I have not been able to say Happy Father’s Day to my dad because he passed away and went to heaven more than 30 years ago. So I dedicate this column to him and to all men who lovingly have this role.
My dad whose name I bear was born in Jamaica, a tiny island in the West Indies. As I reflect on growing up in Winston-Salem, N.C., which I will say more about later, my dad was definitely my parent. He was my parent and not my friend. I am sure that many men my age can say the same thing about their fathers.
I always thought that he was larger than life as I loved him and feared him both at the same time. When I got out of hand, my mom would always say, “Jimmy, I am going to let your father know when he gets home.” Of course, this is after she gave me one of her patented spankings. Well, when my dad came home, he would admonish me verbally. While my father was a dentist, I believe he also had a degree in psychology as he made me feel so bad about my inappropriate behavior.
My dad ended up in Winston-Salem because a Jamaican dentist colleague told him about the city. My dad’s friend lived in High Point, a short drive from Winston-Salem. High Point is arguably the furniture capital of America. When they got together, Jamaica was the central topic of conversation. He always seemed happy when he talked about his homeland. Even after I was born, my dad was the only Jamaican in the city. That is almost unbelievable, but that is the way it was.
Later, he sponsored his nephew, also from Jamaica, so Wilfred became the second Jamaican in the city. There were many men besides my cousin Wilfred who came around the house seeking fatherly advice or help in some way. As I grew older, I began to hear stories about how he had assisted some of these men. Because my mom was American, I am not sure that I ever had a real Southern accent. I will say that you had to have a keen ear to understand my dad. Sometimes I was an interpreter when friends were at my house. There were also some words said a bit differently. For example, the word “three” was pronounced “tree.”
He was a serious man who gave me many life lessons. He always told me that America was a land of opportunity. I didn’t fully understand what he meant until our family went to Jamaica during my early teens. There are tourist spots like Ocho Rios and Montego Bay and there are smaller less popular places like Mandeville and Spanish Town. After sleeping on beds made of straw and going outside and picking mangos and grapefruits for breakfast, I understood more clearly what he meant.
He also taught me how to save money. He was a money manager long before Charles Schwab. Being a dentist in a private practice made him watch every dime. Sometimes I have to laugh at myself because I, too, watch every dime. His basic philosophy was always live below your means and save for a rainy day.
