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.