I arrive with a sense of déjà vu. Jamaica is not just an island of turquoise seas and lush hillsides; it is, for many of us who grew up abroad, the great unfinished chapter of our lives. Returning here, you are greeted not only by the heat of the sun and the scent of pimento in the breeze, but also by a quiet and unrelenting question: where do I belong?
On the streets of Kingston, or outside a corner shop in Mandeville, people call me “English.” At first, I bristled. We all speak English, don’t we? But of course, this wasn’t about language — it was about identity. Jamaicans have a refreshing way of naming things exactly as they see them. A man with locks becomes “Rasta.” A bald man is “Baldy.” A painter’s apprentice might simply be called “Brush.” And so, by that same gentle shorthand, I became “English.”
And with that small name, a vast and complicated story unfolded.
