Final Journal- Living Is Easy With Eyes Closed

Dave Chappelle's WRAP IT UP BOX is the best visual aid I could come across to illustrate the non-existent yet perceived rush I find myself in (though I don't feel quite as rushed as Halle Berry at the Oscars, I still want to put some form of punctuation on the end of this experience).

Multi-ethnic is gone, I barely knew ye.

A little over 6 weeks ago I walked into a classroom filled with faces. Faces of friends, faces of classmates, faces for the most part, unknown. Upon sifting through the massive dump of articles in my inbox, one reading in particular (and its headline) highlighted a similar situation I faced with the discomfort of unfamiliar faces.

Obama Confronts Ethnic Tensions In Bid for Votes

Pretty bold, almost as if the Washington Post had found a way to set up ethnic tension as Darth Vader (to my overactive imagination, though Ethnic Tension is just as amazing a name for a villain as Darth Vader) in this epic struggle. Boiled down , it brough the idea that some immigrants were pushing towards Hillary Clinton because of their familiarity with the Clinton name (I'd say dynasty but it isn't quite there yet). I drifted towards the familiar faces as I walked into class, suddenly realizing that there weren't many. When confronted with an over-abundance of unfamiliar, it's fight or flight, fight in this case meaning adapt, and adapt in this case meaning pretend that I feel comfortable (flight's not a option in a class that only meets 6 times).

As the class went on, I found myself engaged in ideas and conversations I thought I needed some sort of excuse for: do black people get sunburned (admittedly I wondered just how severe it could get)? Are dreadlocks really all that common? Are all Cubans really that loud? While light and funny, these are questions that can inspire dread if they enter the mind mid conversation. The person will twitch slightly, debating with themselves as to whether or not they will answer the question. As I learned, we're all that weird and full of uncertainties, so I might as well ask just to get something started.

That mental debate came at the same time a link lead me to the yforum, a site that is so cringe inducing it's beautiful. Post questions with relative anonymity for people to answer. Anything and everything finds its way across the forums, letting me feel that some of the things posted made my questions seem relatively...boring by comparison. It showed it'd be harder for me to come up with something that would offend than I thought.

Just a random confession related to the class. I had never seen Barbershop (any of them). Based on the clips, I always preached about its pointless nature and crap dialogue. I formally take that back. While not a work of high art, I would compare it to Ingmar Bergman's Scenes from a Marriage (fans of Bergman can shoot me later). They both offer a fairly candid view into things that aren't often discussed in public, marital problems and African American stereotypes being offered in each repective film as the spark to light a conversation.

Back on track, there are two quotes that highlighted my approach to this class, both from Oscar Wilde:

"If you want to tell people the truth, make them laugh, otherwise they'll kill you."

Though I was tame, there were a few jokes and comments I let fly without much though, which thankfully came with laughs just after, letting me know I'd done something right...

"A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal."

While I can be open and earnest, there is always a limit I need to be aware of... though I intend (particularly after the completion of this class) to continue pushing further and further. Not in the overused, motivational poster, "push yourself" way, but in the "I don't understand, therefore I must find out" fashion of journalism.

The class.

*Rubs eyes*

Final thoughts?

Just one.

Spic still doesn't cut it as a racial slur for me, Nigloo is a racial slur I doubt I could ever find the right person to use it towards and Jewbacca has to be the single funniest word I've seen in the past year.

Not enough? I figured.

I don't mean to get sappy (actually I do). This class was what a class should be honest, discomforting and engaging. It was all that and...ok, so I can't finish it with more because I SWORE to myself I wouldn't end on a cliché. It was all that and a crushingly realistic view into the world I could never have expected in any form of higher education.

Mission Accomplished (and not a banner or flight suit in sight).

Cheers.

Listening Post 3- Less a Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, More A Final Walk About Town

Done.

It's still out of reach, an absolute grasp on racism I mean, but I can safely say that my final trip through Overtown via Jackson's Soul Food was unproductive (in the sense that I had no contacts willing to give me their information). In every other sense, it was what I'd been trying to have all along, fun. Not to say the homeless are, well, fun...but they were more willing to provide tales from rock bottom than I'd figured. Among weaving their stories for me as I shared a cigarette (since I was just passing by), we touched on everything in between, the genius of Issac Hayes' Hot Buttered Soul, Obama graffiti, and where they spend their evenings. As police cars began to pass by, they (I say they because the informal exchange never got to names) quickly became jittery. I figured I'd let them move their makeshift homes and not slow them down.

