Category: Miami Stories

“This is Jeff Goldblum.” 

I responded, “Sure,” and then hung up. 

The telephone at Area Stage Company (ASC) rang again and the person on the other end said, “Please don’t hang up. This really is Jeff Goldblum and I’d like to speak with the owners of the theater. I don’t remember their names but . . .”

I jumped in and with some skepticism in my voice said, “Okay? Why are you calling?” 

The caller goes on to tell me that he was at his gym in Los Angeles and had asked out loud if anyone knew a good theater company in Miami. “I need some help with this movie I’m doing, and immediately three people said Area Stage Company,” he said. When I shared our names with him, he continued in the breathy pauses Jeff is known for, “Yes, yes, right. They said ask for John or Maria. I remember thinking it was biblical.” It was indeed Jeff Goldblum the actor, then famous for his roles in Jurassic Park and Independence Day. The year was 1997 and my husband, John Rodaz, and I had been running our theater company from its original location on Lincoln Road for close to 10 years. It had earned a reputation for presenting a fresh mix of contemporary plays and original works. 

We met up with Jeff at his hotel suite on Ocean Drive and helped him with the script of Holy Man—everything from helping to craft the character to learning his lines. 

Not long after that, we got to work with the legendary rock band U2 on a video production project. At one point during our meeting, lead singer Bono suggested we go get something to eat. As we ventured out the front door of the theater, the band hadn’t expected to walk out onto a vibrant outdoor mall lined with cafes and very eager wait staff! They had used the service road to sneak into the theater. What was supposed to be a secret visit from U2 was now news all along Lincoln Road and everyone wanted me to bring U2 to their establishment. Here I was, walking down the street next to Bono, and from every restaurant people would wave and shout, “Maria! Maria!” Bono turned to me and said, “Oh wow, you’re really famous!” That story always brings a smile to my face. That day I was more famous than Bono. 

Those are just a couple of the many unexpected and memorable moments I have had since moving to Miami from Ecuador 30 years ago. But there is none more memorable, or life-changing, than my walk along Lincoln Road on September 7, 1989. That was the day I stumbled upon the theater that housed Area Stage Company and was greeted by John Rodaz, its founder and artistic director. It was the night of his theater company’s first preview. I walked into the ASC theater that night and never left. From that day forward we have been together, as if by design. After learning that I had danced with a professional company and worked in production for years, John hired me to work as the theater’s managing director. 

As we worked alongside one another, we started getting to know each other. We realized we had coincidently crossed paths for years. We had both lived in New York City at the same time, been to the same shows and concerts on the same nights and had never met until that fateful day on Lincoln Road. Two years later, John and I were married on the anniversary of our first meeting and Area Stage’s first opening night. 

In those early years in the 1990s, Lincoln Road was all mom-and-pop shops, hole-in-the-wall eats and home to a community of local artists. Sculptors, photographers, actors, dancers, painters and the like, we all lived on the Road. It was very bohemian—like a tropical art deco-clad Montmartre. We were all drawn to Lincoln Road because we could rent storefronts for very cheap and the network of artists was a constant source of inspiration. As the local theater, we shared the neighborhood with the South Florida Arts Center, the Miami City Ballet and The New World Symphony. 

The local debate throughout the ‘90s was whether or not to keep Lincoln Road a welcoming haven for artists. We had a great group of people supporting us back then, including former Miami Beach Mayor Neisen Kasdin, Commissioner Nancy Liebman, and Mitchell Kaplan of Books and Books, who was on our first board of directors. We were blissfully unaware of the politics behind it all. John and I were just two theater addicts working on our craft. Despite not having a press agent, we collected boxes full of news clippings on our company and productions. We built our reputation very organically. We were unconventional, and I think we’ve retained a little bit of that spirit to this day. 

This September, both Area Stage Company and John and I will celebrate our 30th anniversary. John and I have kept our passion for theater fresh by remaining true to ourselves as artists. It is alive thanks to that emancipation we’ve held to and we wouldn’t have it any other way. I am forever grateful to this city for uniting me with the greatest passions of my life, 30 years of creating alongside my incredibly talented husband, John. It has been the most amazing love affair.

“Where are you from?” was the inevitable question in a small Michigan town with a
summer population four times the number of winter residents. When I would answer “Miami,” my stature was assured by my one-word answer. I was usually rewarded with a “Wow, you are so lucky,” or “Cool,” or “I’ve always wanted to go there.”

