Sweet Home Hialeah

Hialeah. Even the name evokes humor. I can bet money on the fact that each time I say it to the call center representative who's asking me for my mailing address, she'll pause and eventually ask "Did you say Hi-ley m'am?", in her cute Southern accent. "It's," I'll respond and then spell it out in my efforts to avoid having to stay on the phone an extra two minutes clarifying the pronunciation.

The name of this infamous city is not short and to the point either. It lingers on the tongue after you say it, making it easy for people to make fun of, as those familiar with the city do when they make a joke about living there, something like, "Well, at least I don't live in..." and they'll pause, and then sound out each syllable in an exaggerated manner, dropping their pitch on the last one, "Hi-a-le-aaaaahhhh."

Well I'm here to say that I'm a fellow Hi-a-le-ahan and so what. Never mind the fact that I'm desperately searching for a home that's at least a 15 minute ride from here. Ft. Lauderdale area to be exact. And never mind that my stay here is just a transitory phase. I'm living in my widowed dad's house with my husband while we move into our new home. But isn't that the case with every 20 something Hialeahan? They all seem to be living in Hialeah as "just a temporary thing." All of them have bigger and better plans that can't possibly have to do with carving a life for themselves in the loud streets of Hialeah where a yellow house and a rented makeshift "efficiency" constitute the Hialeahan's definition of "el Sueno Americano." For most Hialeahans, the family living in their rented efficiency end up being the only neighbors they've ever known!

But perhaps the biggest problem in Hialeah is the incessant nightime noise. I haven't been able to get a decent night's sleep ever since I moved back down here. My husband and I sleep in a corner room with two screen doors as the only barriers between us and a main road-if you can call it sleeping. Instead, I turn to him in the middle of the night, after tossing and turning and slamming the pillow over my head, and tell him that it actually sounds as if we're sleeping under a highway bridge. The traffic noise is so unbearable that I've succumbed to making a game out of it called "Name that Noise." So far, I've gotten pretty good at deciphering the top noises that plague this city. The top five noises (in no particular order) are: loud, high pitched motorcycle, speedracer car (probably a rigged up Honda Civic) zooming by, the thumping of booty bass (Pitbull seems to be a Hialeah favorite), police sirens, and ambulance sirens. Ironically enough however, for all the times the law has been in close proximity to my house, arresting a fellow resident in the low income housing across the street, no one has ever broken into my father's townhouse, which I've lived in since I was ten years old. And yet, the only other city I've lived in, Orlando, was the city where I experienced a break in. The only other city I've turned my back on Hialeah for, Orlando, "The City Beautiful," the home of freaking Mickey Mouse.

I admit, at first I was a "Hialeahan Arepentida," fumbling through my answer when asked in college, "So where exactly in Miami are you from?" I never wanted to respond with Hialeah, just in case the other person, Floridian or not, had gotten wind of the notoriety my hometown has obtained. So my answers often varied, from claiming Miami Lakes to Miami Gardens (not that that's much better), to "Oh, I don't know, I think the area I live in is just unincorporated Miami-Dade County, you know?" But if my college friend Charissa was with me, it wasn't that easy to divert the question.

"Oh come on, you know you live in Hi-a-le-ahhhh!" she would blurt out. Charissa thought it was hilarious to blow up my spot. But I always told myself I would blow up hers one day. After all, she was from freaking Kendall. What the heck is Kendall anyway, it's not even a city! I least I had city status!

I even tried to keep my affiliation with Hialeah a secret when sending mail, simply adding Miami as my city of residence. Until the postman came to my mom's house one day and clarified to us, "You have to put Hialeah, FL as your mailing address because you do live in Hialeah." I felt like Peter after denying he was one of Jesus's apostles and that God was punishing us for denying Hialeah by sending the postman, forcing us to recognize and accept Hialeah as a dark, secret, grimy part of our perfect selves.

So over the years I have come to accept and up to a certain point, cherish Hialeah. Like I did the other day when I visited the local "zapateria" and stood in line behind two guys who looked like the bad guys from the "Scarface" movie with their mean mugs, shaved heads, and flashy shoes. One of them stepped out of the store briefly and returned with a covered Styrofoam cup and several plastic shot cups. In Hialeah, that could only mean one thing. "Cafecito Cubano." One of the guys then turned to me, his poker face transforming into a sweet smile, and offered me "un chin de cafe." I hesitated, being the good college graduate I was and thinking twice before taking a drink from a stranger. And then the store owner accept coffer from the other guy. I thought to myself, these guys couldn't possibly want to drug every lady in the store, and quickly accepted the coffee. As I drank my coffee and savored the bittersweet aftertaste it left in my mouth, I thought to myself, these are the things that only happen in Hialeah.

