‘In every conceivable manner, the family is link to our past, bridge to our future. ‘ ~Alex Haley.

For most of my life I have lived apart from my nuclear family.  Despite having numerous cousins on both sides, I have never lived close enough to bump into one in my neighborhood.  In fact, most of my cousins would not recognize me now, since the last time I saw many of them was when I was a child.  Which is a shame, because memories of my early childhood are full of get-togethers where a family gathering was full of laughter.  Thanks to one cousin (who I have seen fairly regularly in adulthood) I have access to a well-researched family tree, so I can read of great-great grandparents, see old photos and imagine a resemblance.

Moving to Miami in the late 70’s was a complete act of faith.  I knew only one person there, and he was my reason for going there. At first the only friends I had were his friends, but once I started working, I found a group of people who would look out for me.  When they found out I was pregnant Carolyn would make sure that I stopped during my shift to eat the food she had brought from the cafeteria for me. 

When my ride was late to pick me up (and the phone didn’t wake him up), Johnny Mae would wait with me.  Once she sat there until three in the morning (I was working the three to eleven pm shift at the time) until finally my husband arrived.  They became my cousins, my aunties, and looked out for me. Mind you, I was working on Miami Beach, and this was still the time you had to have an ID showing you worked on the beach and had reason to be there, a throw-back from Jim Crow days.  Despite the fact that I was a young white girl, and these ladies were African American, they cared for my well-being.

In our early years together we bought a house, thanks to the efforts of a young African American real estate agent.  We had no money for a down-payment, but he found us a program we qualified for that would get us into a house without it.  And soon we were living in what is now Miami Gardens.  At the time the original White Americans were gradually moving out of the neighborhood, being replaced by families of color.  Once again, we had no extended family members to call on, but soon our neighbors became our friends for life (one still lives next door to my daughter, and he looks out for her, while she checks in on him like a daughter).

As our children grew up, my husband heard about the activities in the local park, and soon the boys were enrolled in football, my daughter in the cheerleading squad.  I can’t say I was enamored of the football thing – when I attended games I often turned my back to the action, sure that one of my kids was going to get broken or bruised.  Why couldn’t they learn to play the piano? Of course, now we know so much more about the long-term effects of these contact sports, hopefully the guidelines in place will be effective.

I was reminded of these early years last weekend, when I attended a tribute to the man who headed up the Track and Field team at the park, who still looks as young as he did thirty years ago.  Here was a man who thought nothing of packing up a busload of kids to take them on the road.  They went to local meets, state meets, and even once went on a road trip to Minnesota (with a side trip to Wisconsin!).  Can you imagine going on a road trip with kids aged between six and eighteen?  But Coach Jonesy had no qualms.  With his team of coaches and chaperones he saw no obstacles, despite the fact that many of the kids could not pay their own way.  In the tributes that were given,  many spoke of the difference he made in their lives, the opportunities that had been provided, the values he had taught them.  He and his wife had absorbed countless kids into their home, making sure they did their homework, insisting on seeing report cards, then pushing them as hard as they could go on the track field.

It was good to see the crowd that attended, many of the coaches boasted accomplishments with the local high school teams. In my daughter’s tribute, she made sure to mention that she had been provided with powerful role models: strong Black men who put others ahead of themselves; who worked selflessly to encourage children to greatness. But I was most touched to realize that, in the move to Miami Gardens, we had found a family for our children.  Without even trying, though far away from the Jamaican village of our childhood, we had found a village that would always look out for our kids.  I may not have run into cousins in my neighborhood, but at work I could run across a parent from the park, a cheerleading coach who knew my daughter, or a kid that ran with my kids.

We immigrants learn to survive in a strange land.  My husband soon learned to drop his Jamaican accent so that he could blend in, and talk like a ‘Yankee’.  Ironic to think that Jamaicans refer to Black Americans in this way, I suppose they are identified with the segment of the population in the north that supported abolition.  Yet most of the ‘Yankees’ we met were from the south.  In return, Jamaicans are known as ‘Yardies’, based on the way we refer to Jamaica.  And in a strange land, the ‘Yankees’ became cousins to my kids.

This Friday morning, I hope you are among family, for we all need the unconditional love that families can provide.  I hope that you have all of the cousins that you need!

Have a wonderful weekend, Family!

One Love!

Namaste.