"Healing of the Nation" Bonus Episode

Yes.

Everybody.

Greetings in the name of the most high.

Welcome Roots Land soldiers.

We are back in the studio, live and direct.

And I'm here with Sia, my part time co host, full time pain in the Henry, and the mother of my beautiful baby girl.

Baby?

Our little girl is getting married.

What are you talking about, Sia?

That's supposed to be a secret.

We don't want the paparazzi showing up and we don't want our listeners to know how old we are.

Speak for yourself.

I'm proud of my age.

I look good.

Yes, you do.

You are still fine.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Happy Mother's Day to you and all the moms out there in Roots Land.

All the parents who put their children first and teach them to be their true selves.

Yes.

And happy Mother's Day to all the mothers out there.

So, Sia, Urban legends wanted, dread or alive.

How you liking the new season?

To be honest, I haven't had time to watch it yet.

Yeah, I can see how it's tough to watch, considering this is an audio podcast.

Do you even know what we do?

Have you ever even listened?

I meant listen.

I'm just tired.

But our daughter loves it.

She says true crime is your jam.

Yes, I know.

She did.

Yeah.

I love.

I love the genre and I probably will do more.

It's good to know my five years of college.

Well, five and a half years of college had some purpose.

That's funny.

She said when we're in Jamaica, I shouldn't stand so close to you.

Don't stand so close to you.

Isn't that a song by the police?

Ironic, right?

Since it would be the police.

That would be.

Yeah, right.

Anyway, do you ever like to get close to me?

Sometimes I do.

Real close.

Well, we both want to thank everyone who signed the petition already, but you know how politicians are.

If you want to get something done, we got to put on the real pressure.

I know we have a lot more listeners than sign that petition.

So everybody click the link below, please.

Yes, everybody make sure you click the link below and share with everyone.

Thank you, Sia.

So you're going to stay around for a minute while I tell a story.

A story?

Yeah, about another woman.

Another girl you met back in Jamaica.

Oh, we're not going through this now.

She was just a friend.

H.

I'm not going to stick around for this one.

I leave you to entertain.

Come on, do it for the show.

Bye.

Because righteousness govern the world.

The Roots Land podcast.

Stories that are music to your ears.

I first met sweet Sandy G at a twin of Twins record launch party in Kingston, Jamaica, in December 2003.

Two decades in Kingston years somehow feels like both yesterday and a lifetime ago.

The party had the electric energy Kingston always seems to generate, bass lines vibrating through concrete floors, voices competing with the music, the air thick with possibility, and of course, the scent of pungent sensimilia.

Sandy G was working as a hostess at the trendy Uptown Cafe in the Ligany area where the event was being held, not far from the Bob Marley Museum on Hope Road.

It was the kind of spot where Kingston's elite would sip overpriced rum punch and talk business, politics, or music.

Sometimes all three.

At closing time, the owner, also a close friend, approached me asking if I can drop Sandy home on my way back up to Red Hills.

He'd have to stay later than expected and needed assurance of his employees safe return home after a long night's work.

The catch?

She lived deep in one of Kingston's garrisons, a particularly treacherous stretch of Hagley Park Road that even taxi drivers approached with caution after dark, if at all.

During our drive, the city's landscape transformed around us, from the manicured lawns and security guards of Uptown to the raw, unfiltered reality of Kingston's concrete jungle.

Windows down the night air carried fragments of distant sound systems, the occasional burst of laughter, the persistent hum of a city that never truly sleeps.

Sandy G's story unfolded between streetlights.

Though currently residing in the ghetto, she had grown up in a middle class home in Kingston suburbs.

It wasn't by choice but by circumstance that she found herself living in the Garrison, decisions made by a mother whom she shared little besides blood and a zinc roofed concrete structure that barely qualified as shelter.

They shared a communal kitchen and bathroom facilities with strangers lacking the basic privacy that a young woman needs to feel secure, much less thrive.

Life is one big road with lots of signs, she said thoughtfully as darkness swallowed the car windows, the Garrison drawing closer with each turn.

Maybe tonight's a signpost, you know, crossing paths like this.

Her voice softened as we pulled up to her gate.

Maybe we'll meet again someday, Henrique.

What struck me most about Sandy G Wasn't her circumstances, but her steadfast refusal to be defined by them.

While many young women in her position might have sought escape through shortcuts, a wealthy boyfriend, the party scene, or even worse, Sandy was plotting a legitimate exodus through education and honest work.

She was taking makeup classes after long shifts, building qualifications brick by brick, constructing a future with her own hands rather than waiting on Someone to gift her one.