This past St. Patrick's Day, I paid a visit to the the Hialeah Wal-Mart to return an item and found the customer service rep. decked out in St. Patrick's gear. More specifically, it was Irish pride gear. She wore a green blinged out necklace with a large clover medallion which read "Luck of the Irish" and a bosom-hugging green shirt saying "Kiss me I'm Irish." She wore a green headband around her hair and green bangles on her arms. Despite her prominent Celtic allegiance however, it was clear that this lady was anything but Irish. Who was she kidding with her dull red hair, "trigueña" skin, thick lips, and junk in the trunk? But as out of place as she looked, I couldn't be annoyed for long. How could I be mad at her when she took care of my return quickly and, as a typical older Hialeahan lady, bid me farewell with a "Bye mama," at the end of the transaction?



That's the downfall-and the magic-of Hialeah, that its people just don't care. They just don't care if they're driving on the road at 70 years old and cut in front of you only to drive at tortoise pace while looking for an address. And they just don't care that everyone can hear them within a five mile radius even though they're talking to someone in front of them in the restaurant or supermarket or food stamp line.

My husband cringes when he sees me walk out the house to the local Hialeah Sedano's Supermarket in my tacky t-shirt, sweats, and flip flops. I guess that's where we get the nickname a local radio DJ gave us Hialeahans, "chancleteros." My husband asks me, "You're going to the supermarket like that?!" He can't believe it.



And I tell him, "Please Carlos, people here don't CARE what you look like." He comes from Medellin, Colombia where the girls won't even go to the corner store without heels, a made-up face, and blow dried hair. Hialeah girls, on the other hand, will show up with rollers in their hair, especially at the supermarket. People here really do keep it real. So I always end up getting my way and walking out in my lime green flip flops, baggy clothes, and disheveled pony tail.



The other day, I arrived at the Sedano's in my usual casual attire and watched as an older man exited through the entrance door (they don't care about following rules either) in a pair of black sweats and chanclas. And not even the cute ones like the Old Navy ones I wear with the plaid straps. No, this man was wearing big Velcro strap, no toe separator, dollar store, black chanclas or "chanks" as we call them in Hialeah. Carlos just doesn't understand, I thought to myself. He just hasn't lived in Hialeah that long.

So to all the Hialeah haters, all the radio DJs using Hialeah as the butt of their jokes, all the progressive Miamians who consider themselves one social class higher than us because at least they don't live in Hialeah, I'm here to announce that they have no right to bash Hialeah anymore, at least not on my dime. Because they can't talk until they've actually lived here and experienced all the madness, all the funniness, the weird, and the endearing to deserve the right to badmouth what our greatest mayor in history, Raul Martinez, proclaimed as, "La Ciudad que Progresa!"

Growing up in construction

Life before my father's departure is a hazy memory. Memories of my early years of comfort come in spurts of specific scenes. But I guess all memories are like pictures, moments in time that define a sentiment, feeling, and/or a turning point in one's life. When I had it all, all the snacks I wanted, all the room to play in my house, all the space in my pool to swim around, I spent lots of time playing in the sand dunes just beyond my quaint neighborhood. My family had moved into the community of The Moors during the pre-construction phase. We must have been one of the first families to move in. I played in the sand dunes with my neighborhood friends, girls who looked like me and had the same families as me. They spoke Spanish to their parents too and ate the same foods mine ate. They also had Spanish names like mine-Lina, Maria, Carolina, Teresita, Marisol, and Mildred. Their parents were also Colombian.

Spending time in the sand dunes was like having our own personal desert complete with endless hills far beyond our eyes could see. As my friends and I played in the sand every weekday afternoon, I became hypotized by the twilight hues cast as the sun set behind the hills. It didn't matter what I was in the middle of doing-running up and down the hills chasing my friends or frolicking in the sand-I couldn't help but stop and stare in the sun's direction, enraptured by an instant sense of peace and tranquility which engulfed me precisely at the moment and forced me into momentary stillness.

Back then, there wasn't much to worry about, except making sure my sister Alejandra and I got home by our weekday curfew. When we weren't playing in the sandhills, we were in one of two houses, Felix's or Miguel's. Felix and Miguel were my father's friends and their families resembled ours in many ways. Each lived in houses which looked like mine, with several rooms and ornate decorations. Each family consisted of at least five members and each had children close in age to that of my siblings. The wives, both named Selena, reminded me of my mother, eternally poised and ready to be in public with their brightly colored dresses and heels and fiery red or pink lipstick.

