Local Motors

Of all the places, it chose the University of Miami.

It had seemed to ordinary back home, but here it had stood out like a sore thumb. It exalted itself, trying to symbolically rise above its surroundings but inadvertently becoming a part of the community it was trying to escape. It escaped to this parking lot in the University of Miami. But still it could not escape the effects of his community, and he became an even more evident sign of the Calle Ocho community once he left and fled to Coral Gables.

It brought images of old glory days and car shows in the minds of passers-by. But those walking minds clearly knew of the current economic downturn, how most people in Florida, even in Calle Ocho, were enduring hard times and troubles. That glamour would have to wait. The Genting project functions in much the same way, reminding us of the flashy glamour of Las Vegas casinos, of how one lucky chap could strike it rich with the pull of a lever. But we also caution ourselves to the inherent problems of gambling, notably how it can become an unhealthy and extremely financially depriving addiction.

Even though the proposed project, including the Genting project, will create jobs in the short-term, we can only speculate the damage in the long-term. Gambling is known to tear families apart, to drive people money mad and neglect all else, and to essentially wreak havoc on the status quo. Considering that families are the backbone of any good community and workforce, this project will only serve to keep the poor of Miami from moving forward, and perhaps even plunge the lower middle-class into poverty.

For more information on the casino projects in Miami, read here: http://www.miamiherald.com/2011/11/01/2482689/go-slowly-on-casinos.html

Stadium Blues

As I sat by Biscayne Bay, eating my usual 30-minute lunch at school, I could not help but glance at the graffiti-ridden stadium that stands defeated by 17 years of neglect. I wondered why no one in the area did anything to promote the well-being of this once prominent, cultural icon. The shambled seats and rusty metal shroud the area that laid claim to Jimmy Buffett concerts and famous regattas. The Marine Stadium’s disrepair is one of many of historical sites that Miamians seem to forget in comparison to new (but empty) condos and the occasional oil drilling site by the beach.

Finished in 1963 on Virginia Key, the stadium was considered an architectural feat. Constructed entirely from concrete and featuring a folded-plate roof, the structure was supposed to stand as a marvel for later decades, a symbol of a changing, modern world. But Cuban architect Hilario Candela could have never foreseen the damage done by Hurricane Andrew. From that point, the government ignored requests to repair the stadium. 17 years later, the Marine Stadium made the list of America’s Most Endangered Historic Places. The threat is labeled “deterioration, neglect, and development.”

These three labels define not only the stadium but also the larger context of Miami. To refer to Nijman, the city has seen its share of deterioration from the locals’ point of view (i.e. Overtown and Liberty City), neglect from exiles who vie to return to their homeland, and development in the form of mobiles who exploit Miami for their economic gain. And the Marine Stadium’s architectural ingenuity arcs back to a Miami of yesterday, a vision that came and left with Flager and Fisher. Why does Miami not appreciate its past? Well, when a city does not even have a clear sense of identity, how can it decide the role of the past and its effects on the present?

But the historical context only begins to scratch the surface. Having visited the stadium, I can attest to the stadium’s structure as indicative of a certain emotion it once produced and continues to produce. The incredible roof covers the blue sky and leads me to focus on the bay. I can imagine an audience aroused by the sounds of speedboats and a premiere of an Elvis Presley film. This feeling of youthful optimism and expression lives today in the graffiti. Their incomprehensible messages signify that this space still has a chance to live up to its story. While it may appear abandoned, the stadium will house a different kind of audience, one who will not allow a city’s decisions to rob them of the Marine Stadium experience. Thus, the future of the Marine Stadium and that of greater Miami depends on the promise of later generations. I hope those sitting by the cafeteria eating their lunch will be as inspired as I was.

For more information and to help the stadium:

http://www.marinestadium.org/index.php

Photo 1 courtesy of "Gator Preservationist" http://gatorpreservationist.wordpress.com/2011/02/08/miami-marine-stadium/

Photo 2 courtesy of Rick Bravo. http://www.marinestadium.org/news/2083

The Real People

The clubs in South Beach are considered one of the hottest spots to party in the country. Every weekend I hear stories about how much fun everyone had at Liv or Mokai. These people often brag about the exclusive table they were at, all the overpriced bottles that were bought, the celebrities they breathed the same air as.

I remember walking around South Beach one night with Nima, my friend's "promoter" from New York. We were waiting for his friend to pick us up in his Maserati so we could go to Soho House for drinks and then head over to Liv.

I had been to some of the clubs in South Beach before but never really understood the hype. I always thought the point of a club was to have fun and dance, but the intention of the people I went with seemed to be much different. Their main concern was how elite they could look as they sat at an overcrowded table and sipped on drinks that came from bottles purchased by the promoters.