I was born at Mercy Hospital in 1958, and my mother always reminds me her room had a gorgeous bay view and the entire stay cost $150. My parents had moved here from Michigan in 1956. They lived in the “married dorms” at the University of Miami while my father finished his degree.

They loved the outdoors and would buy surplus Army- Navy dive tanks, strap them on and explore nearby reefs, enthralled by the gorgeous underwater world. They also went spear-fishing for their dinner.

My uncle Don Berg was a developer and businessman who lived on Key Biscayne, a
then-sleepy community serviced by a bridge that, when up, would back up traffic forever. If we stayed on the Key too late, and there was a full moon, coming home after dark meant hundreds of land crabs getting crushed beneath our tires — thousands would scurry over Crandon Boulevard and there was just no avoiding them.

Uncle Don owned The English Pub, Jamaica Inn and, later, Stefano's. He played golf regularly with Richard Nixon and Bebe Rebozo. My cousins danced in an episode of the Jackie Gleason Show. They had air-conditioning, which, in my mind, made them rich beyond belief.

My parents had bought a modest Mackle home in Westwood Lakes in 1958. I went to school across the street at Cypress Elementary. We used to buy lemonade concentrate and mix in half the water amount so it was super-sweet, freeze it in Dixie cups and sell it after school when it was blistering hot for 5 cents. It was my first taste of the freedom earning money gives you. I caught the bus to Concord Plaza for 10 cents and bought my first-ever new — not a hand-me-down — shirt.

By now, my mother was raising four children alone. Though struggling, she made our lives rich. She loved where we lived because we were on a canal, and she loved the “sea cows” that used it in winter. The first time I saw one I was so frightened I couldn’t breathe.

My mother, however, swam right up and stroked it, until it swam away lazily in no hurry to either embrace or deny her affection. We were all allowed to “play” with the manatees, and I know our neighbors thought our mother reckless to allow it. She was (and is) such an innocent, never seeing harm anywhere.

Her love of nature, especially the sea, paid off when she was hired by Miami Seaquarium as Carolina Snowball's trainer. Carolina Snowball was the only albino dolphin ever in captivity and the star attraction. I remember my fourth-grade class going to the Seaquarium, and there was my short-haired mother doing the show! One of the kids said, “That’s a guy, that’s not a girl.” And I said, “That’s a girl, and she’s my mother!”

She got the job because she wrote to the “Burning Desire” column in the Coral Gables Guide and said she always wanted to swim with a dolphin. They made her wish come true. That Seaquarium management liked her (she held her breath underwater for 2 minutes!) and hired her as a trainer was completely unexpected.

It was by far her favorite job, and mine, too. I got to play with the “Flippers” (there were three then) in the lagoon where the “Flipper” TV show was filmed, feed the penguins and play unbridled on the Seaquarium grounds with my siblings.

We roamed free back then. Miami was our playground. We got on our bikes in the
morning, and were expected home by dark. We didn’t say where we were going; we didn’t know ourselves. We made it up as the day went along, and it always included
animals or swimming. I remember walking my bike across one of the fat pipes that
crossed the canal that the turnpike now parallels.

The shortcut saved having to go all the way to down to Sunset Drive or up to Miller Road. We would enter horse country this way; it was my favorite place because I was horse crazy. I used to muck out stalls for free just to be near the horses. I loved everything about the barns, the scent of horses and fresh hay. Each barn had its own “flavor” and I visited and loved them all — big, small, fancy or plain.

Life has a way of being circular. I now own a barn in horse country called Tally Ho.
Sometimes when I am in the older back barn, I wonder if that small me was ever standing here, mucking out the same exact stall just for the pleasure of petting the horses.

We moved to South Miami when I was entering seventh grade. Our new house had a little bridge that went out to a little island in the middle of a spring-fed pond. I was again lucky to have water as my backyard. Our home was also adjacent to railroad tracks (now Ludlam Trail), and we kids would walk the tracks because they were shaded by Australian pines. It was so soothing and cooling to walk below their whispering majesty.

We jumped off the ties and ran like scared rabbits when the trains the came by. I attended South Miami Senior High School and worked part-time at a who’s who of old “Miam-ah”restaurants: Andy’s Sir Dolphin, Bodega, and the iconic (and still delicious!)

