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!"
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