The feeling was always there to explore my origins. I lived in America but I was not American, as a matter of fact I came to America in the most peculiar way. A sister of my mother on a visit to Jamaica saw me and decided to take me to America—“opportunity” was the reason. They said I could get in the United States what was not available in Jamaica.
We flew American Airlines and I arrived in New York August 1977 with much anticipation. I remember the golden wings that the pilot gave me as I exited the plane, at the time it had no significant meaning they were just wings a souvenir for flying American. I can remember the luggage carousel, the drive home from the airport and being fascinated with the bright lights, tall buildings, crossing the Whitestone Bridge into the Bronx everything seemed spectacular.
I didn’t realize what I was giving up yet but it started to slip away the moment I walked in the door to my new residence. America was not all shiny and pretty. I wanted to go back home but it was very far away. It was often used as a punishment or threat, “if you don’t behave I’m going to send you back to Jamaica", and from what was described I knew I didn’t want to go there. My own memories of Jamaica and happiness began to fade and thoughts of poverty, ugliness, and crime replaced them, it became a place I feared. It sounded dreadful, people with no shoes, living in huts. I became ashamed. Not only did I not want to go there but I didn’t want to be from there.