Situated just miles outside of Downtown Miami, Kendall has always been my home. In these suburbs, everyday activities include going to work, hanging out at the local mall, taking kids to
the park, or meeting up with friends for coffee at the French bakery off of US-1 and 152nd street; there are no clubs, neon signs, or beaches-just schools, parks, grocery stores, and the occasional mall. Ironically, although Kendall is mainly comprised of local Miamians, it attracts
no tourists because it isn’t “Miami enough:” tourists would be disappointed by
a weekend in Suburbia.
The average Friday night is made up of long naps after a stressful day at work or
school and maybe a small party if someone’s parents are out of town. The weekend concludes with a lazy, family-centered Sunday. My parents drag me and my little sister Nicole to Church
despite our protests that “it’s too early” or “I don’t wanna wear this dress!” The traditional family lunch at IHOP is followed by a trip to Briar Bay Park: Josie, our 2-year old Rat terrier, “needs to run around and Nicole wants to play on the playground.” My mom yells at Nicole because the sand under the swing set and the syrup she spilled on her dress earlier have had a glue-and-glitter effect. I chuckle and lie on a nearby bench, absorbing the scene. Some people
say that you can smell the salt from the ocean all the way in Kendall but everyone knows it’s a myth: the only things we smell are the dump truck weaving
through nearby neighborhoods and the fresh croquettes Publix makes every morning. No one here goes to South Beach anyway: we’re all too busy and it’s
way too expensive. That kind of thing is reserved for the tourists and people who live in the million-dollar condos for only 3 months out of the year.
So what’s it like growing up in a city that doesn’t include you? It’s like living in a house where the renters pay the bills and run the place while sleeping in a shed in the backyard. I can
see the parties, elaborate dresses, and expensive food taking place inside but
I never participate; Instead, I live with my family in one of the many sheds
outside. It’s my house, why am I never invited?
the park, or meeting up with friends for coffee at the French bakery off of US-1 and 152nd street; there are no clubs, neon signs, or beaches-just schools, parks, grocery stores, and the occasional mall. Ironically, although Kendall is mainly comprised of local Miamians, it attracts
no tourists because it isn’t “Miami enough:” tourists would be disappointed by
a weekend in Suburbia.
The average Friday night is made up of long naps after a stressful day at work or
school and maybe a small party if someone’s parents are out of town. The weekend concludes with a lazy, family-centered Sunday. My parents drag me and my little sister Nicole to Church
despite our protests that “it’s too early” or “I don’t wanna wear this dress!” The traditional family lunch at IHOP is followed by a trip to Briar Bay Park: Josie, our 2-year old Rat terrier, “needs to run around and Nicole wants to play on the playground.” My mom yells at Nicole because the sand under the swing set and the syrup she spilled on her dress earlier have had a glue-and-glitter effect. I chuckle and lie on a nearby bench, absorbing the scene. Some people
say that you can smell the salt from the ocean all the way in Kendall but everyone knows it’s a myth: the only things we smell are the dump truck weaving
through nearby neighborhoods and the fresh croquettes Publix makes every morning. No one here goes to South Beach anyway: we’re all too busy and it’s
way too expensive. That kind of thing is reserved for the tourists and people who live in the million-dollar condos for only 3 months out of the year.
So what’s it like growing up in a city that doesn’t include you? It’s like living in a house where the renters pay the bills and run the place while sleeping in a shed in the backyard. I can
see the parties, elaborate dresses, and expensive food taking place inside but
I never participate; Instead, I live with my family in one of the many sheds
outside. It’s my house, why am I never invited?
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