20 Years Later: My Journey and a Reflection on Bermuda

Sep 02, 2024

“When I looked at myself in my younger years and now, I realized how extremely fortunate I was to have had two very skillful parents who showed and taught me things they knew and who also had the finances to send me to secondary school. So I was told by my mother and father, my old uncle Nesbitt, and cousins, how fortunate I was to go to secondary school, and that whatever knowledge I acquired from society did not belong to me. I also learned that I must give all the learning back to my family, and as I got older, it went from family to community to country to Africa and to the world. Therefore, my philosophy in life is that we should always give back to the society wherever we are - be it Bermuda or some other place in the world.”

— Pauulu Kamarakafego, Me One!: The Autobiography of Dr. Pauulu Kamarakafego

On July 24th, 2004, an accident irrevocably changed my life in many ways that took these two decades to comprehend. While much was initially focused on my physical appearance to sell the story with eye-grabbing headlines and imagery, this event transformed layers of me I had never shown–layers that also impacted my family, my spirituality, my outlook on life, and how that is envisioned while navigating the wider Bermuda community.

It has taken me a few weeks to write this. Initially, I had aimed to release on the anniversary. However, I wanted to approach this topic with clarity and a level head without dissociating from the emotional and traumatic events of the past few weeks and months in our community.

My journey and this reflection are driven by a clear purpose that may offer others context for who I am, why I am, the lessons I've learned, and the insights I've gained from my experiences. As I explore myself, I aim to foster an understanding, empathy, and dialogue within our community by opening up about some of my struggles. It is my hope that through this honest reflection, others who face similar challenges can find solace, inspiration, and perhaps a path to their own healing and empowerment, as this narrative is not just about me but about the communal issues we face and the unused collective strength we need to address them actively.

Through this entire experience, this piece, and my mental space, I am grateful for the aptness and simplicity of the fact that I can write this and have the privilege to share it with you. You can think of this as a miniature taste or version of my autobiography, which has been put on hold involuntarily from publishing.

As an early disclaimer, I suggest you not take me or my words as absolute–my emotions, ideals, concepts, and purpose are fluid. I adapt to the energy and people of my environment. However, I feel the urge to prepare you, and I write with due care, diligence, and love, no matter the tone that might be conveyed, the criticism I share, or the scrutiny I may receive afterward for sharing is welcomed, depending on how this open letter ends.

Concurrently, one thing I am grateful for is that I am humbled for having very, very few friends who have been beside me on both sides of my life before the accident and presently, allowing me to grasp a full perceptive view of myself through their own experiences and engagements. It may seem lonely at times; however, it is something I have never taken for granted, and I can only hope to return the favor of friendship someday.

With the many versions of Dejon that have been seen over time, in following the philosophy of Pauulu Kamarafego, I, too, feel it is my responsibility to share whatever wisdom I have acquired with my respective community and whatever we learn from it is from a place of love to enhance it. Although I may come off as talkative when indulged in conversation and thought, you will find all that I am passionate about in writing, as by my purpose, my intentions mean well. As for that principle alone, I am confident to say that I am, and all I have been throughout these cumulative years, I no longer fear to show you my story—at least not in terms of masking it for what I feel society will accept as who I am and what my experiences are or should be.

There is no confusion among some people that I am known for being particularly private about my nature and life nowadays. Some even believe I have emigrated far from the island since I’m rarely seen, which, like others, has been a thought from time to time when you know how the community has evolved or devolved, whichever way you perceive it.

Part of being private is intentional with my work; only some things I do require visibility or have to be loud to achieve what it intends. Another part is due to how Bermuda society functions, where being busy is seen as productive, yet it is the opposite. Ultimately, it concerns simplicity and the quality of relationships, relationships with myself, others, my community, and what I value as a person in a paternalistic, racially charged structure we live in, which I’ll elaborate on as I go.

These themes stem from my childhood and the deficiency of not having any spiritual bond with anyone— a person who was a friend, and I to them, an experience I never felt in my home as a child of divorced parents at a very young age. Neither was this spirituality found in a church hall or school. My spiritual bond was in sports, in football, and in 2004, by my choice alone, that bond was broken.

Since childhood, I have only known that I can only be the person I need or needed, the only person I can talk to without judgment or repercussion, the only person who’ll listen and who can be relied on to get myself through any affair. Thus, the resilience others perceive, I find my spirit in the strength of my pen.

It has never made sense until now to understand that my vulnerability as a man, a Black man in Bermuda who can express himself, is a positive in the direction and necessity of community empowerment. Empowerment and strength are initiated through each other, our oral heritage, and dialogue, even if any sort of expression opens up to unwarranted criticism from others. I understand those who come from a space of unhealed projection rather than compassion or understanding of our stories. I was also once a confused Black boy and man pursuing the elusive “who am I” and what that looks like as a Black Bermudian man.

Then I began to read.

And with sharing, we can witness that we are similar in our paths. In our stories, there might be the answer to the problems we are heavily opinionated about—having the conversation is the beginning, understanding its depth, and allowing the depth to be articulated is our deliverance.

Men, specifically Black men, and even more specifically Black men in Bermuda, aren't afforded the privilege of vulnerability or the time to be. Not by our communal constructs, not by cultural tradition, and there is little to any alleviation to the constant pressure of being a young Black male conditioned from youth to have something to prove your capability, your intelligence, and, at times, innocence, constantly paced in survival mode, Scarcity among peers shows that it is rarely just trying to survive Bermuda, but it also has to navigate the challenges posed by counterparts, competing for minimal opportunities, and a conditional struggle for minimal comfort, ownership or sovereignty on what is often referred to as the ‘Isle of Devils.’

It is relentless.

It is tiring,

as it is unforgiving.

With that said, my choice to speak and express myself freely and democratically is by far against the norm and stigmas that relay through shared generational trauma and are lived throughout the island’s culture, where often you are catalogued, and categorized. It is a trauma that fosters jealousy and hatred through ageism, from a generation that believes, ‘Just because I went through it, and I was taught and treated this way, then it is a must, and it is okay for you, or for them to treat you, as they were before’—in essence, perpetually perpetuating the cultural trauma across generations.