The key in my last post was that I finally had my stereotypical Overtown experience with a young man who kept coming around me on a BMX bike.

Guy (Marshall? Name was spliced into his sentence somewhere, but he had other things on his mind)- Yo. Lemme get a cig.
Me (it's the 6th one I've given out in the span of 3 city blocks)- Sure.

Nelson fumbles with the pack.

Me (mid-fumble)- Ah, hold up.
Guy- You want some crack?
Me- *stare*
Guy- Or coke if you need.
Me- Ah, nah thanks man.
Guy (looking desperate)- I ain't a cop.
Me- Neither am I.

Nelson gives the amazingly straightforward crack dealer a smoke.

Me- Take it easy man.

Nelson hastily walks back to car.

Granted, I spazzed and left, I hadn't realized the prospects for a Friday night would be so dry (well early afternoon). An error on my part, but one which opened up my evening to say goodbye to Nooni and take a walk in the evening through Overtown. Aside from the crack dealer, surprisingly uneventful Had I not learned anything in the class?! I panicked, feeling myself crawl back into stereotypes and the belief that I couldn't just walk around for fear of, ell, the irrational. I made my way back to my car and realized it had all been in vain, just letting the unfamiliar get the better of me. Though this final forray was really a quick glance back at the place I'd seen only a few times before, I realized the most important part in the exercise wasn't whether or not I'd fit in or found something profound in each and every person I came across, the point is that even though the class is done, I still want to go back. Not just for the food, but because it's just another part of town to get to know, and I'm still not quite where I'd like to be yet.

Journal 3- Focus Focus Focus

I've got a few things on my mind, including Good Hair, white people's wavering support for the president, and questions so awkward I could NEVER come up with anything even half as funny and honest.

First things first, what constitutes good hair? While watching the Jay Leno segment where people were interviewed in Harlem, the few minutes of black women discussing their hair was eye opening. I had never realized the amount of work that went into everything from straightening, relaxing and... I suppose I'd call it "weaving".

While the segment was good, it was short, so after a youtube search for similar segments, I came across a trailer for Chris Rock's upcoming movie Good Hair.



Simply enough, Rock sets out to answer the question, what exactly constitutes "good hair"? From the scenes available, it seems as if though black women have come to identify aspects of white women's hair as the desirable traits (i.e. straight, wavy, etc.) This gave me an uneasy feeling, almost the same as when I look at my area of Overtown, its seems as if though the black community is making themselves and their envoironment "whiter".

Being a faceless (or raceless) entity, was an interesting portion of Tom Fiedler's piece in the Miami Herald on bloc voting.

Interestingly enough, a familiar name popped up:

"People do it because they're very comfortable with people of their own ethnicity,'' said Marvin Dunn, a psychology professor at Florida International University. He once tested the process as a black man running for mayor of predominately white Miami. He lost.

The piece also tied in with the recent piece from the L.A. Times "Obama is fast losing white voters' support." It seems ridiculous, seeing as the figures are based off changes after Obama's first 100 days in office. Just because a segment of the public had high hopes and became disillusioned doesn't mean there is a "freefall" of support, it just means people are rethinking their decisions (as people often do), an action far more difficult than simply taking a stance.

Dunn continued on in the Herald piece with a degree of optimism:

"Society seems to be moving away from racial and ethnic matters,'' said Dunn, the FIU psychologist. "That is the overall trend. Politics may trail it, but eventually it will be swept along with it.

While inspiring, it came off as a sickly optimistic viewpoint, as if "I Have a Dream" became "I Have a Vague Notion".


In the end, with all these readings, I'm unsure if people really get what constitutes racism. While the class allows more freedom than the usual social settings, we are involved in a class. We can apply it to our own worlds and those we come in contact with, but I don't see a day where racism ends and politics becomes a clean game with voting based solely on qualifications and positions on key issues. It's human nature to be prejudiced, but to show that I'm not entirely cynical on the matters at hand, it's also human nature to call the social norms into question. I find myself kicking and screaming with no real audience and no real direction other than forward. I'm not entirely sure where exactly I'll end up, but the more I cut down the massive sound bites and pundits, the more ridiculous I realize our world becomes.

Anything can seem ridiculous, just think of walking. Essentially falling forward with some coordination. We, as a society, are always falling forward, hoping our feet continue their alternate pattern in a weird stumble through time.

