It's 6:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning. All the free champagne I ingested for happy hour the night before is making me feel a little less chirpy than the rooster next door, who is cocka-doodle-dooing to his heart's content. The neighbors are up early collecting eggs from the five or so hens running around, the dog has fun herding them, and the pig sits around hoping he's not Nochebuena (Christmas Eve) dinner.
I live smack in the middle of Miami, somewhere between Little Havana and Coral Gables, yet my neighbors are raising livestock.
Although I'm not certain what part of Cuba they're from, I'm willing to bet they lived in el campo (the countryside). A lot of Cuban campesinos feel it's completely normal to run a mini farm from their small single-family homes behind Calle Ocho. I'm okay with this; saying hello to a brood of hens just before plunging into big-city traffic is mildly LOL-inducing.
The comical contrast is lost on my dog, though. He is confused by these new weird animals.
Blade's early morning thoughts are as follows:
I'm ... awake? I'm awake. Must ... go ... OUTSIDE!
*cry cry cry (at inhumanly high decibel)*
Yay! Morning walk! Yay!
*trot trot trot ... freeze*
What are those?
*tilts head*
Are they large pigeons?
*wags tail (hunting is fun!)*
Way too big to be pigeons. Are they ... cats?
*wags tail (cats are my friends!)*
Wait, those cats are too close to my territory!
*assumes defensive stance*
But cats have tails.
*sniffs air*
What ARE those?
*tilts head*
Blade has now taken to ignoring the alien creatures. For my part, I'm just hoping not to find any of them decapitated in the front lawn.
Showing posts with label Being Cuban. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Being Cuban. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
Miami: Best & Worst & Santería
My lit geek friends and I seem incapable of throwing a party without a costume theme; it's Halloween about once a month for us. The latest theme, this time for a birthday fiesta, was "Best and Worst of Miami," and the English crew did not disappoint. A few of the highlights below:
- Miami tourists, complete with Hawaiian shirts and fanny packs
- The couple from the show Dexter, which is set in Miami
- The requisite Miami Vice guy
- A ditzy, scantily clad UM student armed with inflatable breasts from Party City
- A scantily clad Hialeah girl (The scantily clad motif was especially popular.)
- A mojito (She was green and looked delicious. Well, you know what I mean.)
- Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden (Best dress idea ever.)
I went as a santera (a woman who practices Santería).
If your background is Cuban, chances are that someone in your family practices the religion (no matter how "strictly Catholic" the family may be), and most who have grown up in Miami are at least aware of it. Perhaps they've wondered at the botanicas (Santería shops) around town, or perhaps they've spotted one too many headless chickens in their day. My Catholic high school, situated next to the Cuban, Catholic church of La Ermita de la Caridad, was no stranger to dead chickens. We scored a day off school once because of dead chickens. Thank you, dead chickens!
Most people at the party, though, had not grown up in Miami and did not know what to make of my ensemble. Was I a gypsy? a tropical ghost? a ... umm ... lady who likes to wear white? Two Cubans and one Spaniard got it, though. Big up!
So, was I representing the best or the worst of Miami? I suppose that depends on whether you view Santería with a sense of wonder or a sense of fear.
Because music plays an integral role in Santería ritual, I leave you with a song about Santería by local Cuban artist Willy Chirino aptly titled "Mister Don't Touch the Banana."
* For further personal anecdotes from a fellow Miami blogger on this topic and to understand why you shouldn't touch the banana, check out this post.
- Miami tourists, complete with Hawaiian shirts and fanny packs
- The couple from the show Dexter, which is set in Miami
- The requisite Miami Vice guy
- A ditzy, scantily clad UM student armed with inflatable breasts from Party City
- A scantily clad Hialeah girl (The scantily clad motif was especially popular.)
- A mojito (She was green and looked delicious. Well, you know what I mean.)
- Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden (Best dress idea ever.)
I went as a santera (a woman who practices Santería).
If your background is Cuban, chances are that someone in your family practices the religion (no matter how "strictly Catholic" the family may be), and most who have grown up in Miami are at least aware of it. Perhaps they've wondered at the botanicas (Santería shops) around town, or perhaps they've spotted one too many headless chickens in their day. My Catholic high school, situated next to the Cuban, Catholic church of La Ermita de la Caridad, was no stranger to dead chickens. We scored a day off school once because of dead chickens. Thank you, dead chickens!