It is unhealed trauma that is evident in our leadership, management, and practice. It trickles down to hospitality and the simplicity of customer service and social support, all interconnected and interrelated. Ironically, the common thread is shown in the bosom of our cultural dynamics and what we take pride in; even its ill-intent is met with cultural avoidance and substance abuse, and ignoring its world allows these issues to fester in subtle and insidious ways, sometimes even unnoticed by the one who causes the harm and sometimes by the one harmed.

In the beginning, after the accident, I had always seen the duality of still being alive, to which many others succumbed. I saw it as a gift and a curse.

In my youthfulness, I saw it as mainly a curse, and I intuitively understood and participated in the cultural cage I was in. However, I couldn’t see its walls, nor see that these walls were internal, and that perspective led to a lot of self-destructive behavior and habits for no other explanation than I was looking to die again. I had no cause to live in a place where the sovereignty of self is at war on all fronts, mentally, spiritually, and communally, and with no relief or escape besides running away to foreign unknown lands, in youthfulness and ignorance, there's only one answer here; conform or die.

I was a shell of who I once was and who people remember me as.

Generally, I was confused and systematically miseducated. With my accident, I lost that prior sense of self, my identity, my features, my core, and eventually, my family, who had no conscious understanding or resource for a child like me who was in a community that is Bermuda.

The themes of self-care, mental health, holistic practice, and openness to disability in Bermuda have only recently gained traction, primarily within the last decade. While this shift in awareness is a positive development, awareness alone is not enough. We must assertively and directly confront the deep-seated conflicts, no matter how ugly or destructive the process may seem because it is the only way forward. To truly begin to heal our community, we must dissolve the politics and political maneuvering surrounding education, mental health, and healthcare.

However, we have yet to take that or any affirmative steps. Instead, we continue to engage in short-term trends of political self-interest, which only provide temporary relief while ignoring the need for fundamental repairs to the underlying dying structural relationships within our society.

There are many things about us and the world then that I could not understand, nor did I have any mentor or family to ask of it.

Society did not make sense, working did not make sense, my schooling, my education, did not make sense when I saw, felt death and the peace that had come with it, only to be thrown out the gates of the ethereal, back into this for whatever this is and what we describe as family, community, and love.

And because this did not make sense to me, I did not make sense to others. I didn't know how to articulate what I had seen, felt, and still feel daily as a reminder—not necessarily in the vehicle I can now through writing.

I have never forgotten about my accident.

Everyone believes I have, but it made no sense to share the responsibility of an internal conflict. It was a battle behind my eyes that no one could see, evaluate, or change besides myself and how I viewed myself and the world. A change in introspective perception becomes more complicated when the external and most intimate environment does not stimulate change, liberation, or freedom of expression.

My home, my community, and my island do quite the opposite, enabling the blemish of a “culture of silence” and its people, their homes, and their families, deeply drenched in conditional repression, ever-latched with the despair of paternalism, medicated through substance abuse, perpetually replicating the problem while screaming for the solution when the solution is already there, in you, and in us, collectively.

I had seen the communal nightmare that framed society before and knew what to call it. I knew how it saw me, made me see myself, and how I should feel about who I am, and that enraged me. Because when I had no sense of identity, mentorship, family, or community, I let society determine who I should be and what society said I should do. And when I acted in such a manner society suggested, it spewed me back out and said,

no, not you, and no, not like that. Do it like everyone else, no more, no less, even if you do not look like us, talk like us, think like us, you must.

And somewhere in my confusion, my spirit knew, and my spirit rebelled. When I acted differently, I was, and still am, met with harsh judgment and alienation.

So, in my life, in its many versions, I have seen the curse, enraged by it, and with time, I am graced to see its gift. One gift I will share now with you is my ability to articulate my observations and how all these things are synonymous with Bermuda’s current events this year, previous years, decades, and, unfortunately, more than likely to continue or spiral.

Partial to the context is my understanding of the life of a young Black male in a racially structured society and how it cares or cares less about young Black men and whatever life they lead or end.

How do I understand this? Well, I died at sixteen, a death that was very much on par with the majority of Black men and Black women who have lost their lives to senseless acts of violence, and, at last, Bermuda’s roads.

My near-death experience was not the first death in my friend group.

As I remember O’Shea Stowe in 2003, and my most recent, Marvin Williams, where this culture of grief is almost as natural as orange or apple juice in the morning, an accepted “way of life, that you may lose your Black son, Black daughter, or Black friend this way and collectively, the Black community understand the basis of that fact, try to protect them from this fact, yet the facets that make up this mentality are never disrupted. It doesn’t have to be this way; its normalizing feeling is numbing.

I had forgotten O’Shea’s face until I bumped into his mother while randomly during errands.

“You remember me?”

That’s the first question many ask me when our paths cross.

I had forgotten her name. I had forgotten her face. I had forgotten his face, but there was his mother, who knew me and who had not forgotten. How do you embrace that? How does one heal from the synthesis of shivers that immediately come after any brief encounter?

Walking away from the exchange, I found myself grieving again as I did as a teen, wanting to apologize to his mother and to him because I had forgotten and knew that very much could’ve been me, could’ve been my mother, could’ve been my family. I could easily have been replaced by someone from my extended community, forgetting me.

Numbing. Akin to mistakenly stepping by stinging nettles while walking along the tracks, unaware and inattentive of your surroundings.

And then Marvin, who lived to see some semblance of adulthood. A real brother with the most infectious smile and the biggest heart toward anyone in need was gone as well.

As I age, it feels like the only time connections are rekindled, numbers and emails exchanged, are in the remnants and epiphanies of a funeral, sullen and soaked in hung smoke accompanied with dark mahogany liquor.

Every time the news occurs, a coarse, heated, shivering feeling returns, and a new sliver of grief adds to the already known names engraved in your memory.

Jason Smith, Earl Ingemann, Rakai Augustus, Randy Robinson, Shellee’ Smith, Malik Weeks, Patrick Dill, Tumaini Steede, Garry and Garrina Cann, Jason Lightbourne, Che Hollis, Erin Richardson… Sadly, I can go on.

These were people. Our people. Human beings.

Black boys (and girls) I grew up with. Individuals I have pictures with inside family albums, people I went to school with, church with, and played sports with or against.

