How New York City Saved My Life

By F. Walwyn Jones

F. Walwyn Jones’s uplifting memoir relates how a Belizean immigrant’s pursuit of the American Dream brings her a keen awareness of the needs of others. How New York City Saved My Life tells of the author arriving to a cold welcome from the woman who sponsored her entry into the United States. Her interaction with other New Yorkers, h

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stratton Press
• Release date: Sep 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643457727

Book preview

Chapter 1

This is different. Yes, very different. Did I just die and go to heaven? Is this an out-of-body experience? All those lights—multihued and vivid—that seem to stretch into infinity. And that bay! Beautiful, glistening, shimmering, sparkling! Utterly awesome. My thoughts raced to keep up with what I was seeing.

The TWA airliner zoomed into JFK airport, and I was finally in New York—beautiful, beautiful, New York. This was not my initial landing on US soil. My port of entry was Miami, Florida. No euphoria there; in fact, it was rather anticlimactic. Perhaps it was because I had traveled from my native land Belize in a small plane, I didn’t have a window seat, and I had landed in the daytime. My fellow travelers were probably too worried about passing through immigration to be excited about their arrival in the US. My only memorable experience at the Miami airport was the novelty of seeing women strutting around, heads held high, perfectly coiffed, wearing beehive hairdos that seemed to spiral up as much as twelve inches high. I had never before seen a beehive hairdo, so I gawked in amazement.

Now, here I was in New York City. Excitement. Exhilaration. Anticipation. My fellow travelers seemed to share my thrill, which crescendoed as they greeted family and friends. There was no need for me to go to the baggage claim area since all my worldly possessions that I considered essential enough to take with me were packed in one small carry-on suitcase. I eagerly looked around for my sponsor, Ms. Baxter, whom I anticipated would meet me at the airport. But no, she wasn’t there. I waited and waited. Well, she could be late, I speculated mentally. Perhaps she got off course on the way to the airport.

Are you all right? a voice asked from beside me.

I looked up into the face of a middle-aged gentleman.

Yes…Well, not exactly, I replied anxiously. I expected my spons—uh, my friend, to meet me here, but my flight arrived over an hour ago, and I don’t see her anywhere.

I felt embarrassed. I now realized that I stood out in the crowd and appeared unusual. Despite my precarious situation, my excitement at being in New York had not waned. Consequently, I was walking around in awe and wonder—perhaps so much in wonder that I appeared to be dazed or maybe even crazed.

The kind gentleman suggested that I call my friend, and he showed me how to use a pay phone. I noticed that it cost a dime to make the call, and I had no change, so I asked him if he could change a dollar bill. However, he declined to accept my dollar and instead gave me a few dimes. He then waited until I had made a connection and assured him that I would be okay.

At the third ring, I heard, Hello? I could not mistake that deadpan voice. Yes, it was Ms. Baxter, my sponsor, my mother’s friend, and my former Sabbath School teacher. My heart sank. She was still at home—not on her way to pick me up. However, I still felt some excitement.

I practically shouted into the phone, Ms. B, is that you? It’s me, Flora. I’m here…in New York! At the airport!

In an impassive voice, Ms. Baxter responded, Oh. Well, you’ll need to take a taxi. Give the driver my address at 74 Leffert’s Place, in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn. Make sure you tell him that it’s in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section. When you reach here, you’ll see some steps that lead downstairs. Go down those steps and ring the doorbell.

Sure, Ms. B, I replied. I’ll see you soon. Where did heaven go? That’s not the way I expected to be welcomed into heaven. What’s wrong with Ms. Baxter? I wondered. After all, she had spent a whopping $10 to send me my sponsorship letter by express mail. Why such a cold welcome? Apart from the expressionless voice, her tone sounded full of something—maybe smugness, self-importance, or condescension? I then mentally figured, Well, she can afford to be snobbish. She lives in the United States and is probably rich! She said that she lives in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn with so much pride, maybe that’s where rich people live!

