I must confess that I led what technically could be described as a double life. No, I was not gay and would not have sought to hide it had I been. I was not engaged in duplicity or was I a part of any cabal or secret society to which I was sworn to silence. I was not a Walter Mitty character flitting mindlessly between the realms of reality and fiction. I was not bipolar or was I diagnosed with any particular personality disorder. I had what to many would seem a normal life. Yet, I occupied two entirely different worlds.

As a resident of Jones Town — which shares the iconic Kingston 12 postal code with its more famous neighbour (thanks to Bob Marley) — I was at the epicentre of the mayhem which defined our dysfunctional political discourse during the cataclysmic period of the 70s and 80s.In the ghetto — as my residential community was pejoratively identified — I met the acquaintance of some whom most of us would be reluctant to acknowledge in polite company, but whose ‘services’ many pillars of society would rely on to wreak vengeance and settle scores. These were the enforcers or protectors whose principal tasks were to guarantee partisan uniformity in their various fiefdoms and provide security from marauding tribes.Through my close encounters I was able to discern the humanity and vulnerability of some whose reported deeds and actions would mark them for eternal perdition by most conventional readings of the scriptures. Thankfully, I was never involved in any crime, either as a victim or a perpetrator, though the consequences of illegal activities were all around.As a student of the Jesuit-run St George’s College I would rub shoulders daily with the scions of gentry, who were largely oblivious of my provenance. Yet, at St George’s I belonged to an elite group of that great institution serving as head boy, president of the students’ council, captain of the Schools’ Challenge Quiz team, debater, dramatist, elocutionist, and a nationally ranked junior tennis player. I was also able to secure a scholarship to Harvard as a result of my academic and extracurricular efforts. Through this experience I learned that individual achievements were often the outcomes of collective efforts and that we often discount the impact of our environment on our individual accomplishments.I thoroughly enjoyed my time at St George’s College, which was often spent in the company of some of the most talented and brilliant individuals imaginable. Andrew Nicholas Mais was one of my schoolmates daring enough to venture from the relative comfort of his own domestic arrangements to enter into the chaotic world of mine. Mais, one of the few individuals I have ever known to get a perfect score in the SATs, would win a scholarship attend Yale. I learned so much from him, especially through the frequent debates we had which often attracted onlookers and could become particularly entertaining with the participation of our exceedingly witty friend Dwight Bacquie, whose father, Neville, along with Adrian Foreman and R Danny Williams, was a founder of Life of Jamaica. Through these encounters I learned that (at school) the best lessons were often taught outside the classroom and the most effective teachers were usually those not paid for our instruction.I had some great teachers, including John Rupley and Larkland Tabois, both of whom taught mathematics. Then there were those, such as Joseph Sanguinetti and Winston Wilson, who would continue being my friends long after my days at St George’s. Wilson unravelled the mysteries of Spanish with his wry sense of humour and his deep knowledge of English, while Sanguinetti, a polymath, deepened my interest in and knowledge of sports and world affairs. I was particularly impressed with Sanguinetti’s firm grasp of complex issues and his unswerving commitment to excellence. His generosity was fathomless. Though these men employed differing pedagogical methods, they all shared a deep understanding of the subject they taught.I certainly had my favourites among the Jesuits. There were Father James Hosie, who helped so many students to learn the game of tennis and secure scholarships abroad, and Father Leo Quinlan, who not only officiated at my first wedding and my son’s christening, but presided at the funerals when my paternal grandmother passed and later when my young wife died tragically. These men, through their actions, taught me that gentility and generosity were not signs of weakness, but evidence of strength.While in sixth form parts of my weekends were sometimes spent with a group of my contemporaries, which included some of the most brilliant individuals ever to attend a high school anywhere in the world. These were my Schools’ Challenge Quiz associates, which included such scholastic legends as Dale Abel (Wolmer’s), Stephen Vasciannie (Kingston College), and Yolande Brown (Campion). All three mentioned would become Rhodes scholars and chart distinguished academic careers. They taught me that arrogance was usually the companion of ignorance, and that humility was often the handmaid of a beautiful mind.While still attending St George’s I secured a job as a sports reporter with

The Gleaner through the efforts of my close friend Curtis Myrie, who at the time was also a student of St George’s and working with the newspaper. At

The Gleaner I would come under the tutelage of such legendary figures of journalism as Raymond Sharpe and Freddy Smith. There I quickly learned that some of the best lessons in life were not directly taught, and that sarcasm could serve as an excellent teacher.Myrie, who lived right across from me on Asquith Street, then the major thoroughfare in Jones Town, had a profound influence on a number of the choices I would make in life. He inspired me to write, impressing me with his formidable literary gifts which found expression in delightful pieces of prose and poetry. He encouraged me to play tennis — though he was never as passionate about the game as I was. I picked up valuable dancing lessons from him while observing how he, Ricky Chin, and my cousin Richard Robinson were able to attract the attention — and I suspect favours — of many attractive, young ladies who were mesmerised by their skills on the dance floor.As an adolescent I came under the influence of a group of mostly Rastafarian brethren, including Joe Ruglass, Cedric Brooks, Leslie Samuels, Winston “Sparrow “Martin, Rafael “Count Mug” Dillon, Claude Thomas, and other accomplished musicians. This not only affected my philosophical outlook, but my dietary choices as well. I avoided all foods proscribed in the Old Testament. The elders would gather regularly at the home of another of my mentors, Samah Reid (who lived next door to me) and would talk for hours about sports, jazz, history, and the

Bible. My association with this group greatly enhanced my knowledge of music, which would later inform some of the professional choices I would make. They introduced me to the rich realities of Africa and awoke my consciousness to the marvellous mysteries and histories of the continent. In exchange for the lessons on art and life provided by the elders I taught most of them to play tennis. In fact, so eager I was to bring tennis closer to home that I (with the support of a number of my friends, including Myrie and Samah Reid) made an appeal to the legendary Arthur Ashe, through his National Junior Tennis League, to have courts built on the grounds of the All Saints School, which bordered strongholds from the two rival political factions. Rosie Murray’s father, Sydney, was the principal of the school at the time and he lived with his family on the compound. Thanks to the indefatigable efforts of social worker extraordinaire Karl Goodison; Jamaica Lawn Tennis Association President Andrew Bloomfield, who did so much for tennis in Jamaica; Father James Hosie, a mentor to so many; and Samah Reid the dream of having the courts became a reality, with Ashe himself being present for the opening in 1975 — the year he won Wimbledon. The project required significant effort, but we eventually prevailed. Through that exercise I learned the value of persistence.Sadly the school compound is now a dust bowl, and all its buildings have given way to a more expansive view of a city still reeling from its gaping wounds — a legacy of the senseless violence which informed our political culture. I learned how quickly we can drift from order into anarchy, and how slowly we return from chaos to sanity. 

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