And being forced to hunker down with staff in a constituency office as bullets flew times of deep distress and pain when she buried "more constituents than any other politician", upshot of the volatile 1970s and 80s when politics was nasty and ugly. She had not yet proved herself in the art of prime ministerial politics and would benefit from time in the trenches of the ministerial ranks and negotiating the party's corridors of power.Īnd there would be moments when - how does a woman bear it? - she would be privy to information that fiends were plotting her murder. In any event, Portia Simpson Miller's time had not yet come. He had contributed so much to this great party, and was there long before me and he was the obvious choice of the party and the people," she recounts of the man she now calls "one of my best friends". "I knew it was never going to be easy to beat Mr Patterson. Upon reflection now she knows it was an exercise in futility. Or the time she challenged P J Patterson for leadership of the PNP after Michael Manley stepped down because of illness in 1992. Like the time she was railroaded into running as the People's National Party (PNP) candidate in the Trench Town West division where her party could barely scrape 20 votes in any election. Hers would be a journey of glorious uncertainties on which she had to overcome pain and loss, bitter disappointments, but at last soaring triumph. deficient.įebruary 5, 1974, forty years ago today, could have passed quietly and without incident but for the fact that it was Portia Simpson'sĬertain appointment with destiny - the call to representational politics and to service of her people dwelling in the putrid bowels of the sprawling Trench Town, Kingston 12 slums.Īt age 29, she had already spent the intervening years in the crucible of rural upbringing, being honed for something she then had no knowledge of and for a time when a country girl from lowly Wood Hall, St Catherine would rise, in defiance of convention, to the dizzying heights as prime minister of a tiny but great nation.īut it would not come on a platter. Once again, the interviewer is sorely challenged to rise to magnum opus status, but feels. But they know it can't all be told in the finite pages of a 21-year-old newspaper, happy though it is to be just the chosen vessel.
It is for the hungry soul grasping at every last detail of the heroism gifted to the Jamaican woman, and with which this daughter of destiny is so richly endowed. The Portia Simpson Miller story is compelling and awe-inspiring. She was the overwhelming choice of the hungry masses, the poor and indigent, the voiceless and forgotten, the far descendants of beaten slaves, whose only power was to elect themselves a political saviour and rest in her their impatient hope for even temporary relief. Her special gift was not the power of articulation attributed to her predecessors Norman Manley, Michael Manley or P J Patterson.īut Portia Simpson Miller became prime minister of Jamaica for the right reason.
Nor was she the most educated Jamaican woman. Why, for example, let us ask, was Portia Lucretia Simpson chosen to become Jamaica's first woman prime minister? She was not to the manor born. The unmistakable lesson taught by the wisdom of the ages is that history never errs in appointing human beings to their special place in life.
Like all those tapped by fate for greatness in this life, she is possessed of endless charisma, an enchanting personality and a bewitching aura that have been enriched by 40 years of tramping back and forth across Jamaica's gruelling political campaign trail. Those who don't wish, or can't afford to be completely mesmerised, would do well to avoid being in the prolonged presence of Portia Simpson Miller. THIS interview must, of earnest duty, begin with a solemn warning.
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