It wouldn’t be long before I found out that the Bedford-Stuyvesant section was not by any means the most classy or savory area of Brooklyn, much less New York. I also soon discovered that Ms. Baxter was by no means wealthy, had never owned a car, and had never learned to drive. I felt grateful that she had put forth the effort to sponsor me, and I then understood why she didn’t pick me up at the airport. Well, she could have been nicer about it and given me a more cordial welcome, I thought. However, I was happy to be in New York.

The taxi driver tried to make conversation, but I was more interested in looking around to see what I could of New York. Also, I had my eye on the meter. I had been warned that taxi drivers invariably found a way to rip off their customers. I was worried that he would charge me all the US dollars that I had brought. However, there was no need to worry. When we reached the address at Leffert’s Place, the meter stopped at $12, and that’s what I was charged. The driver graciously informed me that here in the US, it was customary to give a tip, so I offered $3.

Is that okay? Is it enough? I asked.

He nodded and thanked me and walked me to the steps that led downward to Ms. Baxter’s basement apartment. The driver then wished me lots of luck in the US and offered to wait in the car until I entered the building.

I couldn’t find the doorbell, as I didn’t know what it looked like. Besides, it was quite dark, so I nervously knocked on the door.

An unsmiling Ms. Baxter opened the door and invited me in. I waved to the taxi driver, and he drove off.

No niceties from Ms. Baxter, such as How was your trip?, I’m glad you made it, or Welcome to the US. Just the cold, hard facts: I have a family living with me—a grandmother and her two granddaughters. They may not be here much longer. You will share a bed with the younger child.

I felt like screaming, What’s wrong with you crazy lady? Why are you acting so weird? Why did you sponsor me anyway? Nevertheless, I smiled and took everything in stride, while asking myself, What am I doing here? What did my mother get me into, sending me thousands of miles away to her nutty friend?

I promised myself that first thing in the morning, I would write and ask my mother those questions. In my heart, I knew it would be redundant to question my mother’s motives. My opportunities in Belize were limited, and when the good fortune arose to send me to the land of opportunity, she eagerly welcomed it. My mother had traveled much and had endured difficult circumstances. She had survived, and she knew I would too.

After my strange cold welcome, Ms. Baxter introduced me to the other members of the household. The grandmother, Mrs. Green, and I hit it off immediately. The eight-year-old, Regina, was feisty and outgoing and was a pleasure to be around. I wasn’t quite sure how I would get along with fourteen-year-old, Sandra, who seemed to be in a world of her own. However, she and I soon bonded when she assigned me the job of helping her with her math homework. As a student, I had hated math. However, with nothing else to do, I welcomed the challenge. Math, I concluded, was merely critical thinking in numbers. Although I was not at all familiar with the algebra problems Sandra worked on, I followed the examples given in the text closely, explained them to Sandra, and helped her to miraculously, as she thought, solve them.

My first night in the US, I had a restful sleep and woke up to a bright, sunny morning. I am not one to readily feel at ease in other people’s homes, so I thought about such mundane things as whether or not to get a shower when someone else may want to use the bathroom. I didn’t have to wonder too long regarding what I would have for breakfast. My sponsor opened the refrigerator and informed me that the labeled items were for the other family members, and I should be careful not to use them since the grandmother could not afford to feed an extra mouth.

My dear sponsor then opened her almost bare pantry and identified the foods that I could use. After showering and so on, we sat down to breakfast. Difference in status was clearly evident as I unhesitatingly followed orders such as Get me the cereal, Get the milk out of the Frigidaire, etc. Ms. Baxter emphasized the word Frigidaire with utmost pride. It was undoubtedly the first time in her life that she had ever owned a refrigerator. Well, so far, I had never owned one either.

Get me a can of peaches from the cupboard, Ms. Baxter directed.

I had thought the orders were over, but got the can of peaches in heavy syrup. I couldn’t understand why Ms. Baxter, being a nurse who should know better, would eat peaches in heavy syrup. Nevertheless, I got the can and opened it for her. I watched in dismay as, with flourish, she piled the sugary slices on her cereal and ate them with relish. Of course she did not offer me any—presumably an indication that such sumptuousness was only for the privileged. This exclusion precluded my opportunity to refuse and to offer my reason for refusal.

