January 8, 2010

Jamaican Cherry Juice

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All dressed up for church.

Hi there everyone,

My name is Cherry Brown. I am Ann’s baby sister who is helping her to write the story about “Jamaican Cherry Juice.” It is a child’s story.

I was brought up in rural Jamaica by hard working and loving parents but was exposed to sexual abuse; alcohol and drug abuse; and violence in my community from an early age. I also heard the cries of many children as they were beaten by their parents.

Over time, I have learned how to transform negative energy, think positively, dream, and enjoy the sweet scents just before dawn.

I hate to see children suffer and fail to realise their full potential. That is why I am here to tell you the story of “Jamaican Cherry Juice” and provide you with information on my blog so that you can make better choices.

I hope that when the “book” is published, good women will read it and then help me to nourish the men of Jamaica because we need them now more than ever.

Blessings,

Cherry Brown.

 

January 18, 2026

We, The Creatively Maladjusted.

Posted by marcampbellja under Adolescent Health and Development, Mental Health, Voices | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , |
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“Human salvation lies in the hands of the creatively maladjusted.” Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

I was only working at Llanfair House Nursing Home in Wayne, NJ for about two weeks when I had a conversation with a young white female coworker about the new Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, a conversation that stayed with me my entire life. It was sometime in January of 1986 after I had arrived in the United States from Jamaica for the first time and I remembered the circumstances that caused us to exchange those few words. At the time I could understand why she exhibited her attitude on the subject because as humans we were all entitled to our own beliefs.

It was the same year that Dr. Martin Luther King Jr’s birthday was first observed in America. At the time few people in my own circles had anything to say about the decision even though I felt they were in agreement with the declaration that was eventually made by former president Ronald Reagan. The silence in my home and among my friends about the new holiday was understandable because the black American struggle for civil rights was distant from our own social and economic struggles in Jamaica. But while the history of slavery and it’s many evils were different in Jamaica, I was not too naive to at least appreciate how black Americans must have been impacted by hundreds of years of slavery and then by institutionalized “Jim Crow” segregation.

It was in this context of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr’s first public holiday that I met Mary Ann and had a few words with her on the topic. She was among seven other white females that I worked with in the small business office that was my first job in America. I did not remember specifically about the details that day but her words stayed in the back of my mind for decades.
Seeming somewhat upset, she asked us, “Why is there a holiday for him?” Then she continued, “What did he do?” As we all stood there silent, I felt the need to respond to her questions but I knew that I was a newcomer to America and even then I knew my place and how my response could be interpreted. I had never studied Black American history and did not know enough about Dr. King to get into any discussion or argument that day. However, I felt that I had to say something, albeit only from the perspective of a young foreigner.
“He did so much for civil rights…” I said those few words as I sensed her emotions rising. I was relieved when the brief verbal exchange ended but I had always wished that I had more knowledge about the life and works of Dr. King ever since that day. Maybe my response could have been more informed but I still did not think Mary Ann would have been convinced anyhow.

Forty years later after living here, going to college and working in the Northeast and the South, I am now more aware and educated about the history of Black Americans and “their” civil rights. I made sure that when I was in nursing school I took an elective course in African American History to give me a basic understanding of such a significant chapter in this country. Although educational, that history class was nothing compared to the experiential learning I received while I lived in Atlanta and attended one of the historical black Presbyterian churches there. For about a year I was immersed in Radcliffe Presbyterian Church in the old Atlanta and was guided by an octogenarian who lived through segregation. Every Sunday the services were focused on African American history with stories from the past with Black Anthems and Negro Spiritual songs. All this exposure at Radcliffe Presbyterian Church was transformative for me but it was not until Velma Farmer, an eighty five year old black elder in the church, invited me to accompany her on a visit to her sister’s gravesite in Atlanta’s Oakland Cemetery that my eyes were opened. It was there for the first time that I understood the depth of segregation in the South. Even in death people were divided according to their race. There was the vast white section at the entrance and at the top of the cemetery with expensive elaborate tombstones, the gated Jewish section almost hidden, and the black neglected section at the bottom with mostly unmarked “insignificant” graves.

Having been exposed to all these awful truths about African Americans’ history, I could only imagine why Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. dedicated his life to those causes to the point where he was assassinated as a young man. The history was so atrocious and undeniable that even the United States government was convinced that a day to commemorate the life of this great man was appropriate and timely. Recently, his life’s story had more meaning than ever before as we saw over the last few months too many instances where the current Trump administration acted to erase some of that history from museums and diminished the observance by removing free entry to national parks on Martin Luther King Jr. Day. I believed that all those decisions and movements were deliberate, disgraceful and showed the lack of respect for African Americans that could occur when racism persisted.