In the cafe where she worked, Sandy G stood apart while her colleagues, mostly tall, thin, light skinned women who embodied European beauty standards, competed for attention and opportunities that might come with it.

Sandy moved differently.

Her darker mahogany skin and curvier figure didn't conform to the narrow definitions of beauty plastered across billboards and on magazine covers.

Yet she carried herself with a confidence that couldn't be taught or bought.

The uptown boys were relentless in their pursuit, drawn to something they couldn't quite name.

Perhaps authenticity in a world of careful fabrications.

Perhaps the quiet dignity that refused to be diminished by her situation in life.

Whatever it was, Sandy remained unmoved while others chased promises of Kingston's glittering nightlife.

She'd rather take a taxi home alone, paying with her evening tips, than give anyone a wrong impression.

Freedom is the road, she once told me, explaining her choices with a wisdom beyond her years.

She understood something fundamental that many never grasp.

That true freedom isn't found in escaping one form of dependency for another, but in building the capacity to stand entirely on your own terms.

For years, I watched as Sandy G walked her chosen path, refusing to sell her dignity for temporary comfort.

Understanding that her self worth was worth much more than gold in a city where too many women are willing to take shortcuts, she chose the longer, harder road.

Remaining in the ghetto she hated, with a mother, she struggled to understand rather than compromise the vision she held for herself.

And now, 20 years later, I discovered that Sandy G's patience had finally paid off.

So after spending this season documenting a story steeped in death, darkness and corruption, I find myself drawn to sharing her journey.

A narrative about living, striving and healing.

The saga of Sandy G feels like the story I need to tell right now.

Which means it may be the story you need to hear.

In a world quick to celebrate overnight success and instant gratification, her determination reminds us all that the longest journeys often yield the most meaningful arrivals.

Some fires don't consume.

They refine.

They transform.

They provide a light to guide us through the darkest times.

In Kingston, Jamaica, we call people like Sandy G ragamuffin soldiers.

Not because they fight with weapons, but because they battle circumstances with unwavering dignity.

They don't just survive the flames.

They emerge from them, transformed but unbroken, carrying their light into places that darkness once claimed as territory.

As Sandy G aged, she did so with a grace that defied her surroundings.

Rejecting the false promises of Kingston City that had stagnated so many dreams around her, the realization came to her like a revelation.

Same club Same faces, same empty promises night after night, while time, the most precious currency, slipped away.

She traded her hostess position for less money but more possibility, Taking work at a retail clothing store in Halfway Tree.

Each morning became its own small battle, applying makeup not just to enhance her beautiful features, but to construct a shield between her inner world and the one she had to navigate.

Her uniform was easy.

The hard part was wearing that smile, the one that concealed the hardships she woke up to and returned to each day.

Yet no one had an inkling of her struggles, so adept was she at this necessary performance.

Walking through Kingston streets, she was a masterclass in dignity, carrying herself with a quiet pride that no circumstance could diminish.

Behind that carefully crafted exterior, though, Sandy G.

Endured all the indignities that women face in workplaces everywhere.

The thinly veiled propositions, the unwanted touches disguised as accidents, the constant struggle to keep professional what others insisted on making personal.

When you earn less than US$50 a week, time becomes your enemy.

Every hour spent working is an hour you're not studying, not building, not becoming.

Saving becomes a mathematical impossibility, a cruel equation where basic survival consumes everything you earn.

Yet Sandy G, like so many before her, found the margins.

She carved out space within impossibility, setting up a side business as a makeup artist and hairstylist.

Her clients, mostly neighborhood women, preparing for special occasions, a church service, a job interview, the rare night out she transformed them in her makeshift salon, a corner of that shared concrete house she still refused to call home.

When opportunity came knocking and a close relative offered a chance for her to live in America, Sandy G.

Didn't hesitate.

But as the great songwriter Bob Andy wrote in his classic composition I've Got to Go Back Home about return migration.

Foreign streets aren't always paved with gold, but often with heartache, sweat and pain.

America presented Sandy G with a different kind of garrison, not one defined by zinc fences and corner crews, but by invisible barriers of documentation, discrimination, and the loneliness that comes from being surrounded by millions of people, yet recognized by so few.

Once again, starting at the bottom, Sandy G.

Found work as an aide in a nursing home, minimum wage for maximum hardship.

Her responsibilities included what many consider the most humiliating work a person can cleaning bodies no longer able to clean themselves, changing adult diapers, bathing those who once bathed their own children but now lay helpless, feeding those whose hands no longer obeyed their mind's commands.

They get so little pay the ones who clean the mess, as another classic song by Bob Andy observes.

And Sandy G was literally cleaning up life's messes the physical evidence of human frailty.

The undeniable proof of our shared vulnerability.

