By Brandon Hay

I am the son of a murder victim.

But I’m getting a little ahead of myself. So let me begin, as they say, at the beginning.

I am the only son for my mother Lornalee Anderson and the second of eight children born to my father, Brian Hay. I was born in Jamaica in the late ’70s, where I was raised by the combined love and discipline of my mother and grandmother, the indomitable Joyce Hay (my Dad’s mother). She, who was a devoted Pentecost and follower of her church and lived in a Garrison community called Maxfield Avenue in the parish of St. Andrew.

My mother and I called several Kingston communities home during my first decade of life. To this day, I have fond memories of living, exploring and playing in Patrick City and Red Hills - two neighborhoods were a patchwork of blue collar and working class areas.

But my favourite place to be was in the Garrison community my grandmother lived in. I spent a lot of time on Berwick Road and it is here that I the foundation for everything that I do today was born. On Berwick Road I learned the importance of community and the importance of giving your neighbour a piece of the little that you had because he/she had even less. This is where I learned the importance of giving, serving and having faith (in God and my community). All of these lifelong lessons were gifts that my grandmother and her neighbours passed on to me.

When I migrated to Canada in 1990 at the age of 10, the culture shock of the concrete jungle that is Toronto took my breath away. Add to that the demotion in class position (my mother, who had a senior position in the banking industry back in Jamaica, was now cleaning banks here in this unfamiliar city) and it is safe to say that my world was turned upon its head.

During this time, my mother was both my rock and my protector. And even though she struggled with me, she always did her best and never left me behind. Even at such a tender age, I was only too aware that her decision to keep me with her instead of leaving me with a relative was one that was not often taken by others in similar positions.

In school the school administration placed me in the English as Second Language (ESL) program – even though my mother tongue was English. Not surprisingly, the other kids identified me as a suitable candidate for taunting and other forms of abuse – a situation that was not helped by the fact that my wardrobe options were drawn from Bi-Way and Honest Ed’s! I suppose that it goes without saying that during this time, I didn’t really get too much love from the ladies….!

To say that I was angry at my father for his failure to guide me through what at the time was the most challenging period of my young life would be a gross understatement. He was living it up in Jamaica, while my mother and I were struggling to eke out a new life in a foreign land that seemed more like a prison of snow and skyscrapers than a so-called ‘First World’ nation. I can still recall the times when he would call and my mother would have to implore me to speak with him. When I left Jamaica, I called him Daddy…but the passage of time made him almost a stranger to me. By age 15, I didn’t know what to call him anymore.

At the age of 16 I got the chance to go back to Jamaica for the first time since I had left six years ago. I still remember the tears that welled in my eyes as the plane circled Norman Manley airport. I can still almost feel the beads of sweat that poured down my face even before the plane’s wheels touched the tarmac and how my heart sang when the plane finally landed; and I can still recall the heat of the asphalt on my lips as I knelt to kiss the ground.

My older brother Mark and my Dad were waiting for me in the arrivals area. With joy in my heart, I embraced my brother…and shook my father’s hand as if he were a stranger who I was meeting for the very first time.

During this trip, the relationship between my father and me underwent a transformation of sorts. I realized that in order to establish a new relationship with my Daddy, I would have to forgive him for his transgressions. This realization also served to free me from the cancerous effects of the festering bitterness held in the heart of a child abandoned by his father.

During our time together, my father taught me many valuable lessons. He shared, by example, the value of hard work and of defining yourself as you see fit. Time and time again, he emphasized the importance of not allowing society to have the final say in who you thought you were.

Over the years, my father became one of my best friends, someone who I would call to ‘reason (discuss)’ about challenges that I was going through. We talked about everything – from the difficulties that I faced in my relationship with the mother of my child (now my wife) and finding employment, to what my role is as the man of the house.

He always had an answer that made me feel comforted by the conviction of his words.

And then it all came tumbling down.

Stay tuned for Part 2 next week….

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