All of us, especially those who were mentally strong and abled could not lose sight of what was happening with the efforts to change our history. We must be guided by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr’s words that “Human salvation lies in the hands of the creatively maladjusted.” Of all his powerful words and quotations, this was the one that resonated with me the most because it was through tireless nonviolent resistance why he was able to effect some change in a system where racism and other forms of bigotry were entrenched and thrived for centuries. Only a creatively maladjusted man could achieve what he did! Being creatively maladjusted is the same now as it was then. For me it was not just nonviolent protests about victimization and injustice towards the black marginalized and other oppressed people but also our ability to use music, stories, drama, and poetry to reach and connect with younger generations that never understood this history. Like my former white coworker Mary Ann who was not able to appreciate what Dr. King did for America and Americans, most young people were and still are heavily influenced by stories, drama, poetry and especially music outside of classrooms. These art forms were used for centuries by creatively maladjusted people to touch the souls of others where traditional means failed.

We must continue as long as we have life and we are able to see and read the signs of the time because even this current Republican administration could not deny Dr. King’s achievements, his legacy and it’s potential for political mileage. I believe that was why Donald Trump and his team deliberately chose the anniversary of Dr. King’s ninety seventh birthday on January 15th this year to meet with Maria Corina Machado (a Venezuelan female politician who herself must also be creatively maladjusted) so that she could present him with her coveted Nobel Peace Prize. For certain the president believed as evidenced by his numerous public statements, that he was most deserving of the prestigious award not only more than Machado but even more than Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. who won it in 1964. And so, in spite of all the ridicule in the media and in the eyes of the world, the president of the United States accepted another person’s Nobel Peace Prize as a gift with a smile on his face while in his own twisted reality he measured up with those who earned it.

 

January 11, 2026

The Emergence: When We Became Poets.

Posted by marcampbellja under Adolescent Health and Development, Jamaica, Mental Health, Voices | Tags: , , , , , |
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Although I was a brilliant child, I remember that the English Language was quite difficult for me to learn. It became even more challenging when I had to learn how to write “compositions” or as the Americans say, essays. Then as I started to prepare for the Common Entrance Examination for high school, there were those “comprehension” assignments that would have me sweating in nervousness as I searched through the lines to find the answers to the questions that were being asked. As a result of my uncertainty about the topics and my overall discomfort with the language, I would always be at risk for running out of time during those English examinations.

My mother on the other hand thought otherwise that I should be at ease with the English language. During my childhood there were at least two occasions when she told me that I should speak proper English. The last time she expressed that concern to me was when I was in high school. Hearing me one day chatting in raw patois, she said. “Mar, you are in high school now, you need to speak proper English.” At the time I could not understand why she expected that of me because patois, the local dialect was all we knew and spoke, except in my Presbyterian church. Given that she was never the type of person to explain things, I could only guess that her brief stay in England impacted her life to some degree and caused her to appreciate the benefits of speaking “properly.”

As I journeyed through young adulthood, English Language became central to my life. Thinking that I was proficient in the subject after I passed it at the Caribbean Examinations Council (CXC) general leveI, I approached college with confidence. However, by the time I entered freshman year in America, I was shocked when my first academic advisor recommended that I did remedial English. To this day the only benefit I received from that remedial English class was speed reading. I was going to have to read and comprehend at a faster pace in order to excell not only in college but in life; the American way.

With all its benefits in my life, the best thing about the English Language was my ability to appreciate poetry and my own discovery of it as an art and an instrument in 2003. Besides arduosly memorizing poems in elementary school, I was never taught about the importance or relevance of poetry in society. Poems seemed so simple and had little meaning until I found myself working for the United States government at USAID in Kingston, Jamaica. After just a few months in the agency, given the context of the September 11th, 2001 (911) attacks and the George Bush Administration’s response, I started to feel as if I was being colonized all over again through direct monitoring actions on my movement and what I could say in public not only as an employee but as a private citizen. These disturbing factors along with the inequity and injustice that surfaced among vulnerable Jamaicans bought out the poet in me. I did not have to study poetry then to understand metaphors and themes because they were all around me. The voices became so powerful that I had to write and poetry was the only safe way to express myself in a way that my superiors and my audiences would understand.

