From Cursing My Birthplace To seeing God’s Hidden Blessing

I was born and raised in Jamaica, a small island in the Caribbean with a population of around 2.9 million. Despite its size, Jamaica is known around the world for its breathtaking beaches, vibrant culture, world-class athletes, and as the birthplace of reggae music. Jamaican talent has continuously put the island on the map, and even those with Jamaican roots, though born elsewhere, have gone on to achieve remarkable things. 

One might think that all this would make me proud to be Jamaican, but the reality was quite different for me. Unlike the tourists who came to Jamaica to experience the beauty and luxury of our resorts, leaving only with glittering memories and returning to their everyday lives. They never see the other side, the part I call “the real Jamaica”. Once you step outside the glamorous resorts and into the local communities, that’s where my story truly begins.

Early Life and Background

I was the last of seven kids, my mom had each of us with different fathers, and none of us really knew who our “real” father was. The only one of us who got to carry their biological father’s name was my older sibling. My mom, a single parent, often told us that having different fathers was a blessing, and she always said that she felt sorry for my sibling who didn’t share this “luxury.” Despite her often chaotic lifestyle, we were taught to believe that we were fortunate. But as a child, I didn’t understand what that meant, especially when it came to not having one solid father figure in my life.

Introduction My Mother

My mom was always involved in dangerous activities, as a result we moved around the island more times than I can remember. At one point, we even ended up on the witness protection program. I grew up surrounded by strange men who seemed to come and go without warning. I have vivid memories of soldiers coming to our house late at night, carrying long AK-47s. We were told to lie flat on the ground, crawling on our stomachs if we needed to use the bathroom. I was only about seven years old at the time, and it felt like a strange game. I’d crawl around laughing with my brother, not realizing the seriousness of it all, until the soldiers kept telling us to be quiet and stayed alert with their guns, watching the windows.

That’s when the fear began to set in. When we used the restroom, we were told not to flush so the sound wouldn’t give us away. I remember panicking, wondering if anyone would break in, and thinking we were just sitting ducks waiting for danger. Even after the soldiers left, the fear didn’t go away. I didn’t feel protected anymore. I remember that lingering sense of vulnerability that’s stayed with me all my life. Even to this day, if I’m asleep at night and I hear someone flush a toilet, I wake up terrified, as if I’m still in that place, waiting for the worst to happen.

The Normalization of Chaos

Along with the lifestyle my mother forced us to live, everything started falling apart. My brother was mentally ill and became very abusive, both to himself and the rest of the household. We had no support from the government. My mother would struggle to afford his medication, which helped keep him calm. But when she could afford it, a side effect would kick in: it would make him constantly hungry. We never had enough food to give him, and he would always ask for more. This cycle kept repeating.

My mother often left us, sometimes for days, even weeks, in the care of an elderly lady I came to call my grandmother. She sold bottles so we could buy a little food, and she planted vegetables to ensure we had something to eat. No social worker ever came to check on us or see the conditions we lived in. Because of my mom’s dangerous activities, police raids were also normal, and she constantly moved us around. We had no furniture or beds, so sleeping on the floor was normal.

Unsuitable Environment

I remember when I was nine years old, my mother and her boyfriend at the time were arguing. At the time she had some rice cooking on the stove. In the heat of the argument, she took the boiling rice off the pot and threw it at him. I saw his chest turn red and raw, his skin scorched and pink. In a rage, he grabbed a machete, saying he was going to kill my mom. He grabbed a machete, threatening her, while she grabbed a knife and taunted him. 

I remember thinking, how could she do this? It was like her life, and ours, meant nothing. I feared her boyfriend would turn on us after he was done with her. Terrified, I ran to the neighbor, screaming for her to call the police. The neighbor, very composed, called slowly and calmly. I wanted to scream that it wasn’t just an argument; it was life or death.

When the police arrived, they filed their report and told my mother that the environment was not suitable for raising children. Yet, no one ever followed up. I never received any counseling, and my mother continued down the same path. Witnessing abuse became normal for us, and it was hard to imagine growing up in a different environment. There were times we missed school for weeks. No no one from the school ever sent anyone to check on us or conduct a welfare visit. Now that I’m and adult, I often reflect on how much a visit from a social worker could have changed our lives. Perhaps it would have brought the help we so desperately needed or opened doors to a safer, more stable environment.

A Cycle of Violence

My mother had another boyfriend who was handsome and well-educated, and he was also much younger than her. He came and went, and after a couple of months, he was living with us. Everything was okay at first until he started beating her. One time, my mom came home very bloody, and in her hand was a plastic bag with a green shirt in it, drenched in blood. She gave it to my grandmother to hide as evidence. I remember feeling nauseous at the sight of so much blood.

