, carefully wrapping dishes in old newspapers, and her grandmother was in the living room, folding linens with slow, practiced hands.

He greeted me like I belonged there, smiling as he passed me a box and motioned toward the moving van. There was no hesitation this time—no cautious distance. We worked side by side that day, loading Joanne’s life into cardboard boxes and duffel bags. At one point, he clapped me on the shoulder and said, “Thanks for helping out, son.”

By the time the house was empty, I felt something had come full circle.

Joanne and I kept in touch for a while after she moved to California, but we never dated again. Our time had passed, though the affection was still there. There were many goodbyes between us—sometimes in person, sometimes just understood. Even after she married someone else and settled into her life out west, she told me her father would ask about me occasionally. That didn’t surprise me. I was used to that. It was the rule, not the exception.

I never had a real conversation with her mother and grandmother. Joanne’s father was the leader of their family, and they followed his lead. Once he decided to open the door, they stayed quietly behind him. That was the rhythm of things in those days.

Over the years—in New York, California, and now Portugal—I’ve found many supportive, positive white women who stood by me, believed in me, and gave me strength. Cipe, Berkeley, Harriette, Joanne, Elsa, Ilse, Mary, Sara… and many others—too many to name. Most of my success has been fueled by the support of white women. Their friendship, love, and loyalty helped carry me through.

When I was about to marry Berkeley, my second wife, Cipe, called me. She asked why I was taking that risk. She told me marriage was hard enough on its own and would be even more complex because Berkeley was white. I smiled. I married Berkeley anyway. We were together for thirty years.

I’ve never walked around thinking I was navigating interracial relationships. That’s not how I see it. I’ve continuously operated on a human level. I am a man. She is a woman. We go from there.