As a young girl my passport was filled with custom stamps from various countries. Home was where ever my mom had family or friends. Being a foreigner, that meant traveling outside the U.S., Jamaica, England, Italy, France. My mom was a bird and my sister and I were the delicate feathers attached to her wings. Occasionally when we got too heavy she would shed her feathers; for us, that was the wonderful consequence of being left at Grandmother’s house. My family is Jamaican. Not the Jamaicans tourists see selling hats, purses, and beads on the beaches of Negril or Montego Bay; or the Rhasts Farian tour guides of Dunns River Falls. She doesn’t worship Bob Marley or only listen to more than Reggie Music and No!, marijuana is not grown or smoked openly in every front yard. They are from the hills of Smokey Ville Mountain in Kingston. My Grandfather is an engineer and my grandmother spends most of her days educating local youth at the United Methodist Church School or having tea with her neighbors, wives of Jamaican politicians and businessmen in her wildflower garden over looking the bay.
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