Since then life has changed tremendously and with my illness, my energies are directed differently. While I no longer write poems, I still can relate to those of us who are poets. A few days ago America was forced to pay attention to the news story about one of its citizens Renee Nicole Good, a thirty seven year old white woman and mother of three children whose life was terminated by an Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agent. As the story unfolded, it was revealed that the good lady was a poet (pun intended). The country went in an uproar as people posited all kinds of theories about what really happened to cause such a tragedy. The political leaders, Republicans and Democrats, not surprisingly already took sides and decidded to defend the ICE agent or the victim purely based on political ideology.

As the demonstrations about her death spread across the United States and the voices got louder and louder, I could sense that more poets were emerging. Just as I was moved twenty three years ago to write my first poem when my identity and my culture felt threatened by my imperial employers, I knew that many here and abroad were then pulling out their pens to write their feelings. Not everyone was comfortable to say on social media or in a public interview about how they were really affected by all this but I was certain that many were writing privately on their paper napkins as they sat at their dinner tables or as they settled on their toilet bowls, not realizing that they too had become poets in response to the unprecedented times.

 

January 6, 2026

My Humble Home Still Stands: Offering Chicken Soup That Heals

Posted by marcampbellja under Adolescent Health and Development, Jamaica, Mental Health | Tags: , , , , , , , , |
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Today marks forty years since I left my home in the hills of Cascade, Hanover on January 6th, 1986 to come to the United States of America as a permanent resident, also regarded as an alien. So naive at twenty years old, I looked to this country as a place where I could realize my dreams of further education and overall independence. Decades later I was able to comprehend why I was issued an alien card until I applied for and was granted citizenship. However, despite that change in my immigration status, I still remained an alien in this country as I was reminded often about the stark differences between this place and my roots. This alienation was amplified after my illness by the separation from family and close friends.

While I honestly had no intention today of focusing on my childhood, a series of events, particularly the recent Category 5 Hurricane Melissa in western Jamaica brought me pictures from the place I once knew as my only home. My last son on his most recent visit, journeyed form Kingston on the eastern section of the island over to Cascade on what was probably a spiritual humanitarian mission for him. As I looked at the picture he sent me of the house I grew up in and spent the first twenty years of my life, I was faced with mixed feelings. My humble home was still standing after all these years! There were clear signs of deterioration and even the zinc roof could not hide the battering from the hurricane as the red paint was peeled off in most places.

Yes. Cascade was a place that evoked mixed feelings for me. Though still very proud to call it my home, it was a place where the universe dealt me the cards for life that I never knew would determine my destiny. Totally oblivious as a child, I thought my life was better than most people in the neighborhood. This strange deception of privelige was because my mother established a grocery shop after returning from spending a few years in England. Hence, through the shop, it appeared that we had what others did not have. In retrospect, I was really not very different from my neighbor’s children. The first phase of my home was just three small rooms and a verandah with an outdoor makeshift wood fire kitchen. We did not even have a private space to bathe until I was about nine years old in 1974 when I asked my father to spread some cement mortar beside the pit latrine that would be our bathroom. I spent most of my early childhood using kerosene lamps at night and did not have access to electricity until that same year. That was life for just about everyone in Cascade those days and it took me a lifetime and a series of trials to know the truth that we were indeed poor.

Decades later in the aftermath of Hurricane Melissa, Cascade like so many communities in western Jamaica have been blown back into a time of antiquity and innocence. A dear family and frriend who lives in an adjoining community to Cascade, told me a few days ago that she was battling the flu and asked me for any suggestions to aid her relief. Among my recommendations was the proven and effective chicken soup. Totally forgetting about her inability to access fresh meat and the basic element of heat to cook a pot of chicken soup, I was almost embarrassed when she reminded me that there was still no electricity in the area after almost three months. This just showed how quickly we forget the realities of others when we are far separated by thousands of miles and across urban modernity.

The picture of the house my parents built spoke volumes to our resilience as a people. Built somewhere around 1963, it has weathered many storms and stood through many untold tests. There were many other houses that were not able to withstand Melissa’s fury but it’s location just beneath the hill across the road might have protected it. The house mirrors the trials I have had in my life as well as a result of serious and chronic illnesses. Although windswept, tattered and completely devastated, my foundation and my walls stood up and by God’s mercy my roof remained.

Very significant were the gravesites of my father and mother that were not visible from the roadside but held the emotional stories of lives once lived. Besides the emotions connected to the tremendous needs that existed in Cascade, there were also many connected to my parents. Emotions that stirred my son to tears while he was there were not surprising to me. For so many families, the hurricane removed the covering from above our heads and exposed our realities. It forced many of us to take a second look not just at the houses but the land which held our ancestors and our past. It also made at least one of my schoolmates, a man who I perceived to be quite secure in life, questioned his readiness for retirement after he was faced with the unexpected high costs of rebuilding his house. As I think about my beloved family friend who needed the chicken soup for her healing, I knew that in her heyday my mother would have been cooking not just soups but plenty meals to nourish and strengthen the community after the hurricane settled.

