By the time you read this Hurricane Melissa will have clobbered the beautiful island of Jamaica. I repatriated here, if you can call it that—seeking refuge earlier this year from a mean, bigoted and incoherent America that is now unrecognizable to me.
Jamaica is the home of both of my parents. Like many from this island and others like it, they left decades ago to seek economic opportunities for themselves and their children. My birthright American citizenship (people like me are often referred to as Jamerican) helped me access multiple scholarships at my top-20 university, where I received my Bachelor’s, and an award at the Ivy League university from which I received my Master’s. If there is an American dream, I am it.
Donald Trump’s Tonton Macoute (an exaggeration because the original goon army developed by Haiti’s Papa Doc never covered their faces) or ICE agents, have apprehended students from both of my schools, losing custody of them after lengthy detainments were struck down in what is left of the American court system. I relayed this to the Jamaica-based lawyer working on the deal for my new home, telling her that I was spooked by how close Trump’s policies have come to my own life. Please work faster, I implored her with my inside voice.
What my parents’ sacrifices did not, could not accomplish, was allowing their daughter a sense of belonging, of identity, of lineage, that no one could dispute. What our time in America could not buy is a sense of safety and security that has always been fleeing to people who look like me. Now more than ever. So, just weeks after my birthday in July of this year, I made the leap back to where my family’s story began: Jamaica. I refer to the day I landed on the Rock, as Jamaicans call it, as my second birthday.
My days here consist of reading and writing in the mornings, and floating on my back in the Caribbean Sea in the late afternoons, the salty, sticky water bathtub-warm, the sky above an impossible cobalt blue. In the water I let go of a lifetime of regrets and relish my connection to this island. This is the same sea where my maternal grandmother brought my cousin and beloved godfather to bathe every day for months after he was severely burned. Grandma made special salves for my godfather, and massaged him back to health. The salt water served as a balm that accelerated his healing. The two of them loved each other, and came to love me intensely. I feel them in the water.
And then came Hurricane Melissa. Waiting for this weather event has been like being 10 months pregnant and anticipating the delivery of a 10-pound baby. Like many here on the island, I have been overdosing on news coverage, trying to figure out whether my new Montego Bay home will be destroyed by this vicious this Category-Five storm as I wait it out in Kingston. I had come to the island’s capital to bury one of my cousins—a trip that was only supposed to be two days and now has been extended indefinitely. I will return home after the damage is assessed, after the roads are cleared.
Balance is everything. On a group WhatsApp initiated by one of my overseas cousins, I laughed and told him we are not all dead yet, as the Western press seems to be intimating.
My 7-year-old cousin is doing school online, and many families have begun to run out of snacks for their children and other more pertinent hurricane supplies since the island has been on watch since last week. The Jamaican hard dough bread I scored—after trips to three supermarkets where some of the shelves are now empty—has developed mold.
While I can, I have been on the phone with relatives and friends concerned about my well-being. Those of us here marvel at how North American reporters always seem to find the most decrepit neighborhoods to report from, and people to interview who are appropriately frantic and don’t have the time or can’t translate their Jamaican language into English for a wider audience. Yes, this is a developing country. No, not everyone’s home is falling apart and will be destroyed by Melissa. We hope.
But in all seriousness, the people on this island will need more than prayers and well wishes. Members of the Jamaican diaspora, which numbers more than one million in the U.S. alone, will need to do much more than sending positive vibes and making frantic calls home.
I encourage those who are of Jamaican descent to give to institutions that will help the island on its way to what will be a very long recovery. And especially to those who are late-career or retired professionals: Think about spending a year or two on the island to lend it your expertise. To those who vacation here often and are similarly situated: Jamaica needs you.
We are not just a beach, we are a country. This I know for sure. One Love.
To support the efforts to rebuild Jamaica, please visit the Jamaican Red Cross: https://www.jamaicaredcross.org.