They had dreams, ambitions, love, moments of laughter; they had families. And among whatever they were dealing with personally, I know through experience, they had intellect, talent, and hope, and if channeled the right way supported, it was, and could’ve been more impactful for Bermuda.

It is not only their lives lost or affected but their families, friends, and the community.

There’s a saying, almost a proverb, that my step-grandfather (and stepfather) would often share with me during moments of discipline and guidance—a warning meant to steer me toward "being better." Based on my memory, it went something like this:

“There are three places Black boys end up in Bermuda: dead on the roads, hooked on drugs, or in prison.”

At the time, it was shared as a stern warning, but now that I’m older, I realize there was also a tinge of self-hate and fear in their voice. It reflected a deep-seated anxiety about the harsh realities facing Black men in Bermuda. I can now see the hindsight of these words, as blunt as they were, carried a truth born from their eldership as Black men and a genuine concern preparing me for my future as a Black man in Bermuda.

I used to dismiss many of their words, believing they didn’t apply to me. But as I grew older, I began to see the harsh realities of my community—realities that have deteriorated since my youth, reflecting the erosion of our community's ethics and values.

I remember the day the news broke of Shaundae Jones murder outside Club Malabar and the unprecedented shockwave that rippled through the island. His mother, suddenly and tragically, became the matriarch of Bermuda’s unsolved murders, embodying the community’s collective grief and loss. It’s a heavy, unasked burden I wouldn’t wish upon any parent.

I remember the chilling moment when I received the news that my cousin had been hit in a shooting. That piercing shiver that followed never truly leaves you. Now, the situation on our island is even more ominous when police officers are actively engaging in gunfire with shooters.

This sets a new and unsettling precedent in Bermuda that I have never witnessed outside the context of our regiment or the specialized Emergency Response Team, who are typically equipped for high-risk searches or arrests.

The shift represents a dangerous escalation that casts a shadow over our island and hints at the possibility of spiraling into the death throes we’ve observed in our neighbors to the west—the United States—where the relationship between the police and the Black community is fraught with distrust, fear, and violence.

Suppose this is the new introduction of armed police into everyday law enforcement. In that case, it further threatens to deepen the existing rifts within our community, pushing us closer to a point of no return.

When I was younger, too ignorant to fully understand, I vaguely recall the political discussions surrounding the then Premier, Dr. Ewart Brown’s attempts to address the emerging gang violence in Bermuda. Despite the various biases and controversies surrounding him, I now see that Doc Brown genuinely tried to take a proactive stance. He recognized the early signs and sought expertise from the United States to train Bermuda’s police force. Brown intended to combat gang activity before it could fully take root, preventing the escalation of violence that he foresaw.

However, as usual, Bermuda’s response at the time was dismissive, echoing a resounding, “No! We don’t have gangs; we have boys who chill with each other around the hood.” To some extent, that’s how it felt back then—just kids hanging out, with the younger ones unable to mix with the older crowd. The older lot wouldn’t allow it, and I fully remember how they maintained a clear separation.

But this proactive stance revealed Bermuda’s continuing complexity as a colony since Doc's initiative needed UK approval, and his request was ultimately denied by the Governor, who instead opted for British assistance– an approach carries its own troubling racial history.

The point here is that Brown’s warnings about the potential rise of gang culture in Bermuda were not taken seriously enough at the time. The prevailing belief was that Bermuda was immune to the kind of gang violence seen elsewhere. This complacency allowed the problem to grow unchecked, leading to the entrenched anti-social behaviour we face today.

Some others chose to look the other way, clinging to the belief that “not my child” was a sufficient shield or ignoring the situation entirely. Some even found solace in the so-called “necessary evils” that allowed them to cope with the rising cost of living—a burden exacerbated by governmental maladministration, overspending, and insular procurement, not to mention the larger forces of the global economy, natural disasters, and the racial institutions that define Bermuda’s social fabric.

Given the relentless rise in the cost of living, I can’t blame those who find themselves compromising their values just to survive or, worse, leaving altogether. When leaders refuse to listen, the conflict within the community becomes apparent.

Do I believe that some leaders care? Yes, I do. But their words are too late. Titles and time have changed the dynamics, eroded ethics, and compromised their ability to lead with integrity. Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

When we take the time to examine Bermuda’s history, it becomes clear that the unresolved complexities of identity have deeply influenced contemporary Bermudian society, including its education system. In her exploration of Black Bermudian identities, Dr. Donna May Outerbridge illustrates:

“Looking at Bermuda’s history has also provided some understanding of the unsettledness and how Bermuda's unaddressed history of complex identities has effected/affected contemporary Bermuda in general, and the education system in particular. An example of the complex permutations encapsulated in the current Bermudian identity is how the idea of Bermuda as a British colony still contributes significantly to how Black Bermudians see and conduct themselves. Some Black Bermudians have embraced a pseudo or survivalist identity borrowed from their enslaver/colonizer, an identity that has persuaded them to either consciously move away from their historical past as Africans or to create an identity that can only be described as distinct or separated, a sort of Creolized or hyphenated African-Bermudian identity. “

Dr. Outerbridge's paper highlights how the long legacy of colonialism continues to shape our community’s identity and contributes to the difficulties in achieving true progress, particularly in leadership and community cohesion.

It is also seen in the tragic irony that had Brown's early warnings and requests for targeted intervention been heeded, Bermuda might have been able to stem the tide of anti-social behaviour before it became the deeply rooted issue it is now. Instead, leaders continue to throw money at the problem and hope it doesn’t escalate during their tenure.

There was a time when I looked up to strong Black men in leadership. There were men I admired in the community, and only now can I read about in history books as for today, I can hardly bear to look at them or listen, knowing what I know, seeing what I’ve seen, and, at times, recognizing their indirect political involvement in displacing their own people—including myself.

You cannot speak to me of unity and community while simultaneously contributing to its disintegration and the displacement of our people. The suffering of our community is, in part, a direct result of this hypocrisy.

And so, one event follows another, each shocking and enraging the community. Yet, nothing changes except the potency of the outcry and collective wail of “this isn’t my Bermuda.”

No one has stepped forward to take the reins to define the Bermuda we claim beyond a distant, nostalgic feeling.

