Shortly before my father’s 1974 emigration to New York City, he’s an aspiring politician in post-colonial Jamaica, whipping support for democratic socialist Michael Manley’s bid to become prime minister, riding People’s National Party vans to Kingston, canvassing voters, not returning home for days. He’s 16 years old. Beneath a coconut tree on his family’s modest plot of land, he delivers speeches into the tropical dusk, readying himself for his life’s work: he will be Jamaica’s Fidel Castro, leader of another island nation looking to rebuke the colonial boot. Crickets chant his name.

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