Leaving Jamaica

I grew up in Jamaica always knowing that someday I would leave. Like many immigrant families, it’s a journey that is initiated long before the time presents itself. From as early as I can remember, mom was away and we would be joining her soon. We weren’t the only family with an imminent departure. It was the way of the land. It is estimated that 1.3 million Jamaican-born nationals, 36.1 percent of Jamaica’s population, reside overseas. The most popular destinations being the United States, United Kingdom (colonial ties) and Canada (plenty of space and today’s most accessible). You hear the whispers in the neighborhood and amongst the children on the playground. You soon gone a forin? This was no secret, this was a badge of honor, a privilege. Once a family had another member of their immediate family living overseas, there was a strong possibility that papers were already in motion for the rest of the family to join them. The rest was up to the residing country’s government, their policies and your family’s position in the queue. 

This is how I grew up — the dichotomy of home as a temporary place, yet a foundation that remains fixed in how I ultimately experience the world. This also instilled the mindset of having the opportunity of a clean slate. Whenever something unpleasant or undesirable took place, I would say, “My mom is coming soon to take me away and this will not matter.” I was six when I started saying that. My mom, having left when I was only two years old was this fairytale figure of a higher being who was the fixer of all things. I was young enough to not have experienced much loss or not to have felt that loss, but to live in this embodiment of the magical power that is the United States of America. 

For a long time I believed this magical place of America was in the skies. I was aware that planes landed — my family would take me on field trips to the airport to appease my intangible loss and longing — but I thought planes landed in America in the skies/clouds. I was eventually introduced to a map and the world globe, but lofty dreams of a life waiting for me was the constant backdrop of my every move. I remember practicing in the church choir for the 1993 Christmas show and then next, a cousin caught me mouthing the words to the song’s chorus without sound. He asked, “Why aren’t you singing?” I replied, “I’m not going to be here for this show.” I wasn’t. It was only a week later we received the call and my family left Jamaica within days’ notice on Dec 12th. 

Then the day presents itself. The newness soon wears off, and you’re left in a cold — literally, it’s goodbye palms trees and sunshine — and often lonely place to live. At first, you’re mesmerized by the sights — the grandeur of buildings, governances, possibilities and to be in the presence of potential. As time goes by you continue to miss the life you longed to leave, more and more. You find yourself between a rock and a hard place. I don’t know what the happy medium is for an immigrant life. Maybe not having a need to leave or desire for an equal chance? What I do know is if there were a choice in the matter of leaving, many would never have left at all. Even after the experience of having to flee war-filled zones, every migrant longs for the place they call home. I live a beautiful and privileged life, yet nature wants to take me back home. Because of all the gifts in the world, nothing compares to yaad.