Reflections on Leadership

There came a point when I had to acknowledge that this is the Bermuda I live in fully, and my conscience couldn’t ignore how much the island had radically changed without my consent or control. Besides changing my mentality, I realized that, as an individual, I can do little to change this reality. But as a collective, as part of a community, and as someone who has participated in various groups—including one that honored or gave visible representation during the Bermuda Day parade to the many young Black men who lost their lives to murder—I understood that, although difficult, positive change is imaginable here, and it is possible through collective action and solidarity.

A wise man once told a tired twenty-ish version of Dejon on the side of the street:

There are only two things that anyone possesses that have any value. Those are your ethics and your intelligence. They are the only things of worth because they are the only things you can never have taken from you. All your possessions can be taken or lost, but you must give up your ethics and intelligence.

When looking at the paths ahead, these words would still ring true a decade later.

I have witnessed many political cycles. My youthful ignorance and image have been used numerously over two decades for political propaganda on multiple issues, including disability, mental health, and road safety. In recent, and in my failure, I failed to see that my brand had been manipulated as a vehicle for it when all I have desired is to bring awareness and educate our community about who we are. I have participated in countless community initiatives. I have stood alongside names never mentioned in the papers, headlining workshops or panels, and those who have tirelessly tried to change our trajectory. I have attempted to initiate this conversation in numerous formats, mediums, and forums to the point that my spirit is tired. I’ve worked hard to educate myself and others, to help, to mentor where I can, and some of us continue this effort.

Yet, despite all this, our leadership often only delivers rhetorical speeches as if they don’t stand up and possess the power to change our course. They constantly speak from a space of powerlessness, as if they are not in control, a victim, or enslaved in their position with no real authority to help. Do we lack vision so profoundly that we’re left with Emmy-worthy parliamentary and press conference performances that, when concluded, leave Bermuda still adrift once more? Our island is left with empty words, an empty vessel with tattered sails, rudderless in the Bermudian breeze.

I have found myself contemplating a deeper involvement in political leadership. I’ve been approached by political groups, boards, community organizations, and individuals encouraging me to run for parliament. I find myself questioning my intellect, my sanity, and how this would affect my family. I wonder how foolish one must be to voluntarily engage in such a devolved and obtuse discourse. Yet, I also recognize the desperate need not for apathy but the need for quality, professionalism, and leadership that can elevate the parliamentary process, offer Bermuda a vision, instill hope, and help forge an identity rooted in unity rather than self-interest, political agendas, or divisive politics.

Can any of us honestly answer the question that we know where our leaders are taking us and Bermuda without political allegiance or bias?

We need a collective direction everyone can rally behind and support with and in full strength.

Nowadays, this sounds like a pipe dream, a mirage of insanity, where a vision of bringing a divided country together. Yet, it is a vision that is desperately needed. The racial polarity and rhetoric currently operated by political parties will not lead us there. This isn’t an endorsement of independent candidates either, as I understand the dynamics of the House, our socio-political history, and the rhetoric we’ve all been ensnared by, recycled from previous politicians and embittered political figures.

So here lies my internal conflict: I understand the mess, I see the mess, I’ve lived the mess, and now I wonder whether to insert myself into its complexity and history. When the collective is compromised, pressured into group psychology or an autocratic ideology, and absorbed into the collective consciousness of a zero-sum game, it becomes a systemically rigged setup.

This isn’t about personality, nor is it a misuse of fear or of courage. I continue to work with minority groups, doing what I can and offering advice. The conflict, instead, revolves around a simple question: Is the value and weight of parliamentary service, how it stands today, still worth the sacrifice of my peace, my health, and the well-being of my family?

Yet, as an artist, I deeply understand and acknowledge that everything political, with or without my consent, affects my life and the lives I'm connected to.

I have seen and engaged in this country's many layers of political and public service. I have also witnessed the paternalistic lobbying of and for political power here. I have seen the dark economy interacting with all classes, business, and their communities. I have listened to their discussions, their emotions, and their perceptions of this country, so I have not and never have spoken from a space I have not experienced firsthand. This has been one of the few privileges or the gift I mentioned of living with a disability—people often don’t see you, which has allowed me to navigate the gray areas and nuances of our society.

We speak of community, yet no one dares to deconstruct the racial structures that marginalize our cultures, segregate us, and perpetuate the inequities born from political and historical division.

We speak of community and unity, yet no one steps forward to lead that union meaningfully and affirmatively.

The harmony we fleetingly feel around the holidays—often fueled by the relief of a break from societal pressures and camaraderie lubricated by alcohol—seems to be losing its potency, especially when marred by tragedies and murder on the same holidays we are expected to celebrate each other. With all its charm, Bermuda's carefully manicured and maintained façade is beginning to peel back, exposing the rot of issues we’ve generationally avoided addressing.

We often talk about community in a nostalgic sense, as if it no longer exists; we’re detached from it and powerless to enact substantive change within it right now.

And therein lies the conflict.

On the one hand, I see the potential for education as the solution—a path independent of political bodies, parliamentary processes, and government funding. On the other hand, I recognize that parliament and the parasitic reach of this government infect almost every aspect of Bermudian life.

No matter which route I choose, it will inevitably be political or politically inferred, impacting my life and those I wish to help and empower.

As I wrestle with these thoughts, I continue in meditation, reading about the past, and in doing so, I see the patterns of the future more clearly.

Reconnecting with the past reveals truths about our future as it is all present. It is the same in my understanding of the absoluteness of death—the reality that you can be here one moment and gone the next. This realization shapes my embrace of life and my relationships with those I hold close.

Every breath I take is a breath lent by God and a gift granted by grace.

The gift I received from my accident was a course correction. While the tradeoff was destructive and significant—losing so much of what I once was—I gained the ability to see, to share this with you today, and to connect with countless people. However, to truly understand this gift, people must understand the context of young Black men and women in Bermuda and the paths their lives often take. I often say that if my accident, my death, had never occurred, my life might have ended similarly to many other young Black men and women who have never come back. I am the lucky one.

Only some people need to understand this or the catalyst it created for Bermuda. Yet, the change it set in motion continues, and sharing my testimony is part of that ongoing transformation.

