It was 1976 in Kingston, Jamaica. My parents were in a heated argument. My father was furious — I’d lost his car keys. He wanted to punish me, maybe worse. My mother clung to me, shielding me from his rage. But he was so enraged, he nearly tore her apart. In desperation, she threw me toward him and shouted, “Kill him then!” He beat me. I cried, screamed, and through tears I looked up at her and asked, “Don’t you love me anymore?”
A year later, my grandmother sent my mother a ticket to come to the foreign land to work. She quickly found a job as a nurse aide. Before leaving, she split us up: me and two of my brothers went to live with our aunt, while my younger siblings stayed with our uncle. My mother raised my brothers herself, but my father came and took me from my aunt, claiming they were enslaving me.
One day, my father and his friend were chilling outside the house. My friends and I were skating nearby when my father shouted, “Come go a shop!” We left the skateboard behind. His friend bet I wouldn’t be on it when we got back. But I was. My father smiled and said, “Born a leader.”
Then came the cold. I left Jamaica and landed in a world covered in white — snow everywhere, sparkling like Disney World. I was nine. It felt like magic. My father had made me a skateboard to take with me, but two days after arriving, I left it outside. Someone stole it. That broke me. It wasn’t just a toy — it was a piece of him. I changed that day.
My mother, still young herself, hadn’t finished school in Jamaica. In this new land, she worked two jobs and went back to school. I saw her hustle and knew I needed my own money. My first grind was a paper route. I saved up and bought a bike. Someone stole that too. So I switched hustles — collecting bottles and selling them to the Pepsi factory.
One day, I walked in with two crates. Mr. Paul paid me for four. The next day, I came back with nothing, told him I’d dropped off ten crates, and he paid me again. That became my daily hustle.
My mom gave us clothes as gifts, but I didn’t like what I wore. I wanted my own gear. I walked into a store, picked out clothes, and realized I didn’t need to pay. That became another hustle.
One morning, I tried to sneak out before my mom saw me — I’d pierced my ears the day before and didn’t know how she’d react. As I got downstairs, she was in the kitchen. I grabbed a glass of orange juice and said, “Bye, Mom.” She called out, “Hey!” I froze, thinking she saw the earring. She pointed to a brown paper bag. “You’re not gonna grab your lunch?” I said sorry, grabbed the bag, and headed for the door. Then she said, “You think I didn’t see that shiny ting in your ears? You’re lucky I didn’t rip it out.” I closed the door, grabbed the snack, and tossed the bag in the garbage. I had money. I was the flyest kid in grade four — toys, cash, style. I even rented my toys to classmates.
By grade five, I was only there for three months before a teacher threw all my toys in the trash. They moved me to a grade seven class with older kids. At guidance counselling, I picked classes with all the girls — sewing, cooking, drama. The counsellor asked why I didn’t choose mechanics like the other boys. I said, “You see how black their hands are? I’m doing carpentry.”
I met my best friend in music class. The teacher handed me a tuba. I snapped, “I don’t want to play the tuba!” I asked for guitar or drums. She said I could play those when I started my own band. Everyone laughed.
We started learning to read music. A new student from Jamaica struggled with English. He kept asking for a “rubber,” and the teacher didn’t understand. I told her, “He’s asking for an eraser.” She said, “You understand him? Sit beside him.” That’s how we met — fist bump and all.
At lunch, we sat under a tree. He pulled out a sandwich. I laughed, “Cold cuts? That’s poisonous!” He tossed it into the garden. I said, “Don’t worry. Let’s go.” We walked into a grocery store, grabbed food off the shelves, ate, drank, and walked out. We looked at each other and laughed.
