Suitcase of Dreams

By Hazell McKenzie

Hazell Mckenzie’s path of descent to deliverance is a stunning testament to her determination as a woman and as a mother.
This path began as a bright-eyed, teenaged island girl who migrated to the U.S. but curved quickly downward toward depression, anxiety, fear, stagnation, and all the difficulties that come with them.

Time and time again, through every downward curve, Hazell’s path has tested her patience, her drive, and her faith. Yet, time and time again, she has risen like a phoenix blazing a trail upwards, to success.

This story, Hazell’s story, is an inspiration to all. With every twist and turn of Hazell’s life, you may feel your own life changing.

And it all started with a Suitcase of Dreams

• Language: English
• Publisher: GenZ Publishing
• Release date: Nov 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781370095360

Hazell McKenzie

Born and raised in St. Vincent, this published author, recording artist, TV personality, entrepreneur and single mother had to overcome many major situational and emotional challenges. This path of descent to deliverance has positioned her to pursue goals and achieve dreams and to break down the conversation barriers of the often-taboo topic of Mental Health/Illness and to be a beacon of support for those caught up in the struggle.

Book preview

Suitcase of Dreams

The Life of an Island Girl

By Hazell C. McKenzie

Copyright 2019 © Hazell C. McKenzie

Supervising Editor(s): L. Austen Johnson, Camryn Nethken

Editor(s): Honorah Creagh, Anna Hotard

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations and other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at [e-mail].

GenZPublishing.org

Aberdeen, NJ

ISBN: 978-1-7339420-3-4

This book is dedicated to my parents,

Malcolm and Cynthia McKenzie.

My Loves, My Inspiration

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 Island Life

Chapter 2 The End of The Beginning

Chapter 3 Her Diagnosis

Chapter 4 Kickboxing Death

Chapter 5 Flat Lining

Chapter 6 The Migraine Meadow

Chapter 7 A Beautifully Broken Soul

Chapter 8 He Wasn’t IT

Chapter 9 My First Real Break

Chapter 10 Lost in Food

Chapter 11 Death Became My BFF

Chapter 12 An Unpacked Suitcase

Chapter 13 Unpacking the Suitcase

Chapter 14 Becoming a Phoenix

Chapter 15 I Am a T.V. Star

Preface

I never knew I enjoyed writing until the day I had no one to talk to. When my mother became ill, I had so many emotions floating around in my head, and I didn’t know where to put them. It was one of the loneliest times of my life. I was lost and desperate to find a direction. There was no one to vent all my feelings of frustration and anger; instead, I turned to writing.

Living with a mother who couldn’t read or write, a support system for learning wasn’t there. I grew up a slow learner. It took time for me to process what I was learning. I hated reading, and my penmanship was weak, at times even illegible. Mom used to say yo, a write like crab a run pan hot sand. She knew she needed better for us.

The burden of poverty was heavy. As a youngster, I hoped for a better life, but a small part of me doubted that a better life was possible. My father lived in the US, and I lived vicariously through his stories about how much better life was there. He mentioned the American Dream.

What’s that? I asked him with a sparkle in my eyes and a smile on my face.

Oh, America is the land of opportunity, a place where anything is possible, he said. You can be whoever you choose to be. Job opportunities are there; education opportunities are there; the cost of living is cheap; and you can live a very comfortable life.

He spoke with such pride and conviction. I longed for the better life he described. Getting an education was one of my biggest dreams. I knew it would make Mom proud because her dream was for us to swell her nose. How incredible it would be to experience that. However, the American Dream wasn’t as easy to achieve as my dad had claimed. Dad forgot to mention that the American Dream was designed for the privileged: no matter how hard you work; your socioeconomic status can make it more difficult to succeed.

CHAPTER 1

Island Life

In 1997, my sister, my mom, and I left our home island of St. Vincent and the Grenadines to be reunited with my dad after fourteen years. We left the island with broad smiles, hearts full of hope, and suitcases filled with dreams.

My suitcase held my three most important goals: an education, a career, and wealth. Education was of the utmost importance because I had lived all my life with a mother who couldn't read or write. Despite that, she pushed and beat us in the direction of education. I remembered being asked to read passages from one of my textbooks as she had the belt ready-in-hand in case I seemed to be fumbling. But how would she know if I had made a mistake? She couldn't help me if I needed it. I hated getting whipped, so I made sure my sister and I learned how to read, with the help of our teachers.

