Homeless

The white marble I lie on is hard and cold. Neither a spot of dirt nor dust bunny resides in this spotless marble palace; but I still feel the mud on my worn tennis shoes, dirt smeared across my cheeks and forehead, and grease dripping from my long, shaggy hair. I feel so small and insignificant among the towering white walls and daunting staircase that climbs to the second floor of the Miami Beach Convention Center. The room is bustling with men in suits and women in sleek red dresses made of only the finest material. I can hear their wine and cheese conversations about their new cars and the wild parties they’ve recently attended. The room is crowded; but I am alone. The only company I have is my 5 year old son lying asleep on my chest. I sigh knowing that I have condemned my child to a life of homelessness and alienation: someone like him doesn’t belong in Miami. His piel marron and accento cubano are anomalies amidst the pale faces. Unlike them, my son can’t hide behind masks of makeup and expensive clothing. I guess that’s why they casually sip wine and laugh about their carefree lives while we sleep alone on the cold floor. Although we all inhabit the same space, there is something very different between them and us; and it is that very difference that blesses them with glamour and leisure and condemns us to poverty and alienation. Era un doctor in Cuba; but now I’m an unemployed, an outcast, a nobody. Bienvenidos a Miami.