 

January 3, 2026

The Sweet Spot

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Robert (pseudonym) was the first person I heard who said the words, “the sweet spot” around the summer of 2010. He was my ex husband’s brother-in-law but I barely knew him because we lived in different countries and I never had any type of relationship with him. During a short stay at his house with his wife in one of Atlanta’s suburbs, about a year after I started blogging , I was describing the feeling of fulfillment and satisfaction to him that I received doing my life’s work and from writing. He must have known what beautiful effective writing really meant when you connect and engage the reader because as I searched in my soul to find the right words, he said, “you mean the sweet spot.” I knew then for sure that he had also found that private special place for himself, especially doing his hobby as a wood sculptor.

Prior to when I knew the meaning, I also had many sweet spots before I started to experience the release and the joys of blogging. The first one that came to my mind was that feeling while writing anthropology reaction papers in graduate school and that precise moment I knew that it was an A grade before the professor even read it. Secondly, peak performances at my jobs in Jamaica when the team was able to achieve all targets simultaneously were definitely sweet spots.

Some sweet spots for me were not always planned or measurable but were sometimes brought to me directly from nature when I least expected them. How could I forget that incredible view from an airplane window while approaching Atlanta airport during a summer sunset in 2012, being so hopeful about starting a new career? Or the morning when my former southern landlady knowing my fear of reptiles, asked me to touch a little turtle she took from the creek while she held it in her hands? I still did not understand how all this was related or even how all of my brain chemicals worked but I knew how I felt on those two occasions and those were undoubtedly sweet spots.

While many people might be uncomfortable to talk about it or to admit it, another sweet spot experience was my body’s reaction at the peak of arousal during the sexual response cycle. Even more powerful, was at the time of birth after hours of hard labor when my body endured through pain and surrendered to deliver a new life. These were reminders that in most instances, the best sweet spots came after hard focused work over a period of many years.

I have also found sweet spots when I have had teachable moments bonding with children. From pouring apple cider for my eight year old son who was missing his dad after he left home on a business trip in 2003, to more recently confirming with my little five year old neighbor, that there was no Santa Claus, it was all familiar. It was when we saw that children got the answers to their questions and what messages had the potential to change their perspectives on life forever.

It was probably for that reason, that sweet spot, why many politicians held on to power after having the thrill of an election victory and why great musicians had hits with certain songs that left their fans yearning for more. We sought over and over to relive the climax of great masterpieces and that was why we bought our own favorite books and records and continued to reread and replay them.

If we ever experienced our sweet spots…we wanted to hold on to them but they only lasted for a fleeting moment like mere seconds as the body got the euphoric messages from brain chemicals that most of us did not fully comprehend. It was a place in time where things flowed with ease and with the least resistance after years of preparation and it was a place that could potentially generate tremendous wealth for those who could harness it into a repeatable and replicable product to meet the demands they created.

Most humans will never achieve Usain Bolt”s ultimate sweet spot of sprinting record’s 9.58 seconds that stunned the world or Michael Jordan’s basketball “Air” empire. However, we can find our own little niche and create our hits that cause others to stop, pay attention and pause for a moment as our bat cracks against the baseball at that perfect spot and sends it flying in the air leaving others in awe. For my own children, that moment might be in their respective skills and occupations with support from their brotherhoods. I can sense that they are now approaching their sweet spots and I wish them well as they hone their crafts according to their passions and values and I pray for that generous flow that leads them to deep rewarding relationships, pure presence and overall stability.

 

December 31, 2025

Bethany, Butterflies And Blessings.

Posted by marcampbellja under Adolescent Health and Development, Jamaica, Mental Health | Tags: , , , , , , |
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Recently I was told by a fellow blogger that it seemed as if I was reconnecting to my purpose. I am guessing that she said this because she started reading my posts and pages from my “books” from as way back in 2009 when I started my blogging journey. From then I had always valued her comments and opinions because of how much she was engaged on the issues I cared about. Bethany, a Caucasian originally from Europe who moved to Jamaica with her parents as a young child, was not an ordinary human being and I knew that from the day when as a total stranger to me, she arranged to meet up at the Cafe Bleu restaurant in Liguanea, St. Andrew while I was still living in Jamaica. I remembered her calm, almost angelic and tender personality during the short meeting. I realized then that although we lived thousands of miles apart, we had similar passions about Jamaica and we were both writers in our own styles.