Listening Post 2- Into the Light

I stepped into Jackson's on Monday morning determined to find something or someone interesting enough to engage, since wandering the surrounding area for a half hour yielded nothing more than a pack of cigarettes missing 7 cigarettes I recall I hadn't smoked.

I was getting desperate. A wild eyed young man laughed as he asked for a smoke. "Crack, coke...?", I stopped him before he could finish with a wave of my hand. "I ain't a cop," he laughed. I couldn't help but laugh along with him, less nervousness than honest laughter. "Neither am I man, thanks" were the last thing I said before turning to try my luck with the people making their way to the bus stop on the other side of the block. The local crack-boy (with his bike he could honestly pass for a paper boy on the verge of a mid-life crisis) notwithstanding, it was a mellow walk back to my car. Unfortunately, that was my problem....

I needed interaction!

I gave up on trolling the neighborhood and entered the restaurant. Slightly more people were there than my first visit, and this crowd seemed more responsive. Again, there was only one other white person, and as I made my way in, he made his way out. While this was due to the fact that he was grabbing a take out order, I couldn't help but continue believing there was some sort of quota for number of white people allowed in the restaurant at the same time. Coincidence, or a sick joke? I'd like to say coincidence for peace of mind.

I sat at the counter, looking for Nooni, my waitress from my first run through Jackson's. Luckily, she was there. She didn't recognize me, but after reintroducing myself, she seemed to warm up (slightly because in all honesty, she was fairly busy each time I'd happened to stop by). I was in luck, three gentlemen were within two seats. I listened in on their conversation a bit and jumped in when Mexico inexplicably found its way into the fray. One of them mentioned police in Mexico and since I knew exactly what he meant by their lawlessness I ventured forward with stories from Mexico. We laughed a while on that and the TV broadcasting sporting event after sporting event. I asked them their names (none of which were their full names unfortunately, they gave me a slightly sideways look when I inquired so I raised my hands and kept with the conversation).

Blue was the quietest one, adding when he saw fit. The conversation kept between the other two, Dre and Quinton. All three worked as longshoremen out of a local port (declining to elaborate on which one). Seeing as I wasn't going to get anything more from their own details, I asked how long they'd been coming to the restaurant. Dre looked at the other two and they ran numbers back and forth, eventually settling on about 5 years, "before the remodeling came." Quinton, however, said he couldn't remember. He'd been in and around the neighborhood for all his life, Dre couldn't resist commenting on Quinton's size. "He enjoys it here, as you can tell," he says before they all break out laughing. From that point we wander into topics ranging from community rebuilding projects, to the potential of male breast feeding (partially driven by Quinton's physique, actually entirely driven on Quinton's physique).

As we made our way to leave, Nooni looked over and asked if I was talking with the three gentlemen. I said yes, and she and a co-worker flying by with a tray both pursed their lips in a form of mock disapproval. "They bad company," she said before dropping off the check. With a wave we left and I asked them about the community gardens. I hadn't even turned around, when Dre pointed at a small group making their way to the plot, tools in tow. I had finally found the group responsible for the gardens in the area. I said my goodbyes and hoped to run into them soon, since they didn't really give me much contact info to work with...

Roots in the City turned out to be a much more spirited group. I spoke with the first woman who emerged from a pickup truck parked alongside the building, and introduced myself. She shook my hand an returned the favor. Maggi Pons is a Miami resident, who's currently unemployed. She had a job in the real estate/mortgage markets, which, understandably, isn't the most stable place to be right now. "It's funny because I wanted a place where people could come and read a book, and here I am!" We talked a while about her kids, two daughters, one son, aged 10-24. We talked about writing awhile, after I had mentioned I was an English major previously. We spoke about her son's stab at a career in New York, her youngest daughter's time at Grove Elementary, and the socio-economics of community gardens. "I just wanted something to do, honestly," she said to me while rooting through the fresh soil.

She was wildly optimistic. Almost every other sentence contained the word hope without a hint of sarcasm or selfishness. She also gave me some interesting information on the founder of the cause. Dr. Marvin Dunn is a former psychology professor from FIU, she told me anything and everything I wanted to know I could get from him. I jotted a few notes and looked at my watch before realizing I had to leave for class. I thanked her for the talk and told her I'd be calling within the week to see when and where the group would be meeting. She smiled and told me anywhere there was a garden, they'd have a hand in it.