My mother’s boyfriend noticed that I didn’t know my ABCs at age seven, so he decided to teach my brother and me. At first, it seemed fine, but things took a dark turn when he became violent, especially towards my brother, who struggled a little more with learning. I always did my best to remember the lessons, trying to avoid getting a beating. While he couldn’t punish me for my academics, he found other ways to do it. One day, I don’t remember what I did, but he called me into their bedroom for a beating with his leather belt, a belt he even named ‘Betzy!”

Heliked to take breaks whenever he was beating us, this was to let us think about what we did wrong. When we came back we had better have the right answer. During a break, my brother told me to put on extra shirts so the blows wouldn’t be as hard. I did, but he never called me back and for a minute, I was so disappointed. I wanted to see if what my brother told me was true.

The last thing I remember about him was when he and my mom had an argument. My mom took my brother and I to sleep at the police station on the cold bench. This was in the middle of the night and when I asked my my mom were were sleeping there, she simply said it wasn’t safe to go home. It was so uncomfortable, and the police didn’t care that a lady was there sleeping with her kids. I guess she was a familiar guest, and they were used to her visits.

A World Apart

As I grew older, I often wished I could live anywhere but Jamaica. I dreamed of America or somewhere far from the challenges I faced daily. Eventually, I ended up in an all-girls’ boarding school for high school. It was a blessing and a curse in disguise. On one hand, it was a chance to focus on my education and just be a regular kid. But on the other hand, I felt guilty leaving my siblings behind with my mom, knowing they were still trapped in the struggles I was trying to escape. I would hoard snacks from school to bring home during the monthly outings. I knew the little things I had were luxuries they often didn’t get.

High school opened my eyes to the vast differences in people’s lives. I saw classmates from all walks of life—some poor, some middle class, and some rich. I remember one Easter holiday when my mom was in the hospital, pretending to be sick to collect insurance money. We were at home without food, and I was praying that my mom would come out in time for me to make it back to school on time. When school started I was glad to be trying to forge what a horrible holiday I had. Meanwhile a friend was boasting about her trip to Paris. I couldn’t help but contrast our worlds. There I was, struggling to get by, while she was globe-trotting without a care in the world. It made me question everything.

Graduation Fees

Eventually, graduation came, and the pressure mounted. We had to pay about $50 USD for a graduation package. I didn’t have a dime to my name, so I had to sell my books and exam papers to younger students just to scrape the money together. I couldn’t understand why, after all the hard work I put in, I had to pay to graduate. And if I couldn’t pay, I would not get to walk across the stage on graduation day. The system felt unfair, and for the first time, I started to resent my country.

By the time I got to university, my frustration deepened. I found myself in lecture halls surrounded by students from other countries, students whose governments made their lives easier with subsidies, grants, and better economic opportunities. When I asked my peers from Trinidad about it, they told me that their government paid for their tuition and housing. And as long as they finished their first degree, the government would even fund a second one. No massive student loans, no wondering if their degrees would ever lead to a job. Meanwhile, I was struggling to imagine a future while drowning in student loan debt, with no guarantee of finding work in a country where opportunities were scarce.

A Path of Uncertainty

When I graduated, the reality hit hard. There were no jobs waiting for me, no sense of security. Just endless calls from the loan collection agencies, demanding payments I couldn’t afford. I resented my country for the system that seemed to work against me. I resented the life I was born into, where success felt like a distant dream. At the time, I couldn’t see it, but looking back, I now understand that I was walking a path that wasn’t about reaching some destination. It was about learning to trust God through every struggle, even when the odds seemed impossible. Back then, all I could do was hold on, not knowing that faith was the key to pushing through each twist and turn.

After graduating from college, I found myself working at a call center just to make ends meet, but no matter how hard I worked, the money was never enough. I had to take care of myself and my family, and the burden was heavy. One morning, as I was heading to work, I was robbed at gunpoint by two young men, no older than 19 years old. When I went to the police station to report it, the officer in charge of my case was more interested in flirting with me than addressing the trauma I had just experienced. It felt like the system was failing people like me, and that justice was out of reach.

Thank You for Listening

If you’ve made it this far, thank you for taking the time to read my story. It hasn’t been easy to revisit these memories, but I’m grateful for your support. In the next part, I’ll continue to share the unexpected moments that began to shift my perspective. Stay tuned as I unpack the powerful journey of finding God’s hand in my life, even in the toughest of times. Continue reading in part 2 [here].