Chronicle

I went to Havergal Boarding School for exactly one year — Year 13. One single, transformational year. What immediately comes back is being in the snow for the first time, the unfamiliar Havergal rituals and the accents and habits of my fellow Boarders — girls who had grown up on island cultures close to mine, others from very different worlds. Despite the briefness of my stay, boarding at Havergal College became one of the most formative experiences of my life. Mostly because of the people whom, ironically, I am pretty much completely out of real contact with.

If I’m being honest, I’ve become too good at goodbyes. I’ve moved around a lot — across cities, across countries, across cultures. It’s a pattern shaped by life’s circumstances, both chosen and unchosen. And somewhere along the way, I learned to pack lightly when it comes to emotional attachments. Not because I don’t feel deeply, but because I do. The constant shifting has made me careful with how and when I let myself fully attach. Or reattach.

But the truth is, I actually carry so many people with me and often wonder where they are and how they’re doing.

We live in a time when wondering seems unnecessary. With a few clicks, I can often find out where someone works, who they married, what city they live in. But then there are some people who never get “recommended” or don’t “follow” you, and what then? For me, people such as Mrs. and Mr. Frank, the Head of Boarding and her husband, come to mind. They were also new to Havergal the year I arrived. And us girls put Mrs. Frank through a bit of a wild ride, but they were such an amazing couple. Mr. Frank even took me to the Father-Daughter dance! We thought they were terrific then, but as an adult I admire them even more and always wish them well in my heart.

I also often think of my English Literature teacher, who encouraged me to share my love for dub poetry in class. She was the first non-Jamaican to really embrace and celebrate the work of Mutabaruka with me, and her enthusiasm was eye-opening. She also chose one of my short stories to be published in the Independent Schools’ annual collection — the first time I ever saw my writing in print. I’ve gone on to publish more since, but she was the first to validate and encourage that part of me, and I remain grateful.

Social media allows me to follow the outlines of people’s lives, but not the inner world that once drew me to them. I miss the old way of knowing — conversations that wandered late into the night, unexpected glimpses of vulnerability, laughter that didn’t need to be polished for public display. Maybe this is just part of growing up: accumulating unspoken gratitude for people who passed through our lives, even if only briefly, and learning to accept that not every connection is meant to last — but that doesn’t make it any less meaningful.

And maybe, this reflection is a quiet call to reach out, not just to wonder what happened to someone, but also to ask. To reconnect. To say, “Hey. I still remember you. You mattered to me.” Because, sometimes, that’s all someone needs to hear.