There was a secret behind locked doors. It was about money and fame and failure. The ADULTS did a good job hiding it from me most of my young life. Nevertheless, I peered through the cracks at a broke-down palace. My family: the worker bees, nursing it in futility and despair. Cracks are in the walls; it reeked of cat shit and ruined ambitions; everything was imperfect, askew, wrong, out of shape, disproportionate, unbalanced, not where it’s supposed to be. The ADULTS tried to contain this, and keep it from me as much as possible, but I saw through the cracks and the clutter, and the heat and the grime. I saw something alive that should’ve been long dead. What perversion is this? I screamed. The Navarros, the failed Navarros, the worthless and helpless Navarros.
I confess that I grew a chip on my shoulder as my mom drove delivering newspapers. I would lay on the backseat, with my older brother Michael in front, and watch the sky of Miami, Hollywood breeze by. I remember my mom had the radio on, and a new song just recorded called ‘Mi Tierra’ came out by Gloria Estefan. It’s funny now that I read about it. It was recorded a year after Andrew devastated South Florida, and not far from where we were at the time. In a way it was a herald of our eventual and more permanent stay in Miami Beach proper. But then, I had no idea. Our life was chaos. Even at eight years old, I had a hard time keeping track of things. Did we stay with some families? Did we stay in a broken house in Homestead when the hurricane hit? How long have we lived in our car? Didn’t we drive on a long empty road? Was it Florida or Chile? I was plagued by haunting questions as the song played for the tenth time in the night. Palm trees floated by. Mom took a right, then left, then straight… then stop.
The picture would stop on gray storms, blinding blue skies, buildings, power lines, flashing lights, birds, airplanes, loud talking, loud music, loud cars with loud horns, loud styles, attitudes, spending habits, bills, tips, drinks, joints, white lines and rolled up dollar bills, horniness and heat. Drugs and guns and cops and people flow and network and are all connected together. Miami pulses with corruption that sets everyone on edge along with the heat and FPL. Everyone is paid or laid to rest or can’t afford the game. People clump together under a roof with their faces in front of the AC. Jesus and welfare and Sunday church and divorce settlements, and suspects in shootouts. Get rich quick is the name of the game. If you can’t make it on your own, regulate homie. Don’t be afraid to get your hands dirty. In Miami anything goes… past the car window. The song finished, and I wondered what Tierra I thought was santa…?
I rarely slept in the night. I was fascinated by the newspaper life. With my brother sprawled on his side, always sleeping like an angel, I felt the cars hum beneath me, a hum of life that pushed us forever onward in the streets of North Miami. Atlanta Drive, Sheridan Street, Hollywood Ave, Bird Road… my mom drives in the night, filled with worry and newspapers. She is a newspaper boy. It has come to this. She stops, leaves the engine running, opens the door newspaper in hand, and goes to each house. She feels her health already debilitating. Why is it so painful to throw this paper? She has to walk most of the way to throw it properly. The ritual continues, over and over, in reverse and in drive. The tape rewinds and she hops into the car, again to streets, again the radio plays the same music, the same haunting songs, the ones you can’t help to associate anguish and sorrow, even if they are happy, again the sky would move before my eyes, and so did the city. What a city! What madness and cacophony! What miracles and blunders! What a salivating treat you want so bad! Miami is like a seasoned whore on the point of becoming a violent con. She takes but you never see. You are too enchanted with her slender figure, her full fake lips, and tits, and sweat. You are rooted to the spot like a shipwrecked sailor beholding a perfect Siren. She is whatever you want her to be. She hides in disguises and becomes what you want. It could be anything, for it’s not man or woman. It is the sexiest thing on earth, the object for which even a cultured gentleman of the 21st Century would beg for. You want a touch, just one, and you try your hardest to succeed. Some aren’t able, but it’s worse for those that do. You’re left wanting more than that. It wasn’t enough, because it never is. And all the meanwhile, she takes, takes, takes; behind your back; a small piece at a time, always every time. A conviction here, a promise there, a selfless act, a resolution… but it’s always worse when you succeed. What a feeling when you touch Miami, when you fuck Miami, when you snort her up in a ballroom party, smoke her down in Overtown from a crack pipe in bushes outside tenement buildings, roll her up with Phillies in a stairway, feel her up in a club and dance with her the night away before the real fun begins! What oh what a fucking feeling! God, that feels so fucking good! And in the clear light of an endless summer, it hits you. You lost something, you don’t know what. It could be money, a phone, a shirt, a gun, a wallet, a pipe, a pill, an eight ball, anything but what you lost is much more than that. Miami took your soul in the middle of the night. You were played fool. You were cheated.