Most people at the party, though, had not grown up in Miami and did not know what to make of my ensemble. Was I a gypsy? a tropical ghost? a ... umm ... lady who likes to wear white? Two Cubans and one Spaniard got it, though. Big up!
So, was I representing the best or the worst of Miami? I suppose that depends on whether you view Santería with a sense of wonder or a sense of fear.
Because music plays an integral role in Santería ritual, I leave you with a song about Santería by local Cuban artist Willy Chirino aptly titled "Mister Don't Touch the Banana."
* For further personal anecdotes from a fellow Miami blogger on this topic and to understand why you shouldn't touch the banana, check out this post.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Growing Up Spanglish: Part Dos
Is it odd that my first language is Spanish, but my native language is English? Not in Miami.
Being first-generation American in Miami is not alienating. I wasn't the only kid in my elementary school to carry a Materva in her lunch box, I wasn't the only middle schooler who had to teach my parents what a GPA was, and I wasn't the only high school girl to be professionally photographed in a hideous poofy white dress for her quinces (fifteenth birthday).
My life has always been compartmentalized into language zones: English for social life; Spanish for family life. It's not quite that simple, of course. Within families, it's strictly Spanish with the abuelos (grandparents). With the parents, it depends. Did they attend school in the U.S. or not? This will generally determine how much Spanish is spoken in the home. My parents were raised in Cuba, which means I speak to them primarily in Spanish. There are exceptions, though. For instance, if my father and I are discussing Obama's healthcare plan, we may instinctually switch to English because we unconsciously categorize certain topics as English-language ones.
Siblings and cousins tend to fall into the English zone, granted they're not acabados de llegar (just arrived from *insert name of Latin American country here*). My cousin moved to the States when she was eight years old. We speak a hybrid language that consists of the following ingredients:
- 3 parts English
- 1 part Spanish
- 1 part Cuban (not to be confused with proper Spanish, which doesn't make use of colorful expressions as absurd as le zumba el merequeténgue)
As someone with an MA in English, I am often conflicted about the extensive use of Spanglish in this town. Many people seem unable to speak either language correctly. At times, though, a Spanish word (or Cuban expression) has greater import than its English counterpart (if there is one). The reverse is also true. Navigating between two languages with fellow bilingual Miamians is therefore practical. It's also fun. Consider the common use of Yiddish terms in American English. Would you rather say, "that guy's got nerve and confidence," or "that guy's got chutzpah"? I rest my case. For better or worse, Spanglish is Miami's unofficial language.
I leave you with another classic ¿Qué Pasa, U.S.A.? clip, in which the Spanish/English, grandparent/grandchild rift is taken to its comedic extreme.
Being first-generation American in Miami is not alienating. I wasn't the only kid in my elementary school to carry a Materva in her lunch box, I wasn't the only middle schooler who had to teach my parents what a GPA was, and I wasn't the only high school girl to be professionally photographed in a hideous poofy white dress for her quinces (fifteenth birthday).
My life has always been compartmentalized into language zones: English for social life; Spanish for family life. It's not quite that simple, of course. Within families, it's strictly Spanish with the abuelos (grandparents). With the parents, it depends. Did they attend school in the U.S. or not? This will generally determine how much Spanish is spoken in the home. My parents were raised in Cuba, which means I speak to them primarily in Spanish. There are exceptions, though. For instance, if my father and I are discussing Obama's healthcare plan, we may instinctually switch to English because we unconsciously categorize certain topics as English-language ones.
Siblings and cousins tend to fall into the English zone, granted they're not acabados de llegar (just arrived from *insert name of Latin American country here*). My cousin moved to the States when she was eight years old. We speak a hybrid language that consists of the following ingredients:
- 3 parts English
- 1 part Spanish
- 1 part Cuban (not to be confused with proper Spanish, which doesn't make use of colorful expressions as absurd as le zumba el merequeténgue)
As someone with an MA in English, I am often conflicted about the extensive use of Spanglish in this town. Many people seem unable to speak either language correctly. At times, though, a Spanish word (or Cuban expression) has greater import than its English counterpart (if there is one). The reverse is also true. Navigating between two languages with fellow bilingual Miamians is therefore practical. It's also fun. Consider the common use of Yiddish terms in American English. Would you rather say, "that guy's got nerve and confidence," or "that guy's got chutzpah"? I rest my case. For better or worse, Spanglish is Miami's unofficial language.
