Eastern Origins
For the first 28 years of my life, I lived and died in the city that never sleeps. I considered myself a tried and true New Yorker — the type that would visit other cities, no matter how grand or impressive, and condescendingly look down on its residents and culture. After all, what could compare to the big apple… a melting pot of people, food, culture, garbage, rats and roaches. Bright lights, big personalities, and the hustle mentality were all part of the appeal. But at some point, that appeal faded, and the humdrum, often dark reality of life in the big city set in. The thing that did not fade, however, was a deep sense of familial belonging. Moving to Los Angeles, I’m happy to be among smiling faces and sunshine, but I hope to never forget where I came from.
My parents immigrated to Brooklyn in the mid 1970s. My dad moved along with my grandmother and uncle to Crown Heights, and my mom did the same with her family. They were foreigners in a new country that spoke the same language, but seemed worlds apart from the tiny island nations they left. Dad moved from Grenada, by way of London where he was born…and Mom from Trinidad. Growing up, they spoke fondly of their childhoods. Warm weather, good food, and good company was what they missed most. But they left for the same reason that anyone leaves their country to come to America. For them, it was escaping a less than ideal life in the countries they called home.
Mom grew up in Couva, Trinidad. My grandfather divorced my grandmother when she was only two, leaving her and my uncle (her older brother) to be raised by my grandma and her father (my great grandfather, affectionately nicknamed “Daddy” by my mom). They grew up poor, and mom would often recount times when she had no shoes on her feet, and dinner was never guaranteed. Nonetheless, they had each other. She fondly remembered her grandfather, a strict but fair disciplinarian, taking over as the patriarch of the family. He tried to fill the void left by my mom’s wayward and negligent father. So when he died from cancer in 1999, it was devastating. The rug had been pulled out from underneath her.
Mom arrived in Brooklyn in 1975. She had a thick and sing-songy Trinidadian accent. She can still dial it up and down, but itonly comes out when she’s around close family. Years of assimilating has diluted her accent down into the perfect American “phone voice”. She lived with her two brothers, mother, and stepfather. Growing into her young adulthood, she met a man who would later become father to her first son (my half-brother). But she would soon find out that that man was not who she thought he was. Abuse, both physical and verbal was rampant in their relationship, and she was soon left as a single mother to raise a young man in turbulent 1980s NY. A few years later, mom met my dad in Brooklyn. They happened to live across the street from each other in Ditmas Park. My dad saw her and decided to pursue her, much to his chagrin because it took a few attempts before she even gave him the time of day. But he was persistent, and thankfully so, or I would have never been born.
Dad moved to Crown Heights,Brooklyn from St. George’s, Grenada in 1975 with his brother and mother. My grandparents had gotten a divorce, and grandma moved with her boys to Brooklyn. My grandfather was a lawyer by trade, and a rather successful one. Born in Panama, he spent his life in Grenada as the son of a doctor. I often think of how trailblazing both of them were; my great grandfather graduating at the top of his class from a Scottish medical school, and my grandfather graduating as an attorney of the best law schools in the U.K. — Middle Temple.
Dad grew up privileged in Grenada. My grandfather rose to the position of Attorney General of the country. That came with all of the trimmings and privileges that being the child of a politician comes with; drivers, maids, groundskeepers, and security to name a few. But after his term as AG, Grenada soon became a tinderbox for radical ideology and beliefs. Communism was on the rise in the Caribbean, and for an island of ~300,000 people, it was an ideology that would rock the country to its core. So much so, that a group of communists overthrew the Grenadian government with support from Cuba in 1983. The U.S. invaded the tiny country, and suppressed the uprising in record time. This all happened 8 years after my dad left, but painful memories from other family members who remained are still traded at the dinner table during family gatherings. Stories of violence and coercion in the name of state ownership and destroying the vestiges of wealth and privilege; all of which my family represented.
When my dad arrived here with his brother and mother, they had nothing. My grandmother had divorced my grandfather, thus leaving behind the wealth and prosperity of their home country. They lived in a 1 bedroom apartment in Crown Heights, a working class neighborhood inhabited by Caribbean immigrants. My dad would tell me stories about him getting beat up and robbed for his bike in Prospect Park, taking the subway home at a time when the cars were heavily vandalized with graffiti, and working odd jobs here and there to make money while in high school. College was a dream for him, but he couldn’t afford it. He enrolled in City College to study electrical engineering, but soon dropped out because the money dried up. To think, the son of an attorney general, and the grandson of a doctor would not receive higher education was insane to me. He later enrolled and graduated from St. John’s University, almost 20 years after he dropped out of City College.
When my dad married my mom, he adopted my half brother. Soon after, I was born. I didn’t know that my brother had a different father until I was about 8 years old when my mom sat me down and explained it to me. My brother was a rambunctious young man, often labeled the class clown because of his antics. He was incredibly intelligent, but often channeled his energy in the wrong direction. That gave way to the school system placing him in special education. I recently learned that teachers often used to place black students who acted out in special education. This resulted in lower graduation rates, as well as a distorted sense of self for kids who are clearly marked and separated from the rest of the school. This, coupled with my brother’s impaired sense of self worth from being abandoned by his biological father, was a dangerous catalyst for his future. Despite many attempts from my parents to intervene, he became increasingly rebellious. This led to him joining a gang and fathering a child at the tender age of 17. Deep down, I knew my brother wasn’t the person they had made him out to be. He was lost in a world where he was fighting to find acceptance. His differences should have been celebrated rather than castigated.
My parents were determined to ensure that the life I led was on the straight and narrow. My brother and I didn’t spend a lot of time together when I was a kid. We were separated. A different set of rules governed us. I was relegated to reading books, extra tutoring after school, sports, spelling bees…anything my parents could do to ensure that I was setup for success. It worked. I was attending the best schools, got a full scholarship to go to college, interned at esteemed companies, and landed great jobs. I can’t help but think what my life would have been like if that investment wasn’t made in me.
Of course, this all happened against the backdrop of NYC. The hustle & bustle, true grit of the people, and the devastation of watching two iconic symbols of freedom destroyed right before my 11 year old eyes. All of it shaped and molded me. The pulse of the city was palpable. But that heartbeat began to fade with age, and I became more and more jaded by my experiences. Snow became a nuisance. Delayed trains and the smell of garbage were now intolerable. A 500 sq.ft. concrete box we called home became the bane of my existence. The weight of New York suddenly felt crushing. I craved space, sunshine, and nature.
Although we live in California now, I reflect on home quite a bit. I’ll never forget the friends and family there, but I hope to build a new life here on the West coast.
