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...
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