Nevertheless, I felt like screaming, What are you doing eating peaches in heavy syrup? You are a nurse and should know better! Don’t you know that you’re increasing your risk of getting diabetes or something? Moreover, you are fat!

Without exaggeration, Ms. Baxter was about three times my body mass in width and weight. Belizeans were not health conscious, and there was no stigma attached to being overweight. Therefore, it was not uncommon for a well-proportioned overweight woman to be described as beautiful. Even with the Belizean mentality, however, I was surprised that Ms. Baxter was not more health conscious.

It was my first day in New York, and already it was quite interesting. Money, money, money! Ms. Baxter wanted to know if I had any. I had a couple hundred dollars in cash and a few hundred in traveler’s checks, which we cashed at the neighborhood bank. Ms. Baxter next suggested that she hold my money for safekeeping. Not a great idea, I thought, but I considered it prudent to agree. I somehow felt that Ms. Baxter’s intent was not dishonesty or protection, but rather control. I asked to keep $100, and she reluctantly agreed.

Ms. Baxter spent the rest of the morning on the phone with various friends. She was very active in her church and quite popular in her social circle. There was just one telephone in the home, which was in the living room, so I couldn’t help but overhear her conversations. The leitmotif of each conversation was I have another one here with me. Pause. "No, I don’t follow them, they follow me."

I cringed, realizing that I was the another one. Again, I felt like screaming, Mom, what am I doing here? Whatever Ms. Baxter’s eccentricities were, I knew I had no choice but to tread gingerly. I was indebted to, and dependent on, my dear sponsor.

I soon found out that Ms. Baxter’s work schedule was 3:00 p.m. to 3:00 a.m. three days per week. She walked alone back and forth to and from the nearby hospital and asserted that she never felt afraid—although this was a rough section of Brooklyn! Oh, for the good old days.

I breathed a sigh of relief when my host got off the phone, gathered her things for work, and left. I quickly got dressed and eagerly left the house. The grandmother warned me to be careful and not to get lost, but somehow I felt confident that everything would be okay. First, I went and bought some groceries at the neighborhood grocery store and some fresh fruit at a fruit stand just outside the store.

I had heard so much about the racial tensions in the US that I was astonished when I was served by White store clerks with pleasant cordiality. Service with a smile! I quickly took the groceries home, had lunch, and then decided to explore further. I noticed a hair salon and went in and had my hair done—without an appointment, no less. The friendly African-American hairdresser offered helpful hints regarding shopping, commuting, and other information relevant to a newcomer.

My exposure to life outside of Ms. Baxter’s home confirmed my belief that New York was a great place. People were pleasant, friendly, and appeared to be happy.

The second day, I went shopping for clothes. Most of the clothes I had brought were homemade, and I wanted to look like an American. I needn’t have bothered though. New York is so multicultural, and people are so accustomed to all different tastes and choices in dress, conduct, and other characteristics that define a person, that I had no trouble fitting in. Actually, the only thing that readily revealed my non-Brooklynite status was the cadence of my speech.

Chapter 2

Ring. Ring .

Ms. Baxter answered the phone in the living room and then called out to me. The call is for you, she said. Her tone sounded accusatory and troubled. She gave me a quizzical glare as she handed me the phone.

What did I do now? I wondered. Hello, this is Flora, I answered nervously. I listened to the caller in utter amazement. I couldn’t believe it. She was offering me a job! It was a live-in job to care for her mother who had a broken hip and would soon be released from the hospital. She would need home care for at least a couple months.

Are you willing to accept such a job? the caller asked.

I didn’t think to ask the lady any questions that normally accompany the acceptance of a job. I quickly replied, Yes! Yes! I would be happy to accept the position.

The salary offered was $55 per week plus room and board. I gasped. My position as a secretary in Belize had paid only $75 per month, which was $37.50 in US dollars. So I was offered, and accepted, my first job in the US. Just like that, with no qualifications, no experience, and no references.

