Sunshine Through Darkness

"Good Mawnin Pauline, Time fi wake up," my mother's gentle voice nudged me from my sleep. I opened my eyes to the dim light of dawn filtering through the thin curtains of our small apartment in Florida. It felt nothing like the spacious home we had left behind in Clarendon, Jamaica.

I could hear my father, Adrian, in the kitchen, his voice a low rumble. Despite his easy-to-anger nature, there was a softness in him that emerged in the quiet of the morning. "Paulette, weh mi socks dem deh?" he asked, his patois thick and comforting.

My mother, Paulette, moved with her usual grace, a calming presence in our cramped living space. "Right weh yuh lef dem, Adrian," she replied, her voice laced with a hint of amusement.

Latoya and Staceyann, my younger sisters, were still asleep, their soft breathing a reminder of the innocence we were all trying to hold onto in this new world. As I got ready for school, the reality of our situation weighed heavily on me.

We had left Jamaica when I was nine, full of hope and dreams. But those dreams had quickly collided with the harsh truths of immigrant life. My father had come to the United States first, seeking a better future for us. When he had settled, somewhat, my mother moved us to join him. It was a journey marked by both excitement and fear.

In Jamaica, we had a life filled with family and community support. Here, we were isolated, struggling to find our footing. My parents, once pillars of our community back home, now faced the indignity of menial jobs and reliance on food stamps. The neighborhood we lived in was rough, a stark contrast to the vibrant, open community we had known.