After confirming that my own purpose had shifted significantly over the years, I felt that I had to ask her about her own purpose in life. With such modesty, she told me that she felt like a flitting butterfly and that her purpose was to connect people. She wrote those few words about a week ago and today like another butterfly, I connected to at least one childhood memory and to one other beautiful soulmate whose presence is like that of a butterfly.

Butterflies thrived in the rural hills of my community in Cascade, Hanover. As children we played with them in flower gardens and would wish for them to land on our hands so that we could watch them fly away from us. Little girls were so fascinated and enamored by them that we always drew pictures of colorful butterflies in our books. However, the most striking memory most children have of the butterfly was that elementary school science exercise when we placed the green caterpillar into a jar and waited for it to transform into a butterfly. That experience happened for me when I was about nine years old. The image of the black crysalis will never fade yet the mystery still abounds about how a totally different creature evolved into the butterfly.

Life carries us in directions we never imagined we would go and in many instances against our will. Almost four years ago I had no choice but to return to New Jersey and at the time I was already so ill that I stopped writing. During the course of that time I met a petite, soft spoken lady from Barbados at the community center across the street from where I live. She was different from most people I had ever met and today I concluded that like Bethany, she too is a symbolic butterfly.

I will not say her name because she is very private but today I want her to know that she is my butterfly for so many reasons. She has blessed me with clothes, food, natural remedies to aid my sleep and an air conditioning unit to protect me from the sweltering heat in the summer. When the shower drain was blocked in my apartment for over a week in February, I asked her if I could bathe at her house and she welcomed me over. I do not take this for granted because I know that most people here would not have done that for me.

Although she will remain anonymous to my readers, the important thing is that I know her and the positive energy she exudes. On several other occasions she opened the doors to her home for me so that we could fellowship or just play cards. It was after one of those visits a few months ago while I was leaving her front door, I noticed a beautiful yellow/orange butterfly among the flowers in her potted plants. At the time I thought it was quite unusual because I did not expect to see one in this urban neighborhood. But nature teaches us lessons when we pay attention. Her yard is conducive to butterflies because her husband maintains an organic vegetable garden with tomatoes, cucumbers and other herbs that surround the perimeter of the house, except for the front.

I always knew that I wanted to use my blog to express my gratitude and my overall sentiments to my adopted sister, as she calls me but I did not know how the story would be told. The universe used Bethany and the metaphor of the butterfly to connect the sentences and to spread messages of renewal, hope and everlasting love. As we approach the beginning of a new unknown year with so many uncertainties, we can be sure that our butterflies will continue to thrive in places like my sister’s home where a garden welcomes them. And like butterflies, may our quiet gestures continue to ripple across our communities into the world with blessings.

 

December 25, 2025

Quite Perry’s Christmas Message: “I am favored and it is not fair.”

Posted by marcampbellja under Adolescent Health and Development, Jamaica, Mental Health | Tags: , , , , , , , |
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The well decorated Christmas tree was standing tall and alone in the dining room at the community center for almost three weeks with no one to appreciate or enjoy its beauty. Essentially Christmas was cancelled at Westside Community Center this year because there was no heat in the building since the start of the winter season. The fact that the county leaders, engineers and workmen had not been able to resolve the HVAC problem was totally unacceptable to me. The senior program and other scheduled activities that many had become accustomed to were abruptly terminated. Just like the broken heating system, the lifeline of the daily activities was disrupted.

Similar to the happenings at the community center, there were other visible signs in the neighborhood that Christmas had taken a downturn. As I walked along the sidewalks and through the park, there were only a few houses with any type of indication that it was Christmas. Apart from about six homes with wreaths and three crafted reindeers, the remaining fifty or so were bare. The cars did not have the usual Christmas fandangles that were typical this time of year. Even the people walking on the street seemed less spirited and only one man, the groundskeeper for the park said “Happy Holidays” to me as I did my last lap yesterday.

As I reflected on the season, I also wondered why we have always used the word happy before all the holidays. From Happy New Year’s all the way to Happy Christmas, we had always wished each other happiness. We wanted the best for each other, from joyous occasions to good fortune. And I think most of us still do have those desires despite the day to day realities of things like economic hardships, illnesses, and natural disasters such as Hurricane Melissa in western Jamaica. This year was extremely turbulent for so many of us that it was only human that we experienced some degree of unhappiness. However as we tried our best to shield our lives from all that was happening around us, we might had chosen not to talk about it or dwelled on it. Instead, we held on to hope and to that glimmer of light that we sought for a better tomorrow.