I remember my friends' mothers well but I remember more about Miguel's Selena than the other Selena. It seems fitting I would write about Selena as "Miguel's" since this is the way she presented herself to the world. She was what people call a wallflower. When I think about her, I think about her flawless smile and dainty posing more than her talking. She wasn't a big talker and she didn't have a big voice. Instead it had the high pitch of a woman many years younger than she was and never wavered from its usual low volume. My mother told me once that when Miguel married Selena, she was a young girl with a chubby frame yet had the same angelic face as always. Selena's face inspired peace with her round eyes, translucent skin, and defined cheekbones. She wore soft pastel colored makeup, exuberating the innocence of a young girl in her middle age. After she and Miguel married and had their children, Selena took up aerobics religiously and gained the figure she probably always wanted but never had.

By my sixth birthday, we had moved out the Moors and said goodbye to the two families which resembled ours in so many ways. Several years had passed when something triggered the memory of these two families. I casually asked my mother what she knew about them. "I know Felix and his family moved to Colombia but as far as Miguel..." My mother went into details about how Selena had eventually decided she wanted to shake up her humdrum life and take up English classes and ended up falling in love with her English teacher, an American man twenty years her senior. Eventually she fleed with the man and her and Miguel's four children. Miguel, in his newfound loneliness and depression, packed his bags and left to Colombia. Thus ensued a battle for visitation of the children between Miguel and Selena which included a time when Miguel convinced his oldest son to abduct his youngest sister, Mildred, who was a toddler at the time, and take her to Colombia without Selena's consent.

Several years after my mother had given me the update, my sister and I reunited with one of Selena's daughters and Ale's faithful childhood playmate, Teresita. She possessed the same beauty she had as a child, even as a young woman. She took after her mother. But as she unfolded the details of her family's post-separation life which included a reclusive stepfather and runaway older sister, she seemed sad and tired. I felt sorry for her. Looking into her eyes, I could no longer see the innocence and laughter we all once possessed on those endless afternoons of rolling around in the sand hills of the construction lots behind our Moors homes.

*Names has been changed to protect the anonymity of the persons mentioned.

I did 26.2

It's true what all those running articles and coaches tell you about your first marathon, "You can never fully prepare for all the things that could happen on race day." Take the beginning of my first marathon, ING Miami Marathon 2009. I waited at the starting line next to my husband, Carlos. The race was due to start in minutes. We normally begin our races together, but the difference between this race and all previous ones was that Carlos wasn't soon going off into that distant horizon of sub-10 minute mile runners. This time Carlos was nursing a leg injury so severe that running at my tortoise pace of 12 minutes per mile would be a struggle for him. That's a first, I thought to myself, as my stomach churned and the bowel movements I had been hoping would loosen an hour ago were finally calling my name. Seconds before the start siren sounded, Carlos turned to me with a frown and uttered the sweetest words which until then, I had only wished would save my day. "I have to use the bathroom." The siren went off and the runners dashed past the the starting line while we hooked a right to the port-o-potties. As we dodged eager runners on fresh legs, he turned to me and said, "Better to take care of this now." Practicalilty, one of the virtues I admire in my husband.

That was my first mishap. I had imagined crossing mile one with a cleaner fanny but soon dismissed the thought as I crossed the first bridge in Miami Beach and browsed at the oceanside mansions. But running for me has never been about taking in the view. Nor do I allow myself to focus on my increasing exhaustion. I can't even say I think about my deceased mother for inspiration. To be completely honest, for all the hours I'm out there on the road, my thoughts are reduced to answering two very methodical, calculated questions: 1. How far have I gone, and 2. How much do I have left?

This is the strategy that's always worked for me since I've embarked in this journey of distance running three years ago. As I pass the time pounding the pavement, I seek to metamorphosize into a female terminator planted in the middle of a deserted road to run with maximum efficiency as a means to obtain my ultimate goal. In the marathon, this transformation took place as I effortlessly completed my single digit mileage. Carlos lagged behind quietly, partly due to the discomfort caused by his injury and partly because he had promised not to impede with my "getting into the zone" throughout the race. Every now and then I downed some water, tore open my gu gel pack with my teeth, spit out the plastic with attitude, downed half the gel in two big gulps (eating all of it at once would upset my tummy), carelessly shove the gel into my short pocket, wipe the sweat off my brow with a hint of annoyance that a robot like me would even be perspiring, and continue plowing ahead.