As Nima and I strolled through South Beach in our expensive clothes and uncomfortable shoes, he told me about his life-- how he came from nothing and built an empire in club promotions. He told me of his dream to open up a successful club in New York City. I nodded and smiled as I pretended to listen. I noticed that many of the club frequenters have this overdeveloped sense of self-importance. I learned quickly that I do not actually need to listen to a word these people say. I just mindlessly stroke their egos by acting overly interested and impressed by everything that comes out of their mouths.

We strutted down Ocean Drive in our expensive clothes and uncomfortable shoes. Nima told me about the important people he knows, the exclusive clubs he frequents, the expensive parties he throws. I realized pretty soon into our walk that the people we were passing were much more interesting than the conversation Nima was having with himself. I wanted to see the real South Beach, the part that no one talks about. So I opened up my eyes and surveyed my surroundings.

It seemed that every store front we passed had a homeless person sleeping in front of the door. I wondered why no one ever seems to notice them. It is like people here are so absorbed by the glamourous image of South Beach that they are blind to anyone who is not attractive, powerful, and rich. I glanced at each person who passed me, most of them were regular people; people I would see at home. They were not these beautiful, well-dressed models or rich old men that everyone talks about. They wore t-shirts and shorts and several of them were taking their dog for a walk. They did not care what designer I was wearing or what club I was going to. They were not concerned with who I knew or what perks they might get by being friends with me. They were real people doing real things. They weren't absorbed by this fake world full of excess and superficiality.

It was comforting to know that these people could not care less about me.

Community

Two women walk with a child, shooting friendly greetings at their neighbors as they pass by. They even wave to the man who lives out of a shopping cart on the curb. The two women, the child, and the man they wave to all wear the same broad grin that shines as a juxtaposition against the cheap townhouses, old cars, and worn clothing. What the viewer doesn’t see in the
photograph is the block party going on at the end of the street behind the women. People from all over the neighborhood congregate and set up lawn chairs, set their kids free to play tag, and discuss their jobs at the local markets and restaurants.

Despite the fact that this neighborhood is low-income, there is a sense of community that trumps that of any condominium on South Beach. Kids don’t run on the beach and spend their
childhoods making sandcastles, they run around outside with the neighbors because the TV only gets cable. Their parents don’t dress up in expensive gowns and suits and go to cocktail parties and night clubs, they sit outside on lawn chairs and talk after a long day at their minimum-wage paying jobs. The local Miamians may be segregated into different neighborhoods, but these
neighborhoods are more than just that, they’re communities. This is the real Miami.

Dade County Jail

"Shut up! I'm trying to sleep!" A voice huskier and deeper than most men's bounced off the cold, cement walls of the cell and into my eardrums, silencing my whispers across the room to my friend. It came from the bunk under me from a person I could not see but could only imagine like a monster hiding under my bed. Startled, my arms, already hugging my legs in an attempt to keep warm, tensed up. I nuzzled my face into the barrier made by my own limbs. I lay there in perfect fetal position until the voice turned into a hoarse snore. I lifted my head and looked toward the top bunk across from mine where Kate lay. As our eyes met, we tried to bury our laughter in one of the thin white sheets given to us to sleep with. Our giggles were a combination of disbelief over where we were, how we got there, and the people we were surrounded by, the other "inmates." We laughed because we were scared. We laughed because we did not belong there. We laughed because we did not know what else to do.

My eyelids were heavy, but I could not sleep. I covered myself from head to toe with a sheet like I was a corpse sprawled out on the floor of a crime scene. I closed my eyes and listened to the other inmates. It seemed like none of them could sleep either. Although for most the source of their insomnia was drug or alcohol withdrawal rather than anxiety. Every once in a while the snores coming from beneath me would stop, interrupted by a hacking cough. I could hear the monster under my bed tossing and turning, punching the mattress, grunting, audibly frustrated by her discomfort. I tried to picture what she must look like, using only her voice and coughing fits to guide me. I figured she must be like the majority of the other inmates I met who did not have anyone to bail them out either. I imagined her skin, dark and weathered. Her hair was probably matted and sticking out at strange angles. Her teeth were rotting with some missing. I assumed she was addicted to some sort of poison, her body sweating and aching as it begged for more of it.

I peeked out from under my sheet and looked at Kate, still awake but also trying desperately to sleep. I compared us to the other women we shared the room with. We did not fit. We were first time offenders apprehended for stealing lipgloss testers at Nordstrom. We would have been bailed out had our friends not been too drunk to figure out how to accept a collect call. Instead, we were forced to spend the night in Dade County Jail, one of the most notorious jail systems in the country. Infamous for its unsanitary conditions, overcrowding, abusive jail guards, and corruption, Kate and I were forced to discover that the reality was far worse than the rumors.