My interest in writing has always been there since my recovery in 2005 to process my thoughts, specifically in poetry. However, in recent years, my writing and documentation were deeply prompted by coming into possession of my biological father's private journals during the time of my accident. I was never around my father much, yet he meticulously recorded his thoughts, emotions, and coping mechanisms every day, beginning from the start of that difficult period. They are a series of four or five journals that provided me with a unique perspective of him I had never experienced as a child, allowing me to see him as a person and see how choices are interconnected while also offering a window into the physical world as I battled spiritually within a coma. It is the most intimate possession that showed me the importance of our oral heritage and why preserving it matters so greatly.

I wrote my autobiography during the COVID-19 pandemic. Partially, it was out of boredom, but more so, it was for the historical record—to protect that my narrative was told in my own words, disallowing anyone else to speak for me. The book spans about four hundred pages, yet my story felt undone as I reached the end. Beyond what I write here with Onion Soup, the project is currently in a stalemate in the editing process, teaching me valuable lessons about trust and respect for my professional work.

July has always been a mentally tough month for me. I could feel a cloud looming over my mind, like a distant hurricane slowly approaching, and on the day itself, there would be an eerie silence, like being in the eye of the storm–knowing everything is going on around you, but a moment of peace in there. There is always a strange stillness that would settle over me, prompting questions about my existence–like here–leading me to mourn my past, the loss of family and friends, and the loss of a part of myself—whatever that truly means. There’s a sort of detachment that floods my soul, an overwhelming sense of disconnection from everyone, everything, and the burden of life.

As this feeling crept up in recent weeks, strangely, I found that my reflections were less about my fleeting existence and more about mourning my community, my island, and the collective loss of principles, identity, and leadership. In the wake of recent tragedies and the growing discussions around mental health, I felt compelled to share much more of my own journey.

Mental Health

If you knew what I endured as a child—the things I never said, the emotions I compressed within—you would understand that my accident birthed a voice that the abusive discipline of a Black household had long repressed. This was my first realization of my society, subtly passed down through generations depressed through discipline. My near-death experience, along with the memories I carry from before, in between to today, revealed that no one in society could be harder or more hurtful than how I’ve been conditioned to view myself. Society’s expectations of who I should be, how I should speak, and what I should look like are never aligned with allowing myself to be.

Over the years, I’ve heard people at community events and gatherings whisper, "If that were me, I would have probably killed myself," as a way to commend my strength for simply existing. Many do not know what I stand for because they’ve never taken the time to know me. Society assumes and projects its conditioning, seeing people like me as subpar, as less than human, with opinions that don’t matter. Now, imagine being Black and disabled in a racially structured, politically charged environment.

I’ve seen it all—in school, in college, within my family, in the community, in job applications, in collaborations, and even in those I’ve loved. And no, this isn’t about playing the victim but acknowledging an unspoken reality.

The things I’m loved for only matter as long as I’m useful—to individuals, to businesses, or to those who seek to preserve themselves. So when I receive messages of “encouragement” from certain people, speaking behind closed doors and in hushed tones, I feel the opposite. I feel enraged and alienated more than before as if they’re congratulating themselves rather than genuinely supporting as an ally. These people, who hold positions on boards, in quangos, and political organizations with inflated salaries, are the same ones who patronize and champion the very structures I speak against.

There was one point in my life, early in my recovery, when I wasn’t altogether, and the then doctors prescribed Zoloft, a decision made for me when I was still a minor. My mother, like many others, followed the doctors’ recommendation, believing they knew what was best for me better than I did, even though it was I who felt the emotions, the uncertainty, and the dizziness. I could feel that my thoughts were not my own while under its prescription, but no one listened to me, nor did I have an ally—so it resulted in me having to spit out my medication, only to find traces of it mixed in with chocolate milk shared with me for breakfast.

Zoloft later faced multiple lawsuits, with liabilities stating that the drug carried significant life-threatening risks. The FDA issued an alert in 2006, warning that it was characterized by symptoms such as restlessness, hallucinations, loss of coordination, rapid heartbeat, etc. Additionally, the FDA mandated a black box warning for Zoloft due to the increased risk of suicidal thoughts and behaviors, particularly in children, adolescents, and young adults. Despite being intended as a treatment for depression, the medication use has been linked to worsening depression and increased suicidality in some patients.

No one listened to me or believed what I said to be true, dismissing me as if I did not know what I was describing. This still occurs today, so you can see my hesitation to mistrust my intuition.

I’ve always hated medication because of the way it made me feel—out of control, disconnected from my thoughts and body, and even more depressed. The same goes for pain medication and, one of the many reasons why I’m now three years sober. I found myself in places with people I shouldn’t have been around, discussing things I would never typically discuss, poisoning myself to fit in.

One day, I realized I could no longer run from who I was or who I am to be. Since then, I haven’t had a taste for alcohol. I’ve developed an urgency for more clarity in my life, to understand the contextual layers surrounding me and within me. When this drive became so central to my being, alcohol began to seem like an obstacle to what I am trying to achieve—if the achievement of absolute clarity is even possible, as clarity comes with presence. It’s not something I can hold or capture; it’s a state of humility.

With that bit of context, the current focus on mental health in Bermuda is relatively new, and much of the seriousness surrounding it has emerged because of the unchecked mental health issues spilling out of quiet homes and into the streets, businesses, and the very fabric of what Bermuda represents. Now, these issues of anti-social behaviour have begun to affect the island’s reputation, outlook, and economy. The ill effects of a silently suffering society have led to shifts in spiritual consciousness and, in some cases, have driven our people to seek a better quality of life elsewhere. For some, particularly Black families, this has meant emigrating to protect their children from culturally accepted outcomes that seem inevitable if they stay.

Please understand this is from observational context and personal connections as there are no recent census data I can use as a source since our last census was in 2016, highlighting another political avoidance or hesitation from the ruling party to see the whole reality and result of their leadership style in Bermuda for the last two decades–this is not excluding the complexity of Bermuda’s colonial relationship, but highlighting the leadership has used the same strategies as the oligarchies before them for their self-gain while committing to the regression of the country.

