Homage For A Working Class Hero

For the island of Jamaica, the year 1976 marked one of the darkest chapters in history. With politically-fueled violence, high inflation and record unemployment, Jamaica appeared on the brink of unending social anarchy.

No one was immune from the chaos. Days before headlining a unity-themed concert dubbed “Smile Jamaica,” reggae legend Bob Marley was shot and wounded inside his home by unknown gunmen. Soon after the incident, Marley granted a television interview where he appeared—as he so often was—in a philosophical state of mind. “My life is no important to me,” he said dismissively. “I think life [is] important. My life is only important if [I] can help plenty people ... My life is the people.”

I was reminded of those spirited sentiments in early December as I presided over the memorial service held in Brooklyn for my brother, Mervyn E. Simon, after he died unexpectedly at the age of 49. As the eldest of my mother's seven sons, Mervyn naturally fussed over us all. In my own life, he was a constant, steady and influential presence. But as I observed the hundreds of mourners who assembled to pay respects to my brother, I took solace in the most poignant lesson from his life. He was not a politician, nor was he ever an officially recognized activist, but he showed that one person truly can make a difference in the lives of others while also impacting a community-at-large.

My brother's sense of public service was fostered at an early age. Born to Margaret Stephen and Christopher Simon, Mervyn had a humble upbringing in Trinidad during the 1960s and early '70s. In the northeastern town of Manzanilla, he was raised in a tight-knit community where people looked out for one another. But those were also fast-changing times. Set against the backdrop of the American civil rights movement—and the subsequent Black Power era—it was also a period steeped in revolutionary fervor, as Trinidad, along with scores of other Caribbean islands, basked in the glow of independence.

Mervyn soaked in as much of the era as he could through adolescent eyes. Years later, he spoke often and passionately about how the heady period shaped his identity and reinforced his sense of confidence when he emigrated to the United States with our mother in the mid-1970s. They were part of an historic wave of new arrivals who benefited from landmark federal legislation enacted a decade earlier. The Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 eliminated the national quota system and sparked a dramatic rise in the number of immigrants from non-European countries.

Mom and Mervyn's first destination was Silver Spring, Maryland, where she labored long and hard as a domestic worker. But after visiting friends of the family in New York, Mervyn instantly fell in love with the pulse of Brooklyn and—after much pleading—convinced our mother to move. But the city they found in the late 1970s was caught in the throes of a debilitating financial crisis. Still, like generations of immigrants before them, Mervyn and our mother charged ahead.

As a teenager adjusting to his newly adopted home, Mervyn learned a valuable lesson—namely, how to navigate multiple worlds while staying true to himself. Despite the broadening appeal of Caribbean musicians like Marley and the legendary calypsonian, The Mighty Sparrow, being a West Indian teenager in '70s-era New York brought its share of alienation and stigmatization. But Mervyn used his sharp wit, keen observational skills and an insatiable curiosity to make lifelong friends, defuse tensions, and forge connections with people from all walks of life. He saw diversity as a path to personal and spiritual development, excitedly quoting whatever new foreign phrase that he picked up along the way.