I was awoken by a man's voice over the loudspeaker announcing breakfast. A guard followed shortly after, the sound of the keys clinking together became a beacon of hope over the course of the night. Every time I heard the noise I thought maybe this time the guard would announce that someone posted bail for Kate and me. Or at the very least I would get to ask what time it was.

"Breakfast is milk and a piece of fruit. Who wants it?" The guard announced robotically. No one moved except for the monster under my bed. I waited patiently, excited to see the person who invoked so much curiosity within me.

She slowly pushed herself off the bed, grunting as she rose to her feet. Her appearance fit her voice, weathered and masculine. She wore a red gingham button down, mens black athletic shorts, and green foam ballet flats. I would not have known she was a woman had we not been segregated by gender. Her hair was cut close to her scalp. The skin on her face looked like leather. She shuffled out of the cell behind the guard, coming back a few minutes later with some sort of fruit and a carton of milk.

After what I presume to be about half an hour later, the guard came back, telling us we would be transported back to the main jail where we would wait to be seen by a judge. The woman under me sat on her bed, making it an even bigger obstacle for me to get down. Terrified of accidentally kicking her, I scooted myself off of the bunk, gently touching my toes down on her mattress and hopped onto the ground.

Kate and I embraced, giggling because we knew we would be released soon. As we exited the cell, we were offered a bar of soap to wash up. Again everyone rejected the offer except for the woman who slept under me. While she cleaned up in the adjacent bathroom, the guards called out our last names. Each of us responded with our first name and date of birth to confirm our identity.

"Jackson?"

"Barbara," the woman grunted from the bathroom followed by her birthdate. It caught me off-guard. Her name was so feminine and generic. It rang in my head. Barbara. It did not fit.

I watched her as she exited the bathroom. Her steps were slow and awkward like her joints were riddled with arthritis. Her body was breaking down from a combination of hardship and drug abuse. I looked at her eyes, expecting to see hostility or emptiness, but I was met with a gentle gaze, tired and harmless.

The guard pulled out several sets of handcuffs. She went down the row, cuffing every set of two people together. We left the facility and were led to a van. The back was divided into two sides, each was less than three feet wide and had a bench. The entire compartment was metal-- the walls, the bench, the floor, the ceiling. There was a quote written on the wall in black marker: "Pull the trigger and the nightmare stops."

After what felt like several hours in a dirty holding cell, a guard opened the door of our cage. She called out five names, mine, Kate, Barbara, and two other girl's. We were led to a court room which doubled as a chapel. We waited patiently for our turn in front of the judge as several men were given their bonds, each man there was charged with battery.

Barbara was called to the stand. Her charge was read, disorderly intoxication, and the judge granted her release. Another woman followed, her bond was set at $1,000. Next was Kate and then me. The court laughed as our charge of "petty theft" was read. Our release was immediately granted. Barbara, Kate, and I were then led to a desk to process our release.

Barbara led us out of the jail, a walk she seemed to have made several times before. We collected our belongings and headed to the train station. Every homeless person we passed seemed to know her, yelling her name with excitement. She'd smile and wave as if she was a celebrity. We approached the metro station, and I gave her $2, just enough for a train ticket. After we boarded the train, I lost her, but she never left my mind.

All my life, I was told that jail is for criminals, evil people who have no sense of morality. I was taught that the shocking conditions and psychological tricks played on inmates were justified punishment, that these people chose to violate the law and therefore gave up their right to be treated like humans. But meeting Barbara made me realize that for many, jail is a place of safety and stability for them. It guarantees them a bed to sleep on and regular meals. These people were not evil; they were not inhuman; they just had no where else to go. I think that we are taught to see criminals as less than human because it allows us to ignore the real problems plaguing society. If we believe these people are monsters then we do not have to ask ourselves why these people continuously violate the law. We do not feel compelled to fix the system to better help people like Barbara to stay out of jail because we ignorantly assume that repeat offenders end up in jail because they are bad people; not because they have no where else to go.

Underwater

Scientific studies have announced that the rise in sea levels is going to flood Miami within 100 years but Miamians know that their city will be underwater far before then. To the local
Miamian, Miami’s history and the city he has established will soon be washed away and replaced by an ocean of mobiles, false media, and the replica of a modern, bustling metropolis. But between the influx of rich culture, economy, and politics that immigrants and mobiles have brought, who is to say that it isn’t the mobiles and exiles that are carrying local Miamians and keeping Miami’s culture afloat?

