Ruthlyn James | Out of Many? Or out of touch? – Jamaica’s motto and myth of unity

Jamaica’s national motto, ‘Out of Many, One People’, proudly emblazoned on our coat of arms, celebrates the multiracial roots of our island descendants of Tainos, Africans, Europeans, Indians, Chinese and others united in one identity. Yet the lived experience tells a different story: societal divisions not healed but reinforced.

The motto itself was not born from grassroots Jamaican unity but chosen in 1962 at Independence, a product of colonial design. It was meant to symbolise our multiracial identity, yet many argue it was more cosmetic than cultural. The deeper fractures of class and colour were never addressed, only glossed over with a poetic phrase.

The nation feels split — where intersections between groups are small and many cling to their segment of the Venn diagram. Mixed heritage is sometimes viewed as “contamination”, whether of genetics or appearance; be it skin tone or curl pattern. This tension fuels mistrust and separation, rather than unity.

Rumblings persist that a tight-knit circle — around 21 families of Lebanese-Syrian, Chinese, Indian and other descent — control significant swaths of Jamaica’s economy. As one observer ominously put it: “I thought it was common knowledge that 21 families basically run the Jamaican economy (and, indirectly, the Jamaican political parties).”

This control doesn’t just suggest economic dominance — it implies that the capacity to “blend” socially or materially is often reserved for those within these circles.

HIDDEN HANDS

These families and business dynasties are the hidden hands that oil the machinery of both political parties. While Jamaica loves its tribal politics — the truth is that money, not colour, is the consistent kingmaker. Campaigns are bankrolled by uptown financiers, while the foot soldiers who clash in the streets, sometimes even violently, are the poor. In this way, the supposed divide is an illusion: the elite benefit whichever flag flies over Gordon House.

One of the most riveting examples of Jamaica’s contradictions comes from stories whispered across both uptown verandas and downtown lanes: the politician’s daughter from uptown who crossed paths with the gang leader.

Her life — privileged, polished, and rooted in affluence — stood in stark contrast to his, shaped by survival, community protection, and the codes of the street. Yet their intersection, however fleeting, challenged Jamaica’s rigid social order. Could it be that the Venn diagram’s circles, so carefully guarded, sometimes overlap in ways that unsettle both the elite and the grassroots?

This narrative is more than gossip; it is a symbol of the cultural crossroads where Jamaica often finds itself. The country that proclaims unity is also the country where love across boundaries is seen as transgression, not transformation.

How do ‘uptown’ folks — a lighter-skinned, posh-accented, English-speaking crowd — and ‘downtown’ dark-skinned, strong-Patois speakers engage in business, seek jobs, or just breathe in public spaces?

Uptown individuals often navigate corporate Jamaica more smoothly: interviews in refined English, networks embedded in institutions, trust by default. For the downtown Patois speaker, it’s an uphill battle — code-switching becomes survival. Ask yourself: when a dark-skinned woman walks into a bank to apply for a loan, does the teller expect professionalism, or do they brace themselves? The expectation gap presumes — mistakenly — that one is less “fit”.

CLASS TRUMPS COLOUR

In reality, class trumps colour in many ways. A light-skinned man without a proper accent may be scorned in the boardroom, while a darker-skinned woman with the ‘right look’ and polished English may pass. But the cracks of discrimination still run deep: dreadlocks still raise eyebrows, heavy Patois is still equated with ignorance, and schools with “inner-city” in their address are judged before a teacher ever enters the classroom.

Here, the motto is supposed to be nurtured. But institutions like Kingston College, founded in 1925 to uplift talented poor black boys, long ago embodied progressive intent. It still admits based on merit, not lineage. Yet, today, school quality often mirrors socio-economic status — private ‘uptown’ schools flourish with resources, while inner-city schools lag. Thus education often sustains the Venn-diagram separations rather than dissolving them.

Kingston College began as a counter-measure to social deformity — broadening access for black talent. But broader educational outcomes show inequality. Schools become gatekeepers: gates locked for those without social capital, budgets, or language codes to pass through seamlessly. The motto may glorify our diversity, but our schooling says: “Stay where you belong.”

Jamaica could embody its motto — but only if conversations like this are more than whispers. Social cohesion requires active integration — not just rhetoric, but real programmes that bring people together across divisions. It also requires affirmation of Patois-speaking dark-skinned Jamaicans, respected as equals in all spaces of society. And it demands leveraging elite reach for communal uplift — where figures like the politician’s daughter don’t just straddle worlds but build bridges.

So, who really controls Jamaica? The moneyed few, or the masses who keep them in power with their votes? The truth is sobering: the wealthy control the purse strings while the poor hold the ballot slips — but both are bound in a system where the outcome rarely changes. Unity, then, may be less about blending skin tones and more about breaking illusions. Will Jamaica ever be ‘one people’? Or will the motto remain a delusion carved in wood and parchment, recited by generations who live a very different reality?

Jamaica’s strength lies in its beautiful mix — but unity cannot be mythical. It must emerge in everyday choices: who gets loans, who gets hired, who gets resourceful education. The motto should be our guide, not just adornment. Let’s choose unity — beyond the diagram, convenience and cosmetics.

Ruthlyn James is the founding director of Adonijah Group of Schools Therapy and Assessment Centre. Send feedback to columns@gleanerjm.com