Mother was a stay-at-home mom, but not by choice. No one would hire her with her level of education. She took what was considered the worst and most degrading job in our culture—a sanitation worker. No one wanted that job. Mom cleaned the streets of our communities in St. Vincent and waited for payday at the end of the month when she brought home practically nothing. She thought I didn't see the disappointment and despair in her eyes, a look that said, I have failed my children again.

I had experienced poverty at its worst, and I hated it. So, I knew I needed to work as hard as I could to reverse the cycle of poverty. In the 1980s, Whitney Houston and Mariah Carey were popular. They were young, beautiful, and talented. I wanted that career. I decided I was going to be a pop star. I fantasized about being on stage with bright lights and people screaming my name and making a lot of money. I had watched Oprah Winfrey on TV my entire life, and I wanted the financial independence she had. Mom used to say, That's what I want for you girls—to be women of power. I knew she felt trapped in a poverty-stricken community, and so did I. So, I packed wealth in my suitcase of dreams.

According to shows I'd watched on television, America was the land of opportunity, a place where all of your dreams come true, a place where it was possible to be all you can be—to borrow the slogan the U.S. Army began using in 1986. There were clean streets and bright lights. When my dad came home from America to visit, he often told stories of things I was all too eager to experience. Buying grocery on the island was expensive, so when he told the stories of buying sugar and rice and flour at only 65 cents a bag, I was flabbergasted. He went on and on about buying gold for little or nothing and being able to purchase two pairs of sneakers for less than one hundred dollars. To me, this was riches, because in St. Vincent this is unheard of.

I have always told myself I would master every aspect of my life, so I can become a well-rounded individual, and I would not have to depend on anyone. I wanted to be a vocalist, a model, a banker, and a speaker because I envied people like Oprah who spoke fluently without fear. I wanted to be that courageous, so when I opened my mouth, people would listen.

When I told my mother about all my fantasies of owning many different businesses, travelling the world, and being able to go to the bank and make a withdrawal without flinching, she would turn to me and say, To be able to do that, you will have to work hard, child. Only an education can get you all these things you see. With a sly smile as she turned her back to me, she would whisper, Jack of all trades, master of none.

I saw how, despite all her hard work, Mom still brought home nothing sometimes, and I knew I didn’t want that. There were hardly any jobs on the island, and I witnessed many students completing their high school education with top O-levels subjects, still with no jobs and nothing productive to do. They graduated from high school and advanced to the Academy of Idle Hall. I always desired independence. Staying at home and being dependent on my mother was not anyone’s idea of independence.

When the day came to leave St. Vincent, three of us made the trip: my mother, my sister Lala, and me. I was sixteen years old at the time, and Lala was fourteen. We left behind my eight-year-old sister, Terry, to stay with a great aunt. How could we explain to our little sister that this separation was only temporary as we walked away from her to move to another country? It was one of those tough decisions my mother was forced to make. As a mother, you are a nurturer, an educator, a builder, a constant, dependable force in your children’s lives. Any sense of security our mother had provided was shattered for Terry.

On March 20, 1997, my sister, mother, and I packed all our belongings for the trip to the airport. Mom gave everything we couldn’t take with us to family members and close friends. It was a painful farewell because that place was the only home I had ever known.

When we left for the airport, it seemed like the entire village went with us. We were accompanied by a bus full of people. The ride felt like the longest one-hour ride I had ever had, and we cried almost the entire time. As we approached the airport, my heart began to beat faster. I knew it would be a very long time before I saw any of these people again, and I was scared.

We were a bit early for the flight, so the twenty people who came to see us off gave speeches about obedience and how we should go to school and get an education, so our parents can be proud of us, and that we should always remain respectful to our mom and dad—but in all the well-wishing, they forgot Terry. She stood far away from us on her own, looking lost.

When it was time to check-in, we reached a door that said, only passengers beyond this point. Terry grabbed hold of Mom and screamed loudly in agony. It was deafening. Mom cried too, but it was too late to turn back.

My sister and I held onto Terry and Mommy, and we cried as if it were a funeral. It took two adults to pry Terry from my mother’s arms. As we walked onto the airstrip to board the plane, we looked back to give one last wave before we disappeared. I saw my little sister’s face pressed against a fence, still screaming for her mother. It was a face that hunted me for years.

It was cold when we landed in New York, so cold I could almost feel my intestines freezing up. Instantly, my lips dried and began to crack. My dad and his youngest brother Edward met us at the airport, bringing with them three huge jackets. When I put on my jacket, I couldn't find my hands in the sleeves. Nevertheless, I was excited, because I had finally arrived at the rich place. All my life, I had seen this place on television, and now I could see what the buzz was about. I had dreamt about this America most of my life. I believed life was easier here, so I was eager to open my suitcase of dreams. My expectation was that wealth could appear overnight and opportunities would present themselves with the snap of a finger.

