Windshield wipers rock uniforms

At Three Miles, one of the Corporate Area's busiest intersections, two men in matching blue shirts weave between windshields.

Printed across their chests is a question, 'Can I wipe your glass?' But what they're really asking is for something much deeper - to be seen, not feared; to be allowed to work with dignity, not driven off the street.

Collin Brown and Kemar Winston said the uniforms are a shield, against stigma, sweeping generalisations, and increasingly, against government efforts to erase their way of life.

"Wi out here every day, rain or sun, just fi try survive. But people look pan wi and just see thief," said 26-year-old Winston, who has been wiping windshields since he was 13.

Recently, the National Security Council announced a crackdown on windshield wipers, citing rising reports of harassment, intimidation, particularly of women, and extortion-like behaviour at busy intersections. The plan is to remove the wipers from the streets and enrol them in skills training programmes, aimed at both rehabilitation and public safety. But to the men at Three Miles, that plan sounds all too familiar and hollow.

A few feet from the intersection, a group of about 10 men, both veterans and newbies, form an informal unit. They've chosen to draw a line between their hustle and the chaos caused by the 'bad apples' who tarnish their image. The idea for the blue shirts came from a loyal motorist who saw their hustle and wanted to help them distinguish themselves. The wipers took the idea and made it their own.

"The shirt protect wi," said Brown. "It mek people see seh wi different. If yuh nuh have on di shirt, yuh not part a wi. Simple." The shirts aren't just identifiers, they're part of a code.

"If one man disrespect the people dem, we ask him fi leave. If it come to it, we call the police," said Winston. "Cause when trouble start, a we it fall back pan."

For all the talk of nuisance, the wipers say they do more than clean glass. On any given day, they might help an elderly person cross the road, assist a broken-down vehicle, offer directions, or share change with a beggar who is worse off.

"Sometimes we see somebody look sad, yuh can tell say life a lick dem," Winston said. "So we say, 'Smile man and stop sad up yuh self.' Cause we know weh it feel like."

In addition to their cleaning bottles, half-filled with a homemade solution, the men show their 'good luck money', crumpled $50 and $100 bills. They expressed gratitude for every cent, and when motorists can't give anything, they understand - they are just seeking respect.

The crackdown reflects a deeper issue. Thousands of Jamaicans depend on informal street work, windshield wiping, vending, carrying goods, for daily survival. While the state views some of these jobs as illegal or disruptive, the people doing them see them as necessary.

"The world can't have only doctor and nurse," said Brown. "Who clean up the streets? Who collect the garbage? Who wipe the glass?" Most of the men come from Majesty Gardens, a nearby community known for both resilience and struggle.

"Majesty build we," one wiper explained. "It show yuh wrong and right. Some youth choose the wrong path, but we a try choose right." Despite this, public perception remains harsh and police relations are strained, even though Hunts Bay Police Station is just a walk away.

"Some police nuh see we as human," said Brown. "Dem just see nuisance."

Still, the wipers remain defiant in their code. They aren't afraid to call out wrongdoers even if it means being labelled an informer.

While the government recommends training, the wipers said their real hope is for a shot at the farm work programme. It's the dream many of them carry a steady job abroad, legal income, and the chance to build a better life for their children.

"Mi woulda go HEART, but mi have pickney fi feed. If mi go school, dem hungry. Out yah help mi survive," said Winston. And still, they remain open to regulation. They've even suggested paying taxes and being formally licensed.

Donations from kind-hearted passers-by, including bags of rice, tinned food and toiletries occasionally appear. And every time they do, the men said it reminds them that someone sees their worth.

Brown said, "We deh yah so wid a aim, fi cook a food, tek care a we family, and mek sure nobody cya say we never try."