My hesitation towards therapy in Bermuda stems from several deeply personal experiences and systemic cultural issues. Growing up, the distrust between my divorced parents, their partners, and their decisions over me, my body, and my mental state left a lasting impact. My early experiences with counseling, which began in middle school, only compounded this distrust, having to cope with a dysfunctional family, hormonal changes, and being thrown into the cultural differences of the “Two Bermuda’s” when transferring to a private school, where I had only last a year and a half there before returning to public education.

There was and is also the factor of the lack of Black representation in therapy during my upbringing, which further isolated me since my first instance of trust in therapy with my most intimate thoughts and feelings was with an older white man and notepad—how do you explain cultural nuances to someone who has not lived them?

And, of course, there was also an overarching cultural nuance with trust in the community itself; Bermuda's small-town mentality, coupled with gossip and weak privacy laws, made it difficult to confide in anyone, and I could not at home. The stereotype surrounding mental health, disabilities, and the perception of those who sought help added another layer of hesitation.

Lastly, the lack of adequate insurance coverage for people, people with disabilities, along with the high cost of living and healthcare in Bermuda, created financial barriers that I, and many others, cannot easily overcome. This overall lack of a support network left me hesitant to pursue therapy, even when I knew I needed it and desired it.

Growing up as a young adult with a disability I pretended I did not have, and ignored did not stop me from encountering these stigmas firsthand.

None of the necessary support systems I could have utilized existed back then. Even today, parents of differently-abled children still struggle to find the adequate educational support they need. If general public education suffers from a lack of direction, resources, political indifference, and obstruction, what do you think is happening to those in Bermuda who need extra support?

Mental health didn’t become a priority until it started affecting specific demographics’ pockets, and then, suddenly, it became an issue.

This isn’t to say I’m ungrateful about today's resources; quite the opposite. I understand this issue deeply and intimately. Through my twenty-year experience navigating the melodies, classes, and racial structures, I’ve seen the necessity of helping—if not curing—a post-colonial culture caught in an identity crisis and a perpetual state of existentialism.

My familiarity with mental health struggles and the lack of resources is painfully real. It’s about choosing—or rather, being forced to choose—between whether you eat, have a place to live, or suppress your feelings just to cope and survive.

Sometimes, it is even choosing for you what you can and can’t do with your health, leaving people like myself without insurance for years, falling through the ugly gaps of our society.

Living without insurance on this island is a precarious reality, severely limiting your ability to express concern, disagree, or challenge the status quo. The very act of speaking out against the entrenched systems and its people often leads to being ostracized from any opportunities for progress. The lack of sovereignty to be able to take care of oneself leads to a deafening, menacing silencing that is a strategic mechanism to maintain control over people, ensuring that the power structures remain unchallenged and unaltered.

But let me be clear: therapy is necessary, and therapy does help when you find the resources that authentically represent you and your community.

Secondly, it must be understood that therapy, while beneficial, is not a fix-all solution to a fundamentally broken system. It is said that you can tell a lot about a community by the way they see and treat their most vulnerable; we are seeing the results now.

We must not fall prey to the political posturing and the sudden pivot towards "holistic" approaches that, while helpful on the surface, fail to address the root causes of our societal ailments. Yes, mental health is crucial, but it is merely a symptom—a derivative of a more extensive, sicker system that continues to oppress, marginalize, and wear down the very people it purports to serve.

We must recognize this cancer. We must acknowledge that we’re not just dealing with individual cracks in the walls of our society; we’re grappling with a foundation crumbling beneath us. We cannot continue to plaster over these cracks with temporary fixes and hollow promises. The entire structure needs gutting and rebuilding, requiring more than cyclical conversations and band-aid solutions.

We need measurable, concrete action items that we can directly and collectively work towards with each of us playing a small part regardless of political affiliation. We must take accountability together, acknowledge the depth of our problems, and commit to addressing them at their core. We can no longer simply say we are resilient people.

Resilience

I cringe at the word resilience. It’s a word often used to praise, but I’ve learned that people tend to see in others what they choose to ignore in themselves.

Resilience is a form of inner strength, and while I can empathize with the fact that no one truly knows who you are—your upbringing, your reasons—I understand now that strength and defiance are all I’ve ever known. This is mainly because my first understanding of my environment, its systemic influence, the structural pressures, the unspoken rage, and even the unseen mental illness was filtered through the lens of my parents.

I see that clearly now. Although I didn’t have the words to describe it as a child, and the books I was taught to read didn’t teach me about it, I grew up experiencing it firsthand. My rage wasn’t directed at my parents as much as it was towards the distance between us—a distance that remains and one that I don’t believe can ever be bridged—it was more influenced by the structures that affected them and, essentially, me.

Their stories are their own to carry, just as I carry mine, dealing with life the way they were taught and the hand they were dealt, just as I must with my own.

Strength, resilience, and defiance are all I’ve ever known.

If people had listened closely, my mother even mentioned it in the documentary—one that barely scratched the surface of my story—that “Dejon was such a rambunctious child.”

But they have yet to tell you why. For some reason, those who cross your path often avoid the question of why. Perhaps because to answer it would require them to expose something within themselves that they’d rather keep hidden, so they avoid it—and you—altogether.

Tell me, where do you draw strength from when you can’t lean on the walls of your own home?

And if you do lean, will those walls support your weight, or will the house come crashing down?

My scars existed long before they became visible. What people see now, both physically and spiritually, is just the surface—in the same breath, these walls ascribe our country.

So when I hear the word resilience, it only reminds me that I am—and we are—still in an environment that doesn’t fully respect who I am, our differences, or my freedom to express them.

To me, resilience means that there’s still an antagonist and much work to be done.

I don’t feel honored when I hear that word. Instead, it reminds me of my heavy burden of speaking up when others won’t, of removing myself from people and places, even when the cost is loneliness.

My spirit is tired but not undone. I know my fight is still here.

As I continue, let me thank you if you have reached out here. I understand that this has already become a lengthy piece, even though there is still much more I can expand on. As with most of my work, it is never only a cynical rant about life but a presentation of my observations of my environment.

With that said, I’d like to wrap this up with some ideas.