As we walked to the parking lot, the number of cars I saw stunned me. I had never seen so many cars in one place at one time. I looked at Lala, mesmerized. We got to my dad’s white Chevy van and left JFK Airport.

I knew this was the change of a lifetime. Words could not express the joy I felt to be where I was at that moment. Yet I felt guilty because we had left one sister behind. I thought it was wrong to be excited when my little sister was in pain, but I just couldn’t contain my excitement. 

The entire ride home, I stared out the window, taking in as much of the scenery as I could. I saw streets overlapping each other, and I was in complete bewilderment because I couldn’t wrap my head around the possibility of concrete doing this. Streets were above us and below us. We were driving in this wide-open space, with hundreds of cars going in one direction at the same time.

The open space was exhilarating. Back in St. Vincent, there were no highways. Most roads accommodated only one lane of traffic in each direction. Now I found myself surrounded by so many streetlights that I had a hard time identifying the night from the day. I looked up to the sky and saw no stars. I was disappointed. I had always loved looking at the stars; it gave me a chance to appreciate God’s creation.

Finally, we arrived at our new home. Although every street had a different name, all the houses looked the same. Our new residence was the basement of one of dad’s older brother Vernon’s house. The basement apartment had two bedrooms and a band room. My uncle Vernon had a band that rehearsed there every night.

My excitement at finally being in America soon turned to shock and disappointment when I realized that only one of the two bedrooms belonged to my family, as the other was occupied by cousin Philip the lead keyboard playing in the band. The room could barely hold one person, let alone four, plus luggage. I couldn't believe it. This is crazy, I thought immediately. Is this what I left my three-bedroom house on the island for? We had to come to this wonderful city where we were supposed to live like kings and queens, but instead we were heaped into one small room in a basement.

I was confused; I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I dared not open my mouth to say something; my mother would not have it. Children should know their place, she would say. I was so disappointed. Someone had lied to us. This was not the place I had seen on TV. Suddenly, America didn't look so promising. I’d been told the standard of living was better than my native land, but this reality was far worse. I had expected this place to be a palace, and it was anything but. My dad claimed he was unable to find an apartment in time for our scheduled arrival. He and Mom stayed in the small room in this basement while Lala and I went to live temporarily with our paternal grandmother.

No one was happy with these living arrangements. My paternal grandmother hated my mother for reasons I did not understand, and Lala and I had never lived apart from our mother. So, this arrangement made mother uneasy, because she projected her fears of my grandmother onto us. She didn’t want this old woman to mistreat us the way she had mistreated her in the past. Nevertheless, we were grateful we had a roof over our heads. Mom often preached, Tek liko and live long. Or she would say, If yo tek time kill ants yo go fin e guts. She told us to be patient; things would work out.

Living in the basement really tested my mother’s patience to the limit. There were no boundaries there, just a free-for-all. People came, went, and did as they pleased. Back home, Mom was a neat freak. Her home was her palace, and she cleaned that palace every day. She mopped, swept, dusted, and wiped every inch of the house. Back home, she made one thing clear: everyone was expected to take their shoes off at the door. But here, no one took their shoes off. The door to the front of the basement was never locked, so everyone that came to practice in the band room would just walk in. It irritated her, but she held it in because she was the new kid on the block, and she didn’t want to disrupt anyone’s routine. Under her breath, she would mumble, God, help us find a place. During this period, I grew to admire Mom’s patience, as she never complained even when things were so far from what she considered normal. Unfortunately, I did not inherit that trait.

Things changed rapidly for Lala and me, and we found ourselves having to grow up quickly. We had to become familiar with new terminologies, dress codes, and living arrangements. Finding our way around proved to be the biggest challenge because everywhere looked the same. We would go up one street, then another, and I would ask, Didn't we just come from this direction? I felt as if I would never get used to this awkward feeling of being new. It was so obvious we had just gotten off the boat. This adjustment was emotionally hard because we couldn’t wake up to the sounds of our mother singing a gospel hymn while she sweeps the yard or to her voice yelling, Only lazy people sleep late, it’s time to rise and shine. Instead, we woke up to this old woman mumbling and sucking her teeth in frustration, which made us uncomfortable, because we knew she was uneasy with us staying in her home. We could never tell when she was happy because her facial expression always looked mean.

I don't think there's a word in the dictionary to accurately describe the character of our grandmother. All she needed was a broom, a hat, and a tail. Her sole purpose in life was to make other people’s lives miserable. She stuck her nose where it didn't belong 99 percent of the time. The remaining one