I figured that much, but it made me feel better to be certain of that, to look forward to interaction instead of dreading something I couldn't quite put my finger on. I think I'm starting to get the hang of this business, and Overtown has thankfully seemed to work with me on meeting those walking the sidewalks about town.

Journal 2 continued...

Pictures from wandering the area.

From top: View of intersection in front of Jackson's Soul Food, Mount Zion Baptist Church, community garden across the street from Jackson's, Jackson's banner.

Journal 2- Into the Failure, Preparing for the Next Round

I've thrown myself in.

While I only experienced the base level of my beat, Overtown's Jackson Soul Food, I felt it was a decent start. Scratch the euphemism, it was terrible.

Looking back on it, I barely engaged anyone. The only positive thing I can say is that I can look forward to not stressing over directions for the next visit.

The experience left me with a few interesting snapshots.

-I learned that there are still places that I will get a few awkward stares, but as quickly as I notice them, they are replaced by nothing in particular, just a continuance of someone's day to day norm.

-There are strange people in every area of the world. Overtown is not exempt. Though there was only one on my first visit, a gentleman who shouted unintelligibly for a while then passed through the community garden I was in. While I was curious as to who he was, he seemed slightly deranged. While most people are, he seemed ahead of the curve.

-Even if it is a cultural staple, the R&B playing at Jackson's was godawful. I'm making it a point to ask someone about their musical tastes for my next visit. Honestly. Just horrible music.

-The only eerie thing about the area is how new some of it all is. As I found out, certain charitable funds went into refurbishing Jackson's and some surrounding buildings. It's not that I don't want to see improvements done, but it feels horribly unnatural, as if though a portion of Las Olas was dropped into the middle of a fairly poor area. Time will wear it into place, but the contrast with some of the homes is unnatural... another point I need to remind myself of for the next run...

-I wasn't entirely aware of what really qualified as "Overtown". I felt relieved with the similar situation with Liberty City (though I felt equally ignorant after completing the reading and realizing even KIDS could figure it out...).

I'm slowly warming up to this... maybe I'll even take a spin in the area after dark, see if there's anyone I haven't met over lunch...

The one question I've been stuck with since our debates and readings inclass has been "Does it take one to cover one?" The quick and dirty answer is no. While I understand having a foothold because of one's background can make coverage easier, it can also make the reporter complacent. From my side, I always think of Versailles on 8th street. The problem with Versailles (aside from being horribly overpriced), is that it is always taken as the "Cuban Embassy" on the national stage. When Castro death rumors hit critical mass in my senior year of high school, CNN instantly swarmed the place (along with every other network involved in the alphabet soup of acronyms we call mass media).

I felt torn. While a staple in the community, it frustrated me to see Rick Sanchez (formerly a local boy at WSVN 7), commenting on the matter, giving a level of "legitimacy" to the choice in location. Quite simply, Versailles is hugely important to the community, but more importantly, the regulars are almost all tied with the exile community. The second a camera shows up, it ends with nonsense about the embargo and the bay of pigs being recycled, chewed by each and every member of the crowd and spit into one another's mouth when it's their turn on the camera.

But maybe I'm just too disconnected as a second generation. I'd like to think it's that simple, but I know I'm onto something (something meaning that most of the exile community seems to have three phrases ready to shout at each and every moment in the day, usually involving vehement hatred of John F. Kennedy and the democrats).

One last thing.

A quote from Malcolm X stuck with me because a piece of grafitti I had seen in the area inspired me to look through some of his writings (and while he can be entirely racist and off-subject on occasion, this suited the situation perfectly):

"I don't see an American Dream, I see an American Nightmare."

With the whitewashing effect some of the beautification projects have on the Overtown scenery, I can't help but feel torn.

On the one hand, it is stimulating contracting jobs, and contributing to fixing the decrepit areas that have been lost in the economic turmoil that seems to rise and fall with each passing decade, striking harder each and every time.

On the other, it seems as if though everything is being filtered, and a piece of the Overtown aesthetic is being locked up. I'm fairly certain the action is killing a piece of the culture, and everyone knows it. The scary part is that I don't think the majority of residents are against it. I have to find out...the nightmare might be starting on the sidewalks.

