Going Home

My Rematriation Journey to Jamaica

my very first memory is remarkably vivid. most notably, the world around me was humongous! of course, i was only 3-years-old, but i remember that everything was exceptionally tall and beyond the reach of my little brown hands.

my family lived in a small house with an even smaller carriage house in the backyard. Ma’as¹ Shunta, one of my dad’s employees at his bus company, lived in the tiny house.

i loved Ma’as Shunta. i think i especially loved that he, like most of the adults in my life, took me very seriously. i was a very stern toddler who demanded respect and regarded myself as a [present tense] world leader. the adults in my life treated me like the revered, little queen i believed myself to be. i, unironically, never questioned their absolute loyalty to my crown. i lived a very good life!

Ma’as Shunta’s only shortcoming in my eyes was that he was a smoker. this was the early 1980s, decades before the general public would turn away from cigarettes as the tobacco industry was brought to its knees by class action lawsuits showing the cancer-causing nature of the drug. i precociously despised cigarettes and decided that no one was going to smoke on “my” property.

one day, i told Ma’as Shunta to “stop di smokin’” which he promptly assured me he would immediately do. he even made a big show of throwing his pack of cigarettes into the garbage. i remember the sense of triumph i felt when he acquiesced with no further prompting on my part. all was well in my imaginary kingdom.

later that day, i saw him walk into the front yard with a group of men, including daddy, who gathered in the evening to chat. i proudly watched him chattin’ with the men—no cigarette in sight.

“i will rule the world,” i thought to myself smiling like a pleased puss.

my mood rapidly changed as i watched Ma’as Shunta take out a new pack of cigarettes, slide one into his mouth, light it, and blow out the offensive smoke.

i was mute with rage as i marched into his home. his furniture was gigantic and i estimated too difficult to climb, but i knew i needed to find some material way to punish him for his impudence. i walked over to his dresser—the top of which was impossible to see—and standing on my tippy toes stretched up my arms and moved my finger tips around on the dark wood until i felt something cool and metallic. my chubby little fingers carefully pulled the object toward my line of vision. to my delight, i looked up to see that i had scored his most prized possession—his wristwatch.

i ran out to the yard, watch in hand, with a deranged smile on my face. as was the custom, all of the men paused their conversation to gush and coo at the baby of the house. i immediately extinguished the light from my smile and shouted at Ma’as Shunta—i did tell you to stop di smokin!

as i shrieked these words, i launched the watch, with my full 3-year-old might, into the air. 

time stood still. 

the wristwatch sailed through the air until gravity took over. in mere moments, Ma’as Shunta’s watch crashed down on the rock-stone driveway and fell apart. the men in the yard broke into a raucous laughter. i folded my arms across my chest and stomped into the house. 

the first time i recounted that memory was at my uncle’s house in davie, florida where my family first lived after immigrating to the united states. i detailed the strange dream to mommy. after sharing my account, she informed me that it was not a dream, but a memory from Jamaica.

to this day, it is the only memory i have from when i lived in Jamaica. i often wonder who that little dãnia would have grown up to be had my family never immigrated to america. i wonder what kind of friends, relationships, or career i would have had. would i have followed my chinese-jamaican mother’s dreams and become a doctor? would i have spent my college years as a dancehall queen? would i have replaced Ma’as Shunta’s watch?

in the past few months, following a stress-induced, medical emergency that landed me in the er, i’ve spent a lot of time reflecting on my early life with the support of my therapist (i acknowledge this is the most un-Jamaican thing i’ve ever said). this reflection has caused me to grapple with the mid-life crisis of the geriatric millennial—what does life look like beyond america’s anti-human, anti-environment, cheap commodity obsessed, illness-perpetuating capitalism?

earlier this year, two important experiences helped me find my answer. first, my parents hosted an incredible 50th wedding anniversary party bringing together family and friends from all over the united states and jamaica. celebrating with my family was so meaningful. i cannot remember the last time i felt as happy or whole. i felt humbled and honored to reflect on the legacy my parents have built in their 50 years of wedded bliss.

shortly thereafter, i had the great fortune of reading Safiya Sinclair’s “How to Say Babylon.” (If you have not yet read this book, run, don’t walk, to get a copy!) Sinclair’s beautifully poetic memoir transported me back to the Jamaica of my childhood reality, memory, & fantasy. as i read, i kept hearing a call to “go home” which persisted uninterrupted until my trip home last week.

my trip to Jamaica last week was nothing less than life changing. you know when something feels so good in your spirit you just know it’s right? i hear it’s how people feel when they meet “the one,” but i can offer no confirmation from that vantage point. i can say my motherland is calling me and as old time Jamaican people say, “who nuh hear, feel.” 

at the beckoning of my motherland, i am overjoyed to announce—i have officially begun the process of going home. while i have a plan, most of the details have not been finalized so this multimedia (sometimes blog/sometimes photo essay/sometimes podcast) will chronicle my rematriation journey in real time.

i take heart in the fact that in the 1920s my great-grandfather boarded a ship from Hong Kong to Jamaica with far less in his possession than i have in mine. when he closed his eyes for the final time he owned multiple grocery stores on the island. i also watched my father build his own successful transportation company and, with my mother, raised 5 college-educated children, each of whom now have families of our own—all on foreign soil.

if you know me, you know, i am not a trust fund or nepo baby, but i have the inspiration of the ancestors and the most loving and supportive family and friends in the universe so i am more excited than scared. with an open mind and heart, i invite you to follow my rematriation journey!

Let me know what you’d like to read/hear about next below!

1. Ma’as pronounced mahs is a shortening of the word master and is used in Jamaica to signify respect or deference towards a man.