Some thoughts on solutions

When I was a teenager, there used to be government-funded community classes held in various schools. The booklet would come with the mail each seasonal term, and I’d read what's there. I remember this specifically because one of my elderly family members used this opportunity to learn about the computer, the internet, and other emerging technologies.

Although the then (and now) government has faced significant challenges due to the massive debt accumulated from past irresponsible spending, this community-driven education and development program offered diverse classes that were accessible, and affordable, for seniors, adults, and youth held across the island—in the East, Central, and West —and covered a wide range of subjects such as computer literacy, cooking, fitness, upholstery, carpentry, and more.

The community classes were a good resource in bringing together people from different backgrounds to learn new skills and bridge generational gaps, with community experts leading lifelong learners.

Unfortunately, the program was scaled down or discontinued, and I wonder if it has returned in any form resembling its former state. However, the initiative provided educational benefits, strengthened community ties, and promoted lifelong learning. Reintroducing a similar program would also offer secondary or part-time employment for those with the trades, skills, and expertise to share.

While work development programs are available today, they are segmented and specialized, unlike the one I remember and the community-driven education I am advocating for. If appropriately redesigned, the program is a proactive measure to rebuild and re-engage our community by bringing people back into their neighborhoods and encouraging them to reconnect with those they live among.

We need to get people back into our community clubs and engage within their neighborhoods and people.

Our youth desperately need positive role models, but the question remains: what incentives exist beyond the bar to encourage men to engage in youth development and mentorship?

We need to create spaces where men can congregate over meaningful activities and take on leadership roles within the community. This requires a collective agreement on the leadership values we want to uphold—values of integrity, accountability, and service. We must identify those who embody these values and hold them up as examples. And if these values aren’t currently being upheld, we need to ask why and take collective action to address any breaches in ethics or agreed-upon principles.

That said, rather than perpetuating the patronage system through grant funding and insular councils, we should focus on developing sustainable plans to make youth development programs, clubs, and activities more accessible to families struggling with Bermuda’s high cost of living. Youth need more than just a basic education but an immersive, thoroughly stimulating, enriching environment where their minds can grow.

Bermudians often find themselves bound together by superficial commonalities, and this connection lacks the depth of understanding from shared vulnerability. This lack of deep connection becomes painfully apparent when individuals can no longer perform their known roles, leading to isolation, a loss of purpose, or worse, unemployment.

Few are fortunate enough to form real bonds. Many of us in this digitally driven era will not reach out just to connect deeply or provide a safe and open space for one another. However, the opportunity is there.

The cost of participation within our community has become another barrier. The expense of camps, classes, and activities significantly burdens families, making it difficult for many children to engage in enriching experiences during their developmental years. Which, in turn, affects their ability to find that sense of camaraderie and belonging.

By building a definite and measurable route to lowering the barriers to entry for these affordable programs, we can ensure that all young people have the opportunity to develop their potential, regardless of their economic background.

This brings me to my next proposed solution: The Learnalots.

The Learnalots

Do you remember remember the “Learn-A-Lots”? I can recall how most kids, including myself, wanted to be one, eagerly tuning in to the TV to catch an episode when able, as it fostered a strong sense of community.

If you need to remember, I'll give you a brief refresher before my thoughts.

"The Learn-A-Lots" was a popular youth educational TV program in Bermuda in the 90s and early 2000s, designed to engage children in learning through entertaining and interactive content. The show featured a group of young Bermudian children from Primary to High School who were taught various life lessons, educational concepts, and values in a fun and accessible way. The program was aimed at young audiences and combined Bermudian history, heritage, music, science, storytelling, and moral lessons to encourage positive behavior and critical thinking among Bermudian children. As I recall, it was a core part of a generation of Bermudian children's upbringing and an example of its lasting impact on the community by making learning enjoyable and relatable.

Years ago, when I first proposed relaunching the Learn-A-Lots program in collaboration with my media platform, the idea was met with rejection. It was dismissed as too costly to produce without even considering the pitch or logistics. Understandably, when the program originally aired, such concerns may have been accurate. However, with the evolution of media over time, particularly the rise of social and digital platforms, production overhead has dropped significantly.

As I believed then when proposed—and still do now— the cost of not doing it far outweighs the cost of producing it.

Our community is crying out for connection, education, and empowerment. We live in times when states ban books, and globally, people seek educational content and authentic spaces for learning. A big part of our societal challenges stems from a lack of generational connection and spaces where stories, education, and heritage are indirectly passed down as in the past in ways that raise community consciousness without overwhelming the persons in earshot or monotonous rhythm and formality of regimented education.

Within our community, many people work in communications and marketing. Yet, there is often a disconnect between the content they produce, the community they aim to reach, or the identity they are aesthetically trying to project. Drawing from my experience in media, I’ve observed that much of the content distributed locally today tends to be more propaganda than meaningful conversation. When people working in communications are disconnected from the community—whatever the reason may be—they struggle to engage in genuine dialogue with the very people they’re supposed to reach.

We have forgotten how to respectfully and intently talk with each other.

As a result, much of the information is distributed in the wrong places, and fails to engage the intended audience effectively. This leads to a vacuum and a widening gap between those who have the power to change circumstances and those who need active figures in their lives.

Of course, if this is your job, it can be treated as “result-driven.” However, when it comes to efficiently and positively affecting a culture, it is not about simply saying, “I did the work or posted the content.”

Developing empowerment and stimulating events to raise an informed public and community consciousness is more than pitching a scheme to tick a box.

If you're not actively engaging in conversations on the ground with the people you're trying to reach—and digitally emulate—then the entire strategy, concept, production, and content become dismissible and useless.

We must be intentional in what we produce, why, and how we deliver it, and consider its lasting effects on the community. If we don't, we risk reactivating the very problems we're trying to solve in terms of community connection.

Revisiting the idea of the "Learn-A-Lots," a modern revival has immense potential to reach, teach, and build excitement about education while remaining entertaining—much like the essence of programs such as Ms. Rachel, Bluey, and Cocomelon.

These programs successfully reached their audiences, and while their production is on a mass scale, that doesn't mean it's unattainable in a localized context. There are tools today that exist to make it both imaginable and measurable.