Listening Post 1: Off the On-Ramp

It's a strange contrast. Perhaps not so clear from the picture I've included, but clear if you realize the location. NW 3rd avenue's view looks like that of any other Miami neighborhood. Condos, condos and more condos looming on just about every horizon. The contrast comes in the fact that this picture was taken in the heart of Overtown, one of Miami's poorest neighborhoods.

950 NW 3rd Ave. is home to Jackson's Soul Food, an Overtown staple that has survived multiple locations, names, riots, eras and general decay since its first incarnation as Mama's Cafe in 1946. Much like Liberty City (or any other predominately African-American neighborhood), Overtown is a misunderstood place, fueled by tired stereotypes and scattered news reports that do nothing to showcase the rich history and potential that creeps through the well known issues of poverty and drug use.

I wanted to go to Overtown specifically because I'd never really "been" there. While some would count flooring it through the intersections at 5 a.m. as a visit, I don't. I made my way onto NW 8th street and was instantly greeted by a deserted street. I pressed on clutching my handwritten mapquest instructions, the only thing to give me a sign that I'd found my post. After a few quick turns, I found what I'd been told was Jackson Soul Food, but I wasn't quite sure of it. It looked vibrant, the paint not even beginning to fade. As wrong as I assumed it was, in plain lettering above my head, it clearly showed JACKSON'S SOUL FOOD. This was it, no doubt whatsoever.

Finally convinced I had my spot, I snuck a quick cigarette outside to calm myself. I wasn't nervous, I'd already had someone nod as they walked by, but I wanted to fit in. I wanted to seem effortless. But the more I though about it, the more I figured I'd probably screw it up anyway, so I decided to just make my way inside. There I was greeted with a momentary collective stare.

As an aside, I'd expected something like this. Charleston, South Carolina was the only other place on the planet I'd experienced a silence this stunning, and that was because the only black man I'd seen since my arrival in the city happened to walk in on the breakfast festivities of people so white it made Pinecrest seem like Little Havana.

So there I was, taking the place of the gentleman in Charleston facing my own degree of scrutiny. What did they think of me? I was open minded, but bringing up that point explicitly would just make me seem desperate (which I was). Did anyone assume I wasn't Hispanic? What did that even mean anyway? If I see my tan lines I'm just as white as Larry Bird.

The thoughts raced, but in an instant, a waitress asked if I'd like a seat, snapping me from over thinking the situation. I sat at the bar, next to a few men just making their way out and discussing the University Of Miami game. Sportcenter remained on, providing me an excuse to avoid eye contact if I needed it. NO! I had to snap myself out of it. My waitress smiled and handed me a menu. Nothing seemed extraordinary, so I asked what she'd recommend:

Nooni (her name as I'd find out)-Smothered pork chops.
Me- I...ah, don't see that on the menu, but I'll take it.
Nooni- Grits?
Me (I hate grits)- With cheese.
Nooni- Eggs?
Me- No thank you, just biscuits and a Sprite.
Nooni (glancing around)- Oook then, I'll have that right out for you.
Me- Thanks.

Nooni (yes, I asked about the spelling, not the origin yet) went to the back, leaving me listening to a gentleman talking about playing a few shows (of what exactly I'll never know). I turned to ask him what he played, but he rushed out, frantically swinging the take out bag between shouts.

Pork chops smothered with homemade barbecue sauce across every inch of meat. A sea of cheese grits laid carefully on the edge of the plate. To top it off, two homemade biscuits rested easily on a separate plate. This is what brought me from the misery of nobody seemingly interested in talking with me. It was beautiful food, with portions so heavy it made my grandmother's cooking seem like portion control.

Finally full, I motioned to Nooni for the check. She came over and I brought up the point of my exercise, and told her I'd be coming back a few more times, mostly for the food. She smiled and told me to take care. While I'd had no profound experience (conversation-wise), I found an incredibly layered town center just around the corner from Jackson's. Investment centers, a massive Baptist church, and an incredible community garden all just steps away. I'd found myself awash in potential, trying to get into the Baptist church, only to find a disgruntled mailman and locked doors. There's meetings Tuesday, and the community organizers looked to be closed early. While I may have failed in really getting to know anyone, I've found my own ins, and I'm looking to find more...

While I wasn't really scared (as I'd expected I might be), I remembered a Chuck Pahlaniuk (Fight Club author) quote from his novel Invisible Monsters, which summed up the basis for this exercise pretty well, "Find out what scares you and go live there." I may not be living there, but showing up counts pretty well as a start of something interesting.

More to come...