If you knew Dudley Jones, it would come as no surprise to you that in the summer of 1973, and at the age of fifty-five, he sat his wife down and explained to her that he was leaving for America and would not return until he retired.

He asked if she would join. 

Dudley wanted more than the island of Jamaica could provide for him, especially since the two youngest of his seven children were already attending universities in the United States. The island, which had given him so much, could not provide the financial reassurances that a father of seven required. With the love, blessings, and sincere belief that his family deserved more, Dudley and his wife boarded a plane from Kingston, Jamaica. He prepared to work for a dream long held.


A notion ran through the marrow of my grandfather’s upbringing—and subsequently, through the marrow of my being: The notion that, if there needed to be change, then it needed to begin within him. Constant self-improvement, coupled with relentless determination, is what has made me Earl O’Garro, Jr.—a Black Republican.

Armed with keen minds, sharp tongues and fortitude, my grandparents arrived in America. Fortunately, soon after arriving, Dudley and his wife Cotilda were able to find work. Dudley found work as a janitor at the University of Hartford. Cotilda worked for the Steinbergs, a family to whom she only referred to as that: “the Steinbergs.” When asked what exactly she did, she only shared how gracious the Steinbergs were, and how appreciative she was for the opportunity to clean their home and take care of their children. Cotilda often spoke of their unwavering faith, and how she admired their commitment to God. My grandfather made a pact with my grandmother that they would stay here for ten years; if that period would prove insufficient to accomplishing their goals, then they would return to Jamaica with what they had.


During my first semester in business school at Barney School of Business—the University of Hartford’s business school—I stood in the bathroom with my mother on the phone line, complaining about how difficult the course “Accounting Concepts” was. FIFO and LIFO meant very little to my insurance mind. When I explained this frustration with my mother, she responded by saying, “Well, you want your MBA right? That which is cheaply gained is lightly esteemed. Keep working at it. You’ll get there.”

The irony of that conversation did not manifest itself until my drive home later that evening. There I was, in the bathroom; potentially, one of the same bathrooms that my grandfather had eagerly cleaned some thirty years prior. Yet I was complaining about something so inconsequential. If my grandfather was alive to hear me complain, he would have said, “You’re in America, stop complaining!” My grievance undeniably would have fallen on deaf ears, and then been followed by a tongue lashing regarding how ungrateful I was; not for being in business school, but for devaluing the opportunity which came by way of the United States of America. Any seemingly objectionable thoughts that could somehow be tied to not appreciating the opportunity this great country provided me would not be tolerated.

In the winter of 1983, ten years later, Dudley boarded a plane from John F. Kennedy Airport with a one-way ticket back to Kingston, Jamaica. This time, he returned with a retirement account from the University of Hartford, social security benefits (a foreign notion prior to his arrival), and children who were educated and contributing to society. He saved enough money to begin building his dream home on the island and to fund Cotilda’s visits back and forth from Jamaica to Connecticut.


I do not know how much Dudley saved. I do not know why he only wanted to stay for ten years. But when I was 12, I asked my grandfather why he never came back to Connecticut and why I always had to fly to Jamaica to see him. After a brief chuckle, he responded.

“Never take more than you give. If I had stayed, I would have taken more than I could ever give.”  

Dudley loved this country because it allowed him to care about the things and people the way that he wanted to care about them. 

Being a Black Republican has less to do with tax cuts and single-payer health care systems, and all to do with opportunity and the creation of opportunity in the face of very little. Before ever reading a word about the welfare system, my grandfather always shared how he believed the reliance on this system was undermining black’s ability to create an economic base for their families. Dudley spent very little energy on the notion that there were external factors that systematically held Blacks back.

He did not understand this; especially not after sending his youngest daughter, my mother, to Oakwood College in Huntsville, Alabama just one year after arriving in America. He believed that, when the world gave you a deck of cards, you decided which game you would play, and you decided which hand you will play based simply on the time that you had—nothing else. As a political party created out of the abolishment of slavery in the late 1800s, with racial equality as one of the core beliefs, it would seem that I was destined to be a Republican. The party—made as it is of fiscal conservatives, social conservatives, neoconservatives, moderates, and libertarians—historically advocated for classical liberalism, a philosophy of limited government that champions individual liberty through self-improvement and accomplishment.

My success personally, academically and financially would be based on the decisions that I made, and the opportunities that I used. It was, and has always been that basic. I could not find solace complaining about my problems to a woman who was called various racial slurs every day as she walked to class. And I absolutely could not find solace speaking to my grandparents about difficulty in the face of all that they gave up to provide this opportunity for me. I am a proud Black Republican who believes wholeheartedly in America, because America has always believed in me.