You Moved from Jamaica? Tell Me About It!

“I flew from Jamaica to London in 1961, in January or maybe February—I can’t quite remember now. But I can still recall that first night vividly. The cold was like nothing I had ever experienced. As I sat in the small, sparse room, I could see my breath clouding in front of me. My teeth chattered uncontrollably.

My roommate, who had been here longer, watched me with sympathetic eyes. ‘It’s 0°C,’ she said, lighting the tiny gas heater that barely made a dent in the freezing air. ‘You’ll get used to it, Doris,’ she added, her voice a mix of comfort and resignation.
The first time I burst into tears, her words echoed the same sentiment.

Homesickness gnawed at me, an ache that grew with every thought of my mother and the warmth of Jamaica. ‘Foreign will be good for you, Dor,’ my mother had said on the way to the airport, her voice filled with hope and the £2500+ she spent on my ticket (in today’s money). But all I could think about was the lush sun-drenched towns of Jamaica—my home.

Soon, I found a job as a secretary for a clothes company in Hackney. The days were long, and the cold seemed relentless, but then a tiny miracle happened—I discovered a local shop that sold yams, green bananas, plantains, and little things that reminded me of home. Holding that yam in my hands, I felt a surge of joy and a connection to the life I had left behind.

I wrote to Mum, pouring my heart out on paper, and she wrote back with news from Jamaica. Everyone was doing fine back home, and surprisingly, I found myself writing that I was doing fine too.

By the time summer arrived, the city seemed to thaw, and so did my spirits. I had new friends—Merville from Mandeville, Lucille from St Ann’s, and my cousin Enid had just arrived.

One evening at the Community Centre, the place was buzzing with energy. Music filled the air, and the smell of fried-something wafted through the room.

Dor, yuh hungry? Try dis!’ Merville called out, holding up a fried dumpling. ‘It alright, but it want likkle salt.
‘I smiled and joined her, taking a bite. ‘Merville, yuh right man! Still, it can eat.

Lucille stifled a wheezy giggle, ‘Mi ah tell yuh, Doris!

Enid laughed too. ‘Yuh ungrateful likkle so an’ so!’

It was there that I met Kiah, a sweet chap from Lower Clarendon. Kiah had smooth brown skin and a smile that made all the ladies blush. He was unlike anyone I had met before—adventurous and charming, yet with a clumsiness on the dance floor that made me laugh. At the Community Centre, he would often take to the makeshift dance floor, his two left feet moving with a joyful lack of rhythm.

One night, as I watched him fumble through a dance, he caught my eye and grinned. ‘Doris, ah you ah laugh afta me?’ he asked, pretending to be offended.

Mi? No sah,’ I lied with a smile. ‘But mi see seh yuh a enjoy yuhself, Kiah.’

He extended his hand to me. ‘Yuh wan’ dance, Dor?’

I didn’t take his hand but joined him on the dancefloor. As we danced, awkwardly at first but slowly finding our my rhythm, I got those butterflies. Even then, I knew. I was going to marry that man. Your grandad.”

A little(ish) note: It might sound wild, but I recently realised that my grandma is also an expat/immigrant and part of the Windrush Generation. Well, that bit I always knew! The Windrush Generation refers to the travellers from the West Indies (and Commonwealth) who moved to the UK between 1948 and 1971, when they were invited by the King. No not Charles (see the British Nationality Act 1948) to help rebuild the country after World War II.  The ‘Windrush’ comes from the name of the ship that first brought people to the UK from Jamaica in 1948.

Back then, staying in touch was way way harder than it is today—no Ryanair, EasyJet, WhatsApp, or Facetime. So, the other day, I asked her to tell me what it was like moving to the UK alone—especially in those first few months.

And this is what she told me, as her eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.

So if there’s one takeaway from this: make time to chat to your older relatives!