I don’t know about anyone else, but that was to be my relationship with Miami. I confess I didn’t get laid nearly as enough as you might think, growing up in such a place. Maybe it was my crooked stare, crooked teeth, sad doughy eyes, soup bowl haircut, button nose, scrawny build, small height, and young face which stuck with me until my late teenage years. I always felt like the little kid who interrupted their parents having sex, only it was with kids my age. At eight kids in my school were already getting bulky, hairy and big. At thirteen, some looked like they had kids of their own. I knew that there was no way to compete for the attention of girls. I lusted after them very young, but understood my place as a child. At the time I don’t think I could’ve handled that kind of humiliation if I went too far and acted on my sexual impulses. That’s right. I took notice of Miami long before the other boys while they played flag football and kickball… and I couldn’t stop thinking about her while my mother continued her newspaper trek.
I seem to recall a girlfriend I used to have when I lived in the red house on Atlanta Drive. She always sat with me during recess, and we would kiss each other on the cheeks much to the shock of the rest of the kids in our group of 1st Graders. They considered us mature, and grown up, and brave, and maybe a little crazy too. We were the talk of the playground, and the talk of our class. I don’t remember her name anymore, but I do remember her. She had milky white skin filled with freckles like specs of nutmeg in eggnog. Her hair was the lightest blonde and her eyes big, blue, and cat-like. We used to hold hands and sit on the swings or near the slide and look at each other. I was in seventh nirvana. I was so happy with her. Child relationships are a marvelous thing. We rarely spoke, because we didn’t have to. We were a team, and most importantly: grown up. I was immune to cooties unlike the other boys who teased me mercilessly about my ‘girlfriend’. We loved each other the way adults have to learn to all over again in the later stages of life.
I barely recall what happened to our ‘relationship.’ One day, we had to go back home to the motherland Chile, just like that. And just like that, we found ourselves having to say goodbye. I didn’t understand why we were leaving. Now I know what happened. The contract was up. The television station didn’t renew it, not even for another year. My parents fought constantly in the little red house on Atlanta Drive in its remaining days. I guess the defeat was nigh for them. Dad gambled some more, and tried his luck looking for other places, other opportunities. But the doors began to close, one by one, station to station. No one hired him, no one wanted him. Armand Navarro had become a marked man. And so, we left to what we thought was greener pastures in the homeland.
I never saw the little girl again. All I remember is her weeping at the news and clutching at my shirt. I walked away underneath the arched pathways that lead to the school entrance, tears streaming down my face, still hearing her wails in the background. My mom was by my side, reassuring me. I cried in silence. It was my first experience with death. I knew I would never see her smiling face again. I knew that I would never see that little red house. I knew that the normal and stable life was over… for a long time at least.
The memory completely fades after that. All that is left is a faint impression of airports. I love airports and it’s probably due to that trip. Such a strange comfort that comes over me when I’m at an airport, it’s so exciting to see planes take off and arrive, hearing the tumulus sounds, the buzzing and droning of bags and suitcases with little wheels, and different languages and intercom announcements… to me as a child, I imagine it was my Alexandria. An amalgamation of different wears, styles, speech patterns, accents, nationalities, stories…what a place!
I imagine I didn’t have a bad time at our temporary sojourn in Chile, but for whatever reason I couldn’t remember much about it. I’ve repressed it. Perhaps my mother wept in front of us or exploded in frustration. I don’t blame her for any of it. Doors continued to close. More television stations, more radio stations, more channels, more, more, more…. Chile itself began to close. Mom would hang up and scream in anger at the odds, before trying another number, another failure. Why is this happening?
‘Why the fuck not?’ Answered the voice on the other end, almost innocently.
“Where are our friends our families, our contacts?” Maria demanded. “What’s happening?”
“They can’t help you Maria.” The voice told her. “I’m sorry. They have more pressing matters to deal with. I mean come on! You know people have their own lives right? They can’t support you when you make bad investments. I mean, think about it. Isn’t it your fault? You were irresponsible. Some will try to carry you… back in sunny North Miami, but they’ll regret it. Oh yes they will. You were not meant to be a mother, or stay with Armand. All the signs were there. You should have listened Maria. Now the Navarros are cursed, and so are you. The curse is in your head. It’s too late. You will never see Chile again. And you will never see your children succeed. You know why? Because life is pain…”
The doors continued to close like a sinister domino effect. My mom always heard the same recording in her brain after that. Nothing deterred her from that view, which eventually became reality for her. She was changed forever. Maria felt abandoned more than ever in her life, abandoned by God. I will never know how she managed to juggle us and the dogs the entire time. Somehow, I’m not quite sure how, we managed to hang our heads and leave in defeat.
That was the end of a saga, and the beginning of our long and painful crawl back to below poverty. My parents agreed that the United States will be the best bet, Miami in particular with its strong Caribbean presence. My father assured that it will be a matter of time before he found something. They still had their American Visas, and so did the rest of us. We will work, and save our money. We just need someone to help us, and give us our start, pathetic as it may be. That was the best solution. Or so we thought.
DanCarvalloSays 