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...

Journal 1: Halftime

I find myself about to wander in to the halfway point of the Reporting in Multi-ethnic Communities class and it hasn't quite sunk in yet. "It", however vague in appearance, is the vague notion of race I have biting at my ankles. The constant issue shoved down the throats of every God-fearing, red blooded American. It is perceived as an insurmountable obstacle, something to be pushed into the past, then wrapped in a blanket and pulled into an awkward group. Then again, most people are not brought up in a place like Miami. Diverse as the populous may be, race finds itself to be a few things in Miami:

-RACE IS-
The itch everyone feels but few scratch.
The awkward cough halfway through a moment of silence.
The child glaring at you menacingly amidst rush hour madness.

In short, race is what human beings have constructed as something to distinguish as well as twist into a tool of blind hatred.

Of all the pieces selected to read, my favorite had to be Leonard Pitts' speech at the 1999 Unity convention. What Pitts (along with the other columnists and authors) tried to get at was the fact that race IS important, just not in the way most people stress it. Most tiptoe around potentially offensive questions because of the belief that there is a greater sense of dignity in ignorance than in embarrassment. Nothing could be further from the truth.

After reading Pitts' piece, I couldn't help but think of Spike Lee's movie Do the Right Thing (see above picture). The movie is an incredible look into racial and ethnic tensions, casting each and every group involved as equal parts villain and victim. What I found more interesting than the film was the critic's perceived reaction from the "target" black audience. The film came out in 1989 (before the LA RIots) and for all the hot air blown into the non-issue, nothing happened. There were not young black kids grabbing the classroom trash can and shouting "HATE!" as they threw it through a window. There were no diatribes held in the general population of Italians and blacks about "Fuckin' Frank Sinatra". Life went on without mch incident because of the film. It was rediculous to asume that a piece of film could not simply be taken as an alegory of sorts, to open a discussion and nothing more. It was sick that as far as we'd come, or thought we'd come, the media still had this belief that riots would sweep from the theatre doors and into the city.

But thinking nobody would bring up such a rediculous point would just make me naive.


Though we don't have an equally spread demographic sample (not a single Asian or Pacific Islander in the class), we still bring people of all types into a classroom to expand our understanding of the so-called "other". More importantly, it is a trial run, a laboratory to try out anything and everything that just so happens to crawl into our skulls and tug on vocal chords to produce some kind of potentially awkward situation. While I consider myself a very open person (sometimes at the worst possible times), I will never get a better opportunity to simultaneously cringe at the words coming out of my mouth and open my eyes at the end to see one of my peers, eager to educate me. Our love/hate relationship with race, in my opinion, won't disappear at the end of this course. What I am certain of, is that it will become a something new, an extra tool in the box to be used when the situation calls for it.