Certainly, even as it is overcast right now, all is not gloomy on this Christmas day. Recently, I listened to Rohan Perry, a popular Jamaican social media influencer and comedian who said in one of his skits that he was now favored because he could pay his bills at the cash register without having to check his bank balance. He also added and emphasized that it was not fair for him to be favored. I was not expecting to hear these words coming from his mouth. Quite Perry as he is called was always known to be hilarious, even trivial and some would say entitled. However in this video he was very grateful for his new favored reality status compared to the past when he always had to check if he had enough money. I had never seen him so sober and I had to wonder if the category 5 hurricane with all its devastation had pressed him to reveal another side of himself; the human side.

Like Perry, I believe that most of us could say to some extent that we were favored at some stage of our lives. For years we enjoyed good health and we earned or were given enough to keep us satisfied and contented. But I do not think most who consider themselves favored would say that it was not fair. They would argue that they worked hard and deserved every return or reward. Rohan Perry, the regular man that he showed himself to be, knew that indeed life could be unfair. He demonstrated that he was in tuned to the realities of our times and he empathized with the less fortunate. His message was quite relevant for all of us during this Yuletide season when many have decorated trees standing alone and others have no heat to keep them warm. It was with seriousness, sincerity and solidarity that he paused from being a silly comedian and said to his fans, “I am favored and it is not fair.”

 

December 19, 2025

When Jimmy Cliff said, “The Children Are All Mine.”

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I was about seven years old spending the summer holidays with my sister in Kingston when I first became aware of the song, “I can see clearly now, the rain is gone.” I had no idea who the artist was but I can remember hearing Eula, the landlord’s helper (maid) singing the song on a regular basis whether it rained or not. That song must have had some type of meaning or impact on her life more than the gospel songs that most people could be heard singing as they did their daily chores. I can only recall spending one summer there with Eula but there were certain things about that young woman that were enough to leave a lasting impression on me as I returned to Cascade.

Reggae’s positive, spiritual and uplifting themes through the radio waves accompanied me throughout my entire childhood and into adolescence. Thankfully, it was because of those pioneers, chief among them Jimmy Cliff, why I appreciated what I later learned to be social justice from such an early age. Reggae songs like “Many rivers to cross” and “By the rivers of Babylon” were so popular that it would not be unusual or inappropriate for us to sing them in my Presbyterian church. This was evident of the progressive direction of the church from back in those days. For years I sang those songs without an appreciation of the meaning of the words or even what the powerful metaphors were teaching me about life.

Focussing on work and raising my own children with the sound of new music of America in my ears, I lost touch with much of my Jamaican culture until I returned home in the late 1990s. Reggae reclaimed it’s place in my life as I worked in the community serving some of the most vulnerable populations. It was during this time, one day on a Sunday afternoon as I was preparing dinner that my attention was drawn to a radio interview where Jimmy Cliff was the special guest. Although the discussion went on for at least thirty minutes, I do not remember anything except for when the female host asked him about his children. In his prophetic response and with divine wisdom, Jimmy did not mention how many children he fathered but I am certain that he said something along these lines:
“They are all mine” or “The children are all mine.”
I sensed that the host was as perplexed as I was about what Jimmy meant. However at the end of the conversation, I concluded that Jimmy Cliff meant that all Jamaica’s and the world’s children were his and he did not want to focus only on his own.

Now that he is no longer here in the flesh and I am seeing all the tributes pour in, it makes perfect sense. As an extraordinary human being, a father of nineteen children and an international Reggae Ambassador, he knew that he had a responsibility to deliver wholesome music to the millions of children and to people in general who listened and looked up to him.

During the celebration of his life that was broadcast for all to see and hear, I was moved immensely by his brother who decided to call out the names of all his children. Many people were surprised by the number but not me because I remembered that part of his family story that he tried to keep very private and close to his heart despite his own public life. For the kind of man that I thought he was, undoubtedly he also nurtured many more children during his lifetime that even his brother could not name them all. For indeed, as he said, ” They are all mine “

 

December 16, 2025

Adapting To New Jersey’s Winters: Heeding Mac’s Advice To Bundle Up.

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For the last few days it has been below freezing temperatures in the mornings as I accompany Prince to school. Yesterday was particularly challenging because it snowed the night before and there was about five inches accumulated on the ground. I had never liked walking in the snow in all my years living in the United States but I always had to do it out of necessity. As I walked gingerly along the unshovelled sidewalk and listened to the snow crunching between my shoe soles and the pavement, it brought me back to the days when I first landed here in 1986.