I was twenty-one years old, and that had been the story of my life so far. Although I had only completed two years of college, I’d had stints as a high school teacher both in Mandeville and Kingston, Jamaica, and as an elementary school teacher and secretary in Belize—all without ever applying for any position. With the help of divine providence, I always seemed to be at the right place at the right time. I certainly didn’t regard the position of a caregiver as a step down. After all, this was America, and I was going to earn $55 per week. Best of all, I would be moving out of Ms. Baxter’s home. I was ecstatic and thanked God for my good fortune.

Did you recommend me for a job? I excitedly asked Ms. Baxter. That call was an offer for a job!

She gave me a disdainful and incredulous look and replied, "No, my dear, I didn’t recommend you for any job."

I knew she was telling the truth. Well then, who did? I wondered.

When I eventually met my employer, I asked her who had recommended me. She replied that her daughter was the one who had actually hired me while she was hospitalized. I then asked her daughter how she had found out about me and my need for a job. Her response was that my name was on a list of possible caregivers in the medical facility where her mother had been hospitalized and that she had simply picked out my name and made the call.

Did an angel put my name on that list? I wondered. I theorized that it was not a supernatural being, but most likely a nurse to whom Ms. Baxter had bragged about me being another one in her clutches. This Good Samaritan must have taken pity on my hapless state and placed my name on that list. I prayed that the anonymous human angel would receive many blessings.

It was a happy beginning to my third day in New York. I felt like jumping up and down and screaming, New York, I love you, I love you, I love you!

Things were looking up! I had a job—a live-in job—and that meant moving out of Ms. Baxter’s home, hopefully forever. However, I wouldn’t begin my new job until the following Thursday, and that meant five more days in the home of my sponsor. Ms. Baxter and I were both Seventh-Day Adventists (SDA), and the following day, Saturday, was our day of worship. That meant spending several hours in church and, I presumed, a round of church-related activities throughout the day.

Although I had been an SDA all my life and my last position in Belize was as a church schoolteacher, I wasn’t exactly a fervent follower. I didn’t enjoy Sabbath services and tried to avoid attending whenever possible. In my opinion, the services seemed to be primarily a talent-or-no-talent show, with the success of the service dependent upon the breadth of the talents of the participants—often too many participants, it seemed to me. I reasoned that if I wanted to be entertained, I would prefer to pay good money to see professionals give a performance and not be bored with amateurs using a church forum to get their fifteen minutes of fame. I had attended an Anglican high school where students were required to attend church on some feast days. I got a taste of high church worship and appreciated the aura of reverence and transcendental beauty of the liturgy. I much preferred that form of worship to the SDA method.

However, I had more current matters to think about. It was Preparation Day. Friday is called preparation day in SDA circles because on that day we prepare for the Sabbath. We clean our homes thoroughly, prepare meals that will last throughout the Sabbath day, and make sure that our finest clothes are ready to be worn to the services. I therefore joined in to help with cleaning and anything that I felt needed to be done.

Around three o’clock in the afternoon, I saw the grandmother grating coconuts. I either volunteered to help or Ms. Baxter told me to help, I don’t remember which. Anyhow, I joined the grandmother in her laborious toil. It had been years since I had manually grated coconuts and had never grated more than half of a coconut at one sitting. After grating two or three coconuts, I felt as though I was about to faint. I was slightly built—barely 95 lbs.—and not at all used to doing onerous work. The grandmother was sturdy, but elderly.

Ms. Baxter strutted around looking smug and content while she piled on the coconuts, bringing more and more to be grated. I asked the grandmother what she thought Ms. Baxter planned to do with all this grated coconut. She replied that it was probably going to be used to make something for a church fund-raiser. It was almost sundown—the time when SDAs cease work and welcome the Sabbath. I wondered what was going on. When would we cease work? A guest of Ms. Baxter finally told us that we could stop grating. I never found out what all that coconut was used for, and no one acknowledged our hard work.

I thought, Fund-raising can be