Today, with the power of social media and direct targeting, we have the opportunity to revisit and revitalize this concept on a more direct scale. Imagine Bermuda lessons in the palm of your hand. You can relate to life lessons, learn from them, talk about them with your child and parent, and ask your grandparents questions. Imagine a modern "Learn-A-Lots" that authentically tells our collective story and expands into Bermuda's history—not just touching on the familiar narratives of slavery, as our history is far longer than such where also exploring the intricate connections between Bermuda and the Caribbean, and how these islands collaborate today within the global economy. We could teach our youth about the diverse groups and associations that have shaped Bermuda and the rich history of migration that brought people here.

It's time for a more comprehensive education on how our economy operates, civics, political science, and the rights of the Bermudian people. Our youth deserve to understand the struggle for universal suffrage, appreciate their rights to direct their future, and be encouraged to ask questions, engage with, and challenge Bermuda's political landscape. Instead of being fed political rhetoric and racial division, they should learn why these tactics exist, how they have been employed against the populace, and how they can be empowered to envision a more informed public at a young age for the benefit of Bermuda.

One can dream, right?

In essence, our political leadership and their ministries excel at generating ideas that sound good. They distribute these concepts with the hope that they will reach their intended audiences and achieve the desired outcomes. However, as evidenced over the last decade, this approach consistently falls short. The result is a continuous cycle of introducing new schemes, opportunities, and concepts that attempt to address the same issues as previous initiatives, only to fail in the same ways.

This one facet of patterns perpetually highlights the systemic flaws we tend to overlook. While avoiding the structural basis, then the cycle repeats, and so do the problems, leading us back to the same conversations we've had countless times before—conversations documented in numerous books, reports, and essays.

The Learn-A-Lots represents more than just a nostalgic idea; it’s a tangible example of how impactful we once were and how we can break free from the repetitive cycles of ineffective initiatives. Rather than rehashing the same old strategies that have failed to deliver real change, let's use one that worked and use the opportunity to create something genuinely impactful—something that authentically connects with our community, educates our youth, and stimulates a deeper understanding of Bermuda’s past, present, and future.

I have shared and presented numerous reasons and themes for the need for connection, conversation, and community spaces, which brings my need to discuss the government's proposed idea of “makerspaces.”

Makerspaces

Artists have always been at the forefront of cultural advancement and community empowerment.

However, when an art collective or community becomes sanitized and reflects the same colonial elitist ideologies entrenched in paternalism and ego, it leads to a select few determining who, how, and what culture should be identified as, celebrated, or mocked. This creates a situation where upcoming artists feel pressured to conform and mask their true expressions of the island’s society in order to belong, access opportunities, and be paid. Consequently, they become absorbed into the very system that needs to be challenged if the community is to progress.

When the art community selects creatives they can control, positioning themselves as gatekeepers to a target audience, and those artists lack a genuine connection to or reflect the actual community, it perpetuates and exacerbates the underlying and interrelated problems I’ve already shared. This disconnect fosters the elitist fantasy and pervasive philanthropy of Black Bermudian culture rather than an authentic representation of the cultures, ultimately stifling the diversity and richness that true artistic expression should bring to the community.

This happens when the wrong people are chosen to be the visionaries or faces of cultural propaganda rather than selecting artists who genuinely seek to empower and advance the community. When these select few are chosen early on, and their primary concerns are self-preservation and self-interest, any art project or community initiative they are involved in risks becoming another form of political propaganda rather than genuinely enhancing the values of the community.

The real problem arises when political connections infiltrate the artistic community. Take, for example, the makerspace initiative. Suppose those chosen to lead or participate in such projects lack true alignment with the community’s needs and instead operate with existing cognitive dissonance. In that case, the project becomes yet another misuse of funds, perpetuating the same systematic and racial issues we are trying to resolve. This, in turn, places a greater financial burden on taxpayers and sets the stage for the project’s eventual failure.

According to the last census in 2016, individuals of Black or African descent represent 52% of Bermuda’s population. However, Black Bermudians seem to fail to recognize that the structures surrounding them are shifting to become welcoming to anyone but them, including housing. The few community spaces that historically once served to stimulate and empower Black Bermudians are increasingly diluted, losing the original purpose for which they were established.

When we observe a community shaped by and taught in colonial and Eurocentric ideology, with leaders who uphold these same ideals, values, and practices of the past, it is no surprise that there is a disproportionate and discordant sense of identity within the community. Leadership often exploits this confusion, using it as a resignation for their continued grip on power.

This issue is closely aligned with the ongoing education reform, where the system continues to perpetuate these ideologies rather than address the root issue of the community they utilize.

This is also why there needs to be more community initiatives independent of government influence in funding. While government funding can be beneficial in some instances, it often comes with strings attached that taint the project's core purpose, turning it into a vehicle for political agendas rather than a means of genuine community building.

Like the solution proposed with "Learn-A-Lots," all these issues, initiatives, and ideas are deeply interconnected. It all boils down to connecting, communicating, and genuinely engaging with each other. The principles of empowering and creating safe, supportive spaces for community connection also apply to makerspaces. However, I fear these makerspaces will fail because their focus is too narrow and exclusive.

If makerspaces are only accessible and specialized to a select few, how can they genuinely elevate the consciousness of the larger community?

I often think about this when I consider my child’s future. We had affordable spaces to hang out and be ourselves when we were younger. Today, as we look at the infrastructure, businesses, and community spaces, those safe, fun environments for youth and families seem to be disappearing.

As I bring these reflections to a close, I want to emphasize that the challenges we face as a community are not insurmountable. They are, in many ways, reflections of our fragmented efforts and the silos we’ve allowed to persist among us. Our strength is not in competition but in collaboration, driving toward a shared and definite vision.

We must move beyond the mentality that one can do it better than the other and instead embrace a spirit of synthesis and collective cohesion. We can only harness our true potential and address our issues through consolidation and cooperation.

However, this requires us to evaluate accurately and honestly to identify the vision towards embracing and enacting our sovereignty. The exact collective and organizational strength we witness during hurricanes is a perfect example of the determination fueled by our past heroes and heroines. We must return to our roots to build a self-sustaining future.

I am hopeful for what lies ahead in my next twenty years, not because the road will be easy, but because I believe in myself, and I believe in us, and in our collective ability to rise to the challenge and surpass it together.