“Miami is home to only a few and either a refuge or a playground to most others.” More than 1/3 of all homes in Miami-Dade County are not primary residences. The mold of Miami is being morphed by people who don’t live here: nightlife, entertainment, the art scene, and neighborhoods are being catered toward the rich mobiles and leaving the scraps for the locals and exiles. South Miami Beach, the icon of Miami, has an extremely low
percentage of locals inhabiting the area. In fact, the percentage of primary residences in Fisher Island, America’s richest enclave, is less than 38 percent. Here, home prices start at five million dollars and the fees are more than most Miamians could afford in rent. The adopted image of Miami is that of the Eastern neighborhoods: South Beach, Key Biscayne, Brickell, the Miami
downtown waterfront, Golden Beach, and Sunny Isles. Ironically, the neighborhoods that develop this image are those that have high concentrations of mobiles: not many Miami locals can afford the prime real estate along the waterfront. The high influx of mobiles in these areas has resulted in a commercial, tourist-catering businesses and entertainment. The most iconic
locations of Miami have become Disney World like spectacles: Miami is rapidly becoming a party where only mobiles are invited.

So why is it that Miami treats vacationers and ignores its inhabitants?
Mobiles around the world flock to Miami bringing enthusiasm, a sense of adventure, and most importantly, their wallets. High-end restaurants, clubs, and entertainment are mobiles’ playgrounds and they are willing to pay a pretty penny to play. The most expensive neighborhoods and attractions are catered mostly for secondary residents because not many local Miamians could afford them. The high taxes and cost of vacationing in Miami as well as the booming tourist industry have kept Miami afloat for decades and continue to grow exponentially. The homestead exemption, currently $50,000, only applies to secondary residents and since 24% of single family homes and 57% of condominiums are owned by secondary residents, the
economic contribution mobiles make through taxes ironically is far more than that of the average local.

While mobiles commercialized Miami and established its image of leisure and vacation, immigrants, or exiles, made their own contribution to Miami’s identity.

The 1959 Cuban Revolution brought entire groups of the privileged to Miami where they became victims of discrimination and alienation from locals. In the 1960’s, the Civil Rights
movement “brought promise of improvement, but its timing coincided with the onset of the Cuban exodus.” Exiles didn’t necessarily take jobs away from locals but instead “transform[ed] the local economy in ways that relegated blacks to a permanently subordinate position” causing Cuban exiles to gain economic and even political power and local black Miamians to remain impoverished. These people built the city and created the hotels, villas, railroads, and ports but
they were excluded because of the Cubans’ takeover of Miami politics. The Cuban-Americans who held office had views that differed from those of the local Miamians: they were conservative and concerned with international affairs while the average local view was liberal and focused on domestic issues. In 1980, Fidel Castro sent people, later known as marielitos, from insane asylums and prisons to Miami, creating even more tension between the locals and exiles. It
was around this time period when local Miamians spoke out against the mass immigration and “economic, political, and social pollution of their city” by Cuban-Americans.

Ironically, however, the mass influx of Cuban-Americans enriched Miami’s economy and helped it become a global city. According to David Rieff, when the Cubans immigrated to Miami
after the Cuban Revolution the city “became a ‘real’ place-real in the sense that its new economic diversification did not occur by accident, but because of resources that only the city had.” The large population of educated bilinguals encouraged several U.S. multinational
corporations to establish their Latin American headquarters in Miami. This brought Latin American capital through real estate and commercial investments.

So are the mobiles and exiles actually pushing the locals out and eroding their culture and history? No. In fact, local Miamians failed to develop a culture and instead feed off of the
rich cultures that immigrate from all over the world. According to Renee Page, a local who has lived in Miami her entire 49 years, “without the immigrants, the Cubans, Haitians, etcetera, Miami would have no culture.” When it comes to keeping Miami economically, politically, and socially afloat, exiles have contributed myriad cultures and businesses and mobiles have enriched the economy and established the commercial image of Miami, but what have the locals done?

Carlebach visit to UM campus

Pulitzer Prize-winning author and humorist Dave Barry is a fan of Michael Carlebach, a photojournalist, author, and Professor Emeritus of the School of Communication at the University of Miami. “Most people can take photographs. They just can’t take good photographs; whereas Michael Carlebach can. And his photographs aren’t just technically good. They’re funny, and interesting, and thought-provoking…” says Barry.

Sharp Focus, a reception and presentation to celebrate the acquisition of the Michael L. Carlebach Photography Collection, will be held Thursday, November 3 at 7 p.m. at the Otto G. Richter Library on the University of Miami’s Coral Gables campus. A reception begins at 6:30 p.m. Seating for the event is extremely limited. Please RSVP by October 27 to 305-284-3551 or richterevents@miami.edu.

The special evening will include lively and insightful conversation with UM professor emeritus, photojournalist, and author Michael L. Carlebach, along with University professors J. Tomás López and Michelle I. Seelig.  More here.