Snow along with the freezing weather was very unnatural to me when I first experienced it forty years ago and it still is now. I just could never understand how it could be so cold that it could actually freeze on the outside. So even as I waited in the arrival lounge at Newark Airport on January 6th, in 1986 listening to my ex husband’s brother telling me how cold it was, I could have never prepared for what was awaiting me on the outside. I said to myself that it was going to feel just like an open freezer. After all, it could not be worse than that. Boy, was I wrong! As I stepped out in the night into the frigid air, I had no idea about the kind of weather that would await me over the next fifteen winters in New Jersey.

I stayed home for about six weeks before I got my first job that February working about forty-five minutes away in a town called Wayne. I started working at Llanfair House Nursing Home as a medical records clerk in an office where I was the only black person at the time. Soon thereafter I met Wilton MacAndrew who everyone called Mac. He was the maintenance supervisor and was originally from the country of Guyana. Immediately we developed a special relationship as he showed me the “ropes” about the work environment and other matters.

All those years Mac was like a father figure to me moreso because he and his wife did not have any children of their own. He empathized with me when I could not tolerate the bland food that was served in the cafeteria and brought me his homemade pickled hot pepper sauce so that I could enhance the flavor of the free meals that were provided. But of all the things that Mac did for me, his genuine concern about my health, safety and comfort was what I remember the most. He saw that I was only wearing a light winter coat, with bare head and legs as I came and went from work. For months he tried to convince me to dress warmer but I could not appreciate at the time how that could benefit me. Nevertheless, he persisted for about two years and would always say,
“Ann Marie, you need to wear a hat to keep your head warm.”

I do not remember exactly when I started to bundle up for the cold winters. It probably happened over the period of about three years as my mind and body adapted to life in America. One thing is certain now, I do know that dressing in layers and covering my head eventually made a significant difference in how I felt when I stepped outside in the cold. And I seemed to tolerate the cold much better than I did in my younger days.

Mac was a precious soul. He did not only teach me how to bundle up for the harsh winters but he was there for me during the days when I had no transportation to travel to work and to do other activities, especially related to childcare. He was instrumental in helping me to purchase a used car and negotiated the price for a small apartment in Teaneck where I stayed until I completed nursing school. He did all this for me after I had left the job in Wayne and he heard that I had fallen on hard times after my separation. He spoke to the administrator of the facility and without hesitation they decided to retire me.

I have never forgotten Mac’s love, kindness and protection towards me and my first child. Almost every day when I put on my hat, my scarf, and my coat before stepping outside, I think about him. The last time I spoke to him about a year ago he told me that he had lost the vision in one of his eyes and was no longer able to drive He was still very concerned about me like how any good father would be. I really should give him a call to let him know that I have been bundling up as best as I can.

 

December 14, 2025

Handwritten (Love) Letters

Posted by marcampbellja under Adolescent Health and Development, Mental Health | Tags: , , |
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I’m trying to remember if I had ever received a love letter. Hmmm. It took a little while for me to reach deep in my mind but after a few minutes I remembered that I used to send and I received love letters back in the mid 1970s and early 1980s. In those days I used the post office to communicate with friends, family, and my sweetheart. The post office and the Royal Mail van brought back memories of the days when I would wait on letters for weeks or months. I wrote letters by hand, walked to the post office, bought the postal stamp and carefully dropped the letter into the little red window. Then I would go home and daydream about the letter travelling to reach its destination.

In those days, I really enjoyed receiving all types of letters in the mail. When I was about nine or ten years old at Brownsville All Age School (elementary), I subscribed to the “Children’s Own” newspaper just so I could find pen pals. I would select my pen pals carefully before I sent my first letter. Overtime I had at least a dozen pen pals who I would send letters to and they would reply to me. In those letters, we would share facts about ourselves, our family, and our friends. This newspaper designed for children enhanced our education and provided opportunities for social interactions. Unfortunately, or perhaps by the design and intention of the Ministry of Education, I stopped reading the “Children’s Own” by the time I was a first former at Rusea’s High School. Text books replaced the little light green newspaper I once cherished and soon I formed new friendships for my journey through high school.

Around this time my relationship with an overseas boyfriend grew and love letters started to arrive. I remember how my heart would beat fast when I received those handwritten love letters and how I would take care in responding. As I grew older in high school, the letters became more personal and intimate. I married that boyfriend in 1984 and migrated to the United States two years later. Except for greeting cards which are not the same, I have not seen a handwritten love letter since then.