Yet the strange thing I noticed when we spoke after her shifts was far from being discouraged, Sandy G.

Was invigorated.

Where others saw only decline and decay, she recognized humanity in its purest form.

Being around the elderly, the infirm, the forgotten.

This was her calling, though she couldn't have named it.

During those Kingston nights, when we drove through the garrison streets, she would tell me stories about her patients.

Not as they were now confined to beds and wheelchairs, but who they had been.

The former teacher who had educated three generations of children before her mind began to fade.

The mechanic whose hands had fixed a thousand cars but now couldn't hold a spoon.

The mother of six whose children had scattered like seeds in the wind, leaving her to face her final days among strangers.

To Sandy G, none of these people were bedridden seniors waiting to die.

They were libraries of lived experience, more alive in their twilight than most of the walking zombies we encounter daily.

People moving through life without purpose or presence.

Their bodies healthy, but their spirits already gone.

In the face of those society had discarded, Sandy G Recognized a truth and worthiness that transcended physical condition or social status.

The dignity she had fought to maintain in Kingston's garrison, she now extended to others who could no longer fight for their own.

In doing so, she found her purpose not in escape, but in service.

Not in receiving care, but in giving it.

Last week, I saw my old friend Sandy G For the first time in years, gathering to celebrate her 40th birthday.

The young woman I met all those years ago had matured into someone beautiful inside and out.

Not by Kingston's superficial standards, but by the deeper metrics that actually matter in this world.

The moment I saw her, before we'd even properly embraced, words tumbled from her mouth that she could hardly contain.

She had just received official word from the state of Florida.

She had passed her exam to become an RN a registered nurse.

At 40 years old, Sandy G.

Had received the best birthday present of her life.

A dream come true.

I don't have to tell the Roots Land family how difficult it is to study for and pass that exam while working 12 hour shifts, cleaning bedpans, managing patient care, and still somehow finding the energy to memorize medical terminology and procedures.

The mental fortitude required makes those garrisoned streets seem like an easy stroll by comparison.

Watching her face light up as she shared her achievement, I saw in her eyes the same fire that burned there 20 years ago.

Not diminished by time or hardship, but refined, focused Purposeful.

Where once stood a flame of defiance against her own situation in life, now it burned as a beacon of light for other people.

I know Sandy G listens to the show.

And I want her to know how proud we all are in the Roots Land, family.

Proud of her.

Proud of all the Sandy G's out there in the struggle, refusing to give up, refusing to give in.

This message is for you, Sandy, and for anyone who walks the similar path.

Never forget the resolve that got you to this day.

Cause I can promise you there'll be rough days ahead.

You've chosen a difficult profession, one that will demand everything you have and then ask for more.

There'll be night shifts where you're so tired you fall asleep standing up.

Times when you're blamed for things you didn't do.

Patience.

You'll lose that you've grown attached to, even though that breaks every cardinal rule of nursing.

You'll be heartbroken, want to give in.

But in those moments, I want you to listen back to this episode and remember there's nothing this world can throw at you you haven't felt already.

Nothing you cannot handle.

Every hardship you've endured has been preparation for the purpose you found.

That zinc roofed house with a shared bathroom taught you about human dignity when privacy is scarce.

The retail job where men confuse professionalism with availability taught you about boundaries.

Those lonely first years in America longing to go back home, taught you how to recognize isolation in others.

Yet all that pain will be overshadowed by the good that you will do.

In time, there will be hundreds, thousands of people saved by your warmth, your grace, your healing touch, the generosity in your soul formed by all you've seen and experienced.

Like reggae rhythms that traveled from Kingston's concrete yards to touch hearts worldwide.

Your impact will ripple outward in ways you may never fully witness.

In reggae terminology, we use the phrase healing of the nation.

It generally applies to anything that brings peace, love, joy, health or healing to humanity.

Sometimes it refers to the holy herb of cannabis, other times to reggae music itself, the rhythm that unites the world.

But Sandy G, there's an ancient Hebrew expression that says, he who saves a life, saves the world entire.

Meaning you never know what good one person can do for all humanity.

That one person you care for might find the cure for a deadly disease.

Or perhaps their future child will.

They might bring peace to a family, to a community, or to a world.

Through your hands, Sandy, flows the healing of the nation, of the world.

And I don't want to put on the pressure, but we are counting on you.

What this world needs now more than ever, are more people like Sandy G.

Those who refuse to let their past define them, but use it to refine them.

Voices that bring calm instead of chaos.

And eyes that see possibility where others only see ending.

Congratulations, sweet Sandy G.

Now go conquer this world with love and take no prisoners.

Produced by Henry K.