Gordon Robinson | Who am I?

Many people have no idea what drives their lifetime choices, attitudes and prejudices.

Often it happened in childhood and quietly influenced the way they deal with fellow humans. At some point, when their driving force leads them to overindulgence, anxiety or depression, they spend years in therapy trying to identify that force.

I’m lucky. I recognized that moment for what it was as it happened. In retrospect, I was too young, impressionable, inexperienced to appreciate then that I probably misinterpreted the moment. It doesn’t matter. It’s too late now. That moment has long ago defined me and guided my life forever.

The date was January 23, 1973. I was 23 days into my 20th year. My father was a disciplinarian whose word was law in his home where I resided for my first 15 years. Circa 1970, I voluntarily left and moved in with my mother. They were divorced over five years before and she’d re-married.

My father must’ve been related to Danny Rand because he applied “iron fist” parenting. Unlike my elder brother, who was a rebel, the “discipline” meted out to me, the “goody-goody”, was more psychological than physical. Monday mornings after a weekend at my mother’s were unbearable. I didn’t wake up early enough; took too long to get ready for school; didn’t eat my tasteless breakfast with relish (“remember the starving children in India!”); whatever. You name it. I did it wrong.

So I overcompensated. l obeyed his every word. I recall during summer holidays, his last words before leaving for work were “If you put one toe through the gate while I’m away, you’ll live to regret it.” So we didn’t. It never dawned on us there was no way he’d find out if we strayed. Those were the days of unofficial neighbourhood watch when every community adult had authority to spy, report or, if necessary, take immediate corrective action. But they were also at work.

Friends came to our house. We played in our yard. We climbed trees; romped with the dog; listened to the radio. Radio was my best friend.

The point I’m trying to make, longwindedly, is my father, at home, was Superman, Batman and Commissioner Gordon all rolled into one. He was indestructible; always in command; his word was law.

In 1973 Jamaica hosted one of history’s most epoch-defining boxing matches. A heavyweight championship bout was scheduled for the National Stadium. Two undefeated juggernauts, Champion “Smoking” Joe Frazier (inflicted a first defeat on Muhammad Ali in 1971) and challenger “Big” George Foreman (marketed as a lumbering illiterate with a punch like a Mack Truck and a 37-0 record) were featured.

Jamaica was abuzz. This was the first time the heavyweight championship was contested outside USA. Somehow, my father secured a ring-side ticket. Only one! He insisted on giving it to me who shared his love for sports; who he took to the racetrack on my birthdays; who stayed up all night with him listening to cricket commentary from Australia. I also attended 1966 Commonwealth Games at the Stadium thanks to a complimentary pass he wangled as a School Sports Master and Games Official. But THIS was Jamaica’s biggest sporting event. I was ecstatic at being able to attend. Not once did I consider the personal sacrifice it must’ve meant or the unconditional love it proved for this man, himself a cricketer, gymnast and all around sportsman, to hand that priceless ticket to his son.

Although the details are blurred in my memory, as we were walking towards the Stadium, I emphatically recall encountering newly elected PM, Michael Manley, and his entourage. My superhero found himself face to face with Manley. I watched as he greeted Joshua courteously; shook hands; and (this is the moment) performed a perfunctory Japanese-style half-bow from the waist. I now realize this was nothing more than polite deference to a national leader but it affected me to the core. Why was my father bowing to any man?

The psychological conundrum into which I was plunged was spectacularly conflicting. You see, like almost every young Jamaican in 1973, I worshipped the political ground upon which Michael Manley tread. Yet, still, it pained my youthful, naïve, sheltered heart to see my father bow to this man. In that moment, I vowed to myself I’d NEVER bow to any politician no matter how highly I regarded that person. I made a solemn oath to the God I now know resides within me that I’d be independent of all politics. I’ve designed my life to ensure I never need a favour from any politician and always remain as unaffected by politics as humanly possible.

In other words, I’ve embraced poverty. Which isn’t the same as poverty embracing me but exploration of that apparent philosophical paradox is for another day. For now, before you try in vain to label me politically, you should know my stubborn, hostile reaction to that moment in January 1973 hasn’t faded.

Peace and Love.

Gordon Robinson is an attorney-at-law. Send feedback to columns@gleanerjm.com