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Jamaicans Go to Disneyland, or World, or Whatever
When i was nine, my parents took us on a road trip to go to Disneyland in Orlando, Florida. Or is that Disney World? Whatever. The point is, I have no idea why we went on this trip. I consider this mystery to be my own personal rosebud, even though that metaphor makes no sense.
It was August 1987. Seven years after we moved from Runaway Bay, Jamaica, to Rockville, Maryland—two places that are as different as they sound. We set off from Rockville in our moderately sized silver Volvo station wagon. It was a tight squeeze, three kids in the back seat and one in the way back with the cooler and our luggage. It was a real no-man’s-land back there with the cooler, so George, Charmaine, Rachael, and I traded off. The four of us lived for fast-food stops. But my dad lived for getting wherever we were going as quickly as possible and using that as a conversation starter whenever we got to wherever we were going.
My father was 44 at the time, which is one year younger than I am now. And I don’t have a family of six. I am single and live alone and just got back from Trader Joe’s, where I procured some frozen fish sticks for dinner.
“We made good time,” my dad would say very seriously to whomever. “I calculated three hours but it only took two hours and fifty-eight minutes.” A sort of Harry Belafonte meets Bill Nye the Science Guy, my dad was well into his 17-year career as a safety engineer for the Washington Metro. On this trip he was relying on a state-of-the-art navigation system called My Mom and a Paper Map. My mom’s 37-year-old eyes were glued to the road. Along with being the navigation system, she was second-in-command and keeper of the peace.
George was 17 and would be off to the Navy soon. And he was very skinny. And very cool. He’d say things like GOOOOOOD NIGHT! Like that guy did on Good Times. I always wanted to impress my brother. He’d give me a high five and it would hurt so bad but I’d pretend it didn’t. This created a real fear of high fives in me that lives on to this day. Charmaine was 15. Rachael was 11. And I was 9. You could say we were a handful but we were never loud, because Daddy needed to concentrate. We did NOT want to miss an exit. There would be nothing worse than missing an exit. If that happened, my dad would lose his temper and curse up a storm. The car would get anxious and quiet. But as soon as the problem was solved, he was whistling again. I’d still feel anxious for a while, though, even as he whistled. I think that’s why I hate whistling.
Here’s a secret: My dad is the reason I have no idea why we went on this trip. He wasn’t a fan of fun or leisure in general. If we were watching TV, he didn’t sit down and watch it with us. He’d stand in the doorway, with his arms folded, until something silly happened, then he’d say we were watching rubbish and walk away. To this day I feel bad that my dad doesn’t know how so many movies ended. He has no idea that Aladdin winds up with the princess or that Mary Poppins leaves the family. He doesn’t even know who those people are, nor does he care!
My dad was always pretty stressed out, and I don’t blame him one bit. I’m 45 years old and had to ditch my fish stick dinner because I just found out I can’t cook them in the microwave and getting out my frying pan feels too daunting.
Sometimes I try to put myself in my parents’ shoes. And I think if I were them, I would never have taken us on that trip. As I write this, I have no family, no responsibilities, and I’m about to microwave some chicken nuggets for dinner.
A few months ago, I asked my mom why they took us to the DL. And she responded with just one word: “Marriott.”
“Marriott?” I said.
“Marriott,” she said.
I implored her to elaborate. And she did.
“Since I was working at Marriott, we could get a special rate at Marriott and save some money at Marriott.” (This chapter is not officially sponsored by Marriott, but I’m open to taking calls.)
This still didn’t make any sense to me. If they wanted to save money, wouldn’t we have just stayed home? I do have a degree in economics.
My family didn’t go on vacations. We only went to Jamaica. Ugh, Jamaica. My friends were all so jealous I was going to Jamaica. Little did they know, it was the most boring place on earth. All we did was see family. And it felt like we were related to everyone. I was constantly being introduced to people—This is your father’s cousin! This is your Aunt Josie from Kingston on your mother’s side! This is your mother’s father’s cousin’s son’s uncle! And I’d just go, okay great! And give them a hug. The adults spent all day talking and talking and talking and all we were allowed to do was keep quiet and wait. (Just to be clear, I love my family and I love Jamaica, in fact, I just spent 10 days there and I will be going back very soon. But as a child, it was mind-numbing.)
My dad also drove us everywhere when we visited Jamaica. But I-95 was a picnic compared to him on a one-way Jamaican back road, with a steep cliff down to the ocean on your left side, and on the right side, oncoming traffic because, oh yeah, we’re driving on the left side. In the rain. With cars passing. While trying to avoid people and dogs and chickens and goats. These trips are the reason I’ve still never seen any film in the Fast & Furious franchise. In America, I’d see those commercials with “One Love” playing, tellingyou to come to Jamaica, and I’d be like, yeah right, no thank you!
Jamaica might be my homeland, I mean, it is my homeland, but it was on that trip to Disneyland, or World, or whatever, that I discovered my home: hotels. I fell in love with fancy lobbies and continental breakfasts and tiny versions of things in buffets. Tiny little ketchup bottles. Tiny little raspberry jam jars. Tiny little individually packaged tabs of butter. I marveled at these individually wrapped tabs of butter, with their convenient vacuum seals and peel-off technology. And it was all free! I loved the rooms—how everything was neat and orderly and minimalistic. I didn’t even mind that you couldn’t open the windows. Give me the cool, recycled air of a hermetically sealed bedroom any day.
And, of course, there were the pools. Charmaine, Rachael, and I would spend hours in the hotel pool and imagine we were synchronized swimmers and make up routines. I’d pretend I was a mermaid and wiggle through the water like Daryl Hannah in Splash. Remember when she leaned back in that white bathtub, her fin unfurling in front of her? That was going to be me someday, I just knew it. We were jumping into the water and screaming and splashing like nothing else mattered because we were on vacation.
When we finally got to Orlando, my favorite part was, of course, the Marriott. It had a glass elevator. I’d never seen one before. It rose several stories above the hotel itself. We rode it all the way to the top and we could see all of Disneyland or World or whatever.
The park was fine, but I thought the It’s a Small World ride was too slow and all I really remember is walking a lot and trying to take pictures with all the different characters even though I didn’t know who most of them were. And then it was time to go home. Or so I thought.
The trip wasn’t quite done. Before we left Orlando, we went to visit my half sister, Ann-Marie, who was a few years older than George and lived there with her mom. I didn’t fully understand how I was related to her, and I thought, Oh no, not more family, that’s only supposed to happen in Jamaica! But she was lovely and so sweet and I gave her a big hug and wondered if this whole trip was a ruse to visit Ann-Marie.
On the way home, we stopped in Fort Lauderdale. For those following along on your paper maps, you’re right, Fort Lauderdale was four hours out of our way. Why would a man who lived and breathed efficiency do this? Well, the answer, my friends, is blowing in the wind, specifically the hurricane we had to drive through to look at some land my dad had purchased while he was still in Jamaica. He was very excited to see this land, but it turned out to be a marsh. It was very wet. Dad was like, “Look, this is our land!” And I was like, “Cool. When are we going to the Marriott?” After checking out of the Fort Lauderdale Marriott, we were finally on our way home.
So why did we go on that trip? Well, my guess is it was all of the above. Because if there’s one thing Jamaicans know how to do, it’s kill two birds with one stone. And I’m so grateful for this gift my parents gave us. It must’ve been pretty stressful for them. Or maybe I’m projecting, because these chicken nuggets are not great and I might have to order tacos.
