A Tribute to Michael Holder

I met Michael Holder when I was thirteen years old. We came from very different economic realities, yet we bonded deeply and emotionally. At the core of that bond was a shared longing—to be seen and appreciated by our fathers. That desire, though never fulfilled for either of us, shaped who we became. We carried forward parts of our fathers’ traits—some empowering, some burdensome—alongside a heritage we could never deny, even when it conflicted with who we hoped to become.

From his father, Michael inherited a strong merchant spirit—confident, strategic, and commanding. From his mother, he embraced warmth, care, and a deep capacity to love. I first truly came to know him at Charlton Preparatory School around 1986. Even then, Michael stood out as a caregiver. He looked after his younger siblings, Little Kirk and Little Princess, with a sense of responsibility that felt far beyond his years.

Our friendship deepened naturally. On my way to my board house in the mountains, I had to pass by Michael’s home, and as boys often do, we formed an unspoken bond—one that would quietly carry us through a lifetime. We fought, made up, shared clothes, recorded movies on VHS tapes, went to parties in his community, walked long distances together, and worked side by side. Before I was sixteen, those shared experiences had already sealed a lifelong connection.

Michael understood parts of me before I fully understood myself. At times, his way of “toughening me up” came through harsh lessons that reflected the era, the environment, and his own struggles. While some moments caused pain, they also pushed me to reject victimhood and to see myself as someone capable of strength and self-definition. Our relationship, like many formed in boyhood, was imperfect, raw, and real.

One memory remains etched into my body. I still carry a scar on my right thumb from an incident at Charlton Prep, when a disturbed man attacked me with a machete. Michael saw me washing blood from my hand and instinctively armed me, standing ready in his own way. What followed was chaos—hospital visits, police involvement, fear—but also Michael’s relentless determination to ensure I would never feel helpless again. Even afterward, in his own dramatic way, he insisted on teaching me how to defend myself. That was Michael—protective, intense, flawed, but deeply invested.

Despite our closeness, Michael always maintained his status, while I met the relationship with humility. Spending time at his house meant doing chores—mowing the lawn, washing my uniform, hanging it at the back f the fridge or on the line to wear to school the next day, cooking meals from whatever was in the fridge, clearing the sink before heading out. None of it felt like burden. It felt like belonging.

Michael’s love for me was generous and sincere. One summer before school reopened, he took me shopping for uniforms, shoes, and even a watch. There was no expectation of return. It was simply love—freely given, unquestioned.

Hurricane Gilbert in 1988 devastated Jamaica and scattered families, including ours. I relocated to Dunrobin High School, and from then on, our encounters became rare—reunions in 2004, then again in 2010. Each time, we noticed the changes in each other—economically, physically, emotionally—but never a change in our friendship. Even when we wished we could improve each other’s lives, we understood that love does not always come with solutions.

To me, Michael was always the Merchant—a presence tied to Orange Street, Downtown Kingston, shaped by his father’s legacy and his own resilience. My proximity to his life—sleepovers, long walks with his siblings, shared labor and laughter—gave me a front-row seat to who he truly was.

Around 2012, I spent a night with him in Harbour View. We talked endlessly—about family, the past, our hopes, and even how we wished to be remembered. We agreed, calmly and clearly, that when the time came, we wanted our bodies cremated and our ashes released into the sea.

I am grateful—beyond words—that I was able to honor my best friend’s final wish.

Thank you, Verona and Schain, for reaching out and recognizing the depth of Michael’s love and respect for me. You understood that our bond was not ordinary—it was lifelong.

Michael encouraged me, challenged me, and celebrated me, whether he stood in wealth or in struggle. He was a family man, a lover of women, a know-it-all among friends, cheeky, sharp, and sometimes dangerous if you weren’t careful. But if he loved you, you knew it. He showed it.

I admired his fearlessness, even as his body grew frail. Michael lived with sickle cell, and though I was stronger physically, he was older, sharper, and emotionally steadfast. Perhaps that contrast—the mountain boy and the merchant—was the magic that bound us.

I will forever cherish him.
Rest well, my brother, my friend, my lifetime bond.