I leave you with another classic ¿Qué Pasa, U.S.A.? clip, in which the Spanish/English, grandparent/grandchild rift is taken to its comedic extreme.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Welcome to MyAmi
I couldn’t believe my luck when I was studying in Paris. “I live here,” I’d exclaim under my breath while walking to and from campus over the scenic Pont de l’Alma, past the Eiffel Tower and its 20,000 flashing bulbs. Yet when I’d tell Parisians that I was from Miami, my casual remark would be met with wide-eyed enthusiasm: “The city dreams are made of! Take me with you, s’il vous plaît.” They dreamed of palm fronds and sandy beaches, daiquiris and famous DJs.
What warms me to the city, though, has little to do with the clichés of luxury, endless partying, and tropical paradise that attract so many visitors each year. That’s the Miami the Kardashian empire turns into a reality TV show.
The U.S. Census Bureau revealed in 2007 that Miami has one of the highest poverty rates and one of the lowest median incomes among large U.S. cities. Our local politicians are as corrupt as they come. Our drivers are aggressive. Our public transportation system is a joke. This is the reality.
On the other hand, few cities are as culturally diverse as Miami. Winters are mild. Beaches are beautiful. Debates are heated. Evenings are lively. This, too, is the reality.
It’s unclear to me whether it’s easier to define Miami by what it is or by what it isn’t; it’s an anomaly of a city. Over the years, though, I have learned to embrace its contradictions and, by extension, my own.
The principle aims of this blog are:
• to illustrate the people, places, and events that make Miami unique
• to editorialize on Miami culture: the good, the bad, and the perplexing
On the whole, the objective is to provide a local perspective on Miami, one that paints a complex picture. Of course, I can only speak from my own experience, and my Cuban-American heritage is oftentimes the lens through which I view this city. This blog will reflect that. Its name, ¿Qué Pasa, Miami?, is in fact inspired by a 1970s PBS sitcom about a Cuban-American family adjusting to life in el exilio (the Cuban exile community). ¿Qué Pasa, U.S.A.? is entirely in "Spanglish," as is my hyphenated life, and the Peña family uncannily resembles my own. This article about the show accurately identifies what was so special about it and why it is so relatable to me and to other Miami Cubans.
I leave you with a short clip of ¿Qué Pasa, U.S.A.? in which Pepe Peña is caught off guard for a televised interview about Cuban expats in Miami. Enjoy, and welcome to ¿Qué Pasa, Miami?.
What warms me to the city, though, has little to do with the clichés of luxury, endless partying, and tropical paradise that attract so many visitors each year. That’s the Miami the Kardashian empire turns into a reality TV show.
The U.S. Census Bureau revealed in 2007 that Miami has one of the highest poverty rates and one of the lowest median incomes among large U.S. cities. Our local politicians are as corrupt as they come. Our drivers are aggressive. Our public transportation system is a joke. This is the reality.
On the other hand, few cities are as culturally diverse as Miami. Winters are mild. Beaches are beautiful. Debates are heated. Evenings are lively. This, too, is the reality.
It’s unclear to me whether it’s easier to define Miami by what it is or by what it isn’t; it’s an anomaly of a city. Over the years, though, I have learned to embrace its contradictions and, by extension, my own.
The principle aims of this blog are:
• to illustrate the people, places, and events that make Miami unique
• to editorialize on Miami culture: the good, the bad, and the perplexing
On the whole, the objective is to provide a local perspective on Miami, one that paints a complex picture. Of course, I can only speak from my own experience, and my Cuban-American heritage is oftentimes the lens through which I view this city. This blog will reflect that. Its name, ¿Qué Pasa, Miami?, is in fact inspired by a 1970s PBS sitcom about a Cuban-American family adjusting to life in el exilio (the Cuban exile community). ¿Qué Pasa, U.S.A.? is entirely in "Spanglish," as is my hyphenated life, and the Peña family uncannily resembles my own. This article about the show accurately identifies what was so special about it and why it is so relatable to me and to other Miami Cubans.
I leave you with a short clip of ¿Qué Pasa, U.S.A.? in which Pepe Peña is caught off guard for a televised interview about Cuban expats in Miami. Enjoy, and welcome to ¿Qué Pasa, Miami?.
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