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.