In this day of high technology communication with texting, emails and social networking on places like Facebook, handwritten letters have disappeared and I think this is quite regrettable because we have lost that personal touch and feel. Handwritten letters in general were so meaningful to me that I remember where I was when I received the last one. I had just started graduate school in Atlanta, Georgia and a former colleague, Hope Ramsay sent me a thoughtful letter expressing her appreciation for the work we did in Jamaica for HIV/AIDS prevention. I kept that letter for years in my handbag until it got misplaced after all my moves.

For over ten years now I have been forced to slow down in every aspect of my life, including my letter writing. During one of my hospitalizations, I was encouraged by my therapist to journal and while I was an outpatient in the summer of 2015, I was required to write a letter to Mar (the little girl I used to be). I told Mar that I loved her and that I understood how vulnerable she was. I cried after I was through writing the letter and remember tearing it in pieces and throwing it in the trash. Two years later in 2017, I wished I had kept that letter I wrote to Mar during my depression because I was so open and honest with her.

Handwritten letters, whether they be love letters or otherwise, were so much more personal than electronic ones; I could feel the texture of the paper, smelled the special perfume used by the writer, saw the little pink hearts drawn just for me, and held the letter close to my chest. Maybe I am asking too much now but I would love to get a handwritten letter delivered by the mailman to my gate. It does not have to be a love letter from a boyfriend or an admirer. Like my little inner Mar, I would run to the mailbox with anticipation and I would purposely delay the opening of the letter until my bedtime so that I would have many sweet dreams; that was the kind of emotional impact that a handwritten letter had.

 

December 10, 2025

Prince Knows That There Is No Santa Claus.

Posted by marcampbellja under Child care and protection, Jamaica, Mental Health | Tags: , , , , , , |
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As we approach the Christmas season, there are many messages circulating on social media about how people are feeling towards the holiday. After making a brief comment to one such post, a stranger recently told me on Facebook that I was a horrible mother for telling my son when he was four or five that there was no Santa Claus. Although I had always known that there were people who disagreed with me on the matter of whether Santa Claus was relevant or not, I began to question and reevaluate my decision to tell my son the truth even though at the time I knew that it was the right thing for me to do.

I had always felt from even before I became a mother at age twenty one that children should get the correct answers to questions that they ask in an age appropriate way. I believed this because I was raised in a Christian community that upheld rules from the Bible and also because I was heavily influenced by Reggae music and Rastafari which reminded us constantly to “teach the children the truth.” Nevertheless, for a moment I wondered if I might had been mean to my son when I had that conversation about Santa Claus over thirty years ago. Was I being selfish in letting him know that I was the one who was buying his Christmas presents? Was I really ruining his childhood innocence and whatever magical thinking he had about Santa Claus at age four? In hindsight, I made that decision because I had learned quickly in America that I could not afford as a single mother to spend outside of my basic budget.

Being the curious investigator that I still am, I decided to test Prince, the little five year old boy who lives with his mother in the same housing unit that I occupy. I walk with him to school every morning over a short distance and usually try to engage him in conversation for a few minutes.
As we descended the steps towards the sidewalk, I asked him the question already suspecting his response.
“Prince, do your know who is Santa Claus?”
“Yes “
“Who is he?” I really wanted to know what Prince thought about Santa.
With a smile on his face he said,
“He gives the presents.”

“And what do you know about him?” I was really anticipating his next words.

“He has a white beard.”
I was still curious as to what what going on in his mind so I probed.
“So, is Santa Claus real?”
Without hesitation Prince replied.
“Yes.”
At that moment when Prince said yes, I felt that I might have been wrong by disclosing to my own child too soon in his development that Santa was not real. But before I could even finish that thought Prince looked up at me with a twinkle in his left eye after taking his gaze from the sidewalk and said.
“No, No. He is not real.”
I watched him as he thought over his response in a matter of a couple seconds and then I asked.
“So who gives you those presents at Christmas?”
Prince held out his arms and replied.
“My mommy!”
I asked him to give me a high five and continued our walk to his school feeling vindicated that I had done the right thing for my son. After all, he was exactly the same age as Prince and probably already knew that Santa Claus was not real.


There is no Santa Claus!
All my life growing up in Jamaica, I never expected anything from Santa Claus because we just did not have that tradition. We went to church, participated in Christmas rallies, service to the community and celebrated with seasonal food and music in fellowship. My only memory of anything pertaining to Santa Claus was pictures on greeting cards and foreign songs like, “Santa Claus is coming to town ” The whole issue of Santa was so ridiculous in Jamaica at the time that at least one reggae artist made an hilarious song about him being stuck in a tree entitled “Santa ketch up eena mango tree.”
I guess that I was not horrible after all…it’s just a cultural thing .

 

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