By the time Carlos and I reached mile 13, he told me he was crossing the half marathon finish line since the pain from his injury wouldn't let him go further. Carlos waved goodbye and ran towards the finish line. For some unknown reason however, I felt as if he was running away with my mojo. As I continued the race on my own, my methodical approach to running slowly seeped out of my memory like a slow leak on a flat tire.

When I approached mile 20 some time later, with 6.2 more miles to go, I slowly came to a stop. My brain was engaged in internal battle. The calculated, mechanical side scolded me for daring to stop. As I commenced walking slowly and painfully on my severely fatigued legs, the tears began to gush down my face uncontrollably. I gasped for breath as a torrent of sentiments, physical pains, and thoughts overtook me at once. I'm so tired...I hope no one can see me crying...BREATHE...Why am I crying?...When is this over?! I struggled to control my crying and catch my breath at the same time. I needed to bring myself back to that state of mind where I was in control, not the other way around. But there was one final thought that kept nagging at me like a pebble in a shoe. I recalled my family members who cheered me on when I finished the half-marathon marker an hour and a half ago. There was my father Octavio who was determined to see me run, even though his arthritic knees made it difficult for him to stand for long. And there was my older sister who ran after me as soon I had passed her, clapping and cheering, while her toddler sprinted after her, enjoying the abrupt game of cat and mouse.

These were the thoughts that finally melted through my metallic exterior. For the first time in the race, I had stopped for something other than my fueling needs. Instead, I digested the twenty arduous miles and four plus hours of pounding the pavement and the fact that I was doing this to myself just to make my family proud of me. So maybe, running did have something to do with my mother after all.

I quickly wiped my tears mixed with the sweat drops on my face, took a deep breath, and realized my simplified strategy of miles run vs. miles left was no longer going to carry me through to the finish line. Shortly after I resumed my running, I found a running buddy, Eddie, whose cramps had limited him to walking. As he picked up his pace to run with me and cursed the skies at his misfortune, I knew I had instead been given the blessing of distraction which could take me to the finish line without another emotional relapse.

I finished my race in 5.22.21 with a severely cramped Eddie in tow and a newfound respect for the inevitable unpredictability of the marathon, and, to my surprise, the marathoner.

Today I've decided I would blog for the first time

So I'm sitting at the couch with my husband last night, sharing our reviews of the movie Juno and discussing the fact that the screenplay from that movie all started with a writer's blog about her life. This lucky writer caught someone important's eye and that someone asked her to turn her innocent blog into a screenplay which turned into a hit movie screenplay. I knew where this casual conversation with my husband was going. It only had one place to go. At least coming from my husband who has the discipline of a navy seal for all aspects of his life...triathlon training, preparing for a licensing exam, doing research on buying a house. He approaches everything with the precision and dedication of an experienced surgeon and expects all around him (especially me) to do the same. Lucky me. Oh, the pressure.

"Andre," he asks, "why don't you start blogging?" What my husband really wants to say is, "Can you put SOMETHING down on paper, considering it took all of ten years and thousands of dollars to get your degrees in writing and you haven't wanted to put a pen to paper SINCE!" Carlos has tried everything to get me to write again, everything ranging from dooming my life to failure for not taking advantage of what was either talent or a skill I had spent a considerable amount of time honing to getting all flowery with me about how much he enjoys reading my works and missing them oh so much. His first tactic elicits sheer rage in me to the point where I am literally biting the side of my tongue to hold me back from spewing vicious tirades at him about how it's none of his business and why does it matter to him anyway and that I'll do whatever I want with my life (sometimes the tongue biting doesn't work). His second tactic brings about another sentiment in me: remorse and incompetence. Either way, I feel the same way some time after his remarks. Guilt over not possessing the discipline it takes to just sit at the computer and stop finding excuses to just go ahead and do it: write. Sadness that I've let so much time pass in between obtaining my degree and the moment when my thesis advisors told me I really had potential to make my works publishable and actually doing something about it. And anger for not doing anything tangible towards one of the things I told myself I would do before I die: get my thesis published.

So anyway, this was supposed to be a blog about just that: blogging for the first time. But in essence, it is. Here I am blogging for the first time, absorbing myself in this new world of putting thoughts to paper. More importantly though, I guess I've realized why people enjoy doing this so much. After all is said and done, this ends up being a mechanism enabling us to explore what's really on our minds. And it's often more than: Hey, look at me, I'm blogging!