Captain’s Tavern. I went to Florida State, but graduated from University of Michigan, where both my grandfathers had earned medical degrees. My mother always reminds me that Midwesterners are great people, and is proud of her roots.

But I was from Miami and had Florida sand in my shoes. After graduation, I returned to my hometown and jumped into real estate, first with the Green companies and next with Stadler. I married Bernard Schrager, a local Miami Beach boy, and together we raised three beautiful daughters here. After many productive years in the real estate industry, I was fortunate to cofound Avatar Real Estate Services in 2002 with Vivian Dimond.

In 2017 we sold our boutique company to a wonderful firm out of New York, Brown Harris Stevens, of which I am vice president, and I continue to do what I have done my entire adult life: list and sell real estate.

And my best friend from those halcyon days of rafting on our pond and walking the
railroad tracks, Betsy Kuehner, is still my best friend and now my marketing consultant.

For me Miami was, and remains, a small, close-knit town.

It was May 1994. I can still smell the fresh and almost sweet “earthy aroma” that fateful Friday afternoon. The one you get right after the drops of rain hit the ground and interact with dirt. It is a peculiar fragrance that until this day I only experienced in my Puerto Esperanza.

Papi called us to the kitchen table. After all, our silliest to most important conversations happened at the kitchen table. We could all see his thoughts and emotions plastered on his face even before he opened his mouth. He didn’t have to speak for us to know something big was coming. He said, “Niñas, the family is escaping and leaving the country to go to the U.S.” What? When? The family? What about us?

My 14-year-old world had just stopped for a minute. All of a sudden, my heart opened as big as my eyes. Did he really mean that my dreams could actually become a reality?

Because I had dreams. Very specific dreams, from the mundane to the sublime. I dreamt of eating an entire Cornish hen by myself any day of the week. I dreamt of bubble baths and fragrance soaps. I dreamt of honeymooning in Hawaii. I dreamt of studying law so I could fight against injustice. I dreamt of having the freedom to speak my mind and practice my faith without fear of persecution.

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted, then shattered into confusion by my dad’s somber voice. “I am sorry mis niñas, but we are not leaving Cuba with the rest of the family. It’s a very dangerous trip. Domingo [my mom’s cousin] is ‘borrowing’ the fishing boat he has captained for the government all of his life.

If we get caught escaping, the adults will be charged with illegal exiting and/or pirating and at best, the adults will get 10 years in prison, and at the worst, we could be shot and even killed on the spot. How could I live with myself after that?

And then what would happen to my girls? This decision is tearing me apart, but I’m just not willing to put our family at such a great risk.” All my thoughts turned into question marks. What? Who does that? How can you be punished for wanting a better life? What country keeps you a prisoner? And what do you even mean we are not leaving? My abuelos, uncles, aunts, cousins are leaving. They are taking the risk and we are not?

As I tried to take it all in, my head was spinning. My young and inexperienced self knew that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. I had to speak up. I had to convince my dad he was making a big mistake.

I didn’t have much time to think about the usual elaborate arguments he was accustomed to hearing from me. I had to think fast. I stood up and I said, “Papi, I understand your concerns, but if you don’t take us, I am leaving with Abuela. There is no way I am staying behind.”

I like to think that those assertive words made my dad change his mind. The truth was probably that after analyzing the pros and cons and a lengthy conversation with my mom he realized his choices for a better future for his three daughters were limited. Somehow he convinced himself it was the best decision for the family at the time. I was so happy he did!

After an incognito, long truck ride through dense countryside, an unforeseen night spent in the mosquito-infested mangroves, drinking water from a murky lagoon, unknowingly being followed by Cuban border guards, almost flipping over the boat once on the open sea, and 36 hours of motion sickness and dehydration, I saw them: Brothers to the Rescue and the U.S. Coast Guard.

We were intercepted and came ashore at Stock Island in Key West and placed at “Hogar de Transito.” My prayer had been answered! We all made it. Fifty-two in total, including 32 of my close family members. We had arrived in the United States of America! I’m so grateful that we were able to get to our destination, a fate that eludes so many.

Then it was time for me to find my place at Miami’s Table.
It has been a convoluted journey. Miami has always made me feel welcomed, proud, and hopeful, although certain individuals have made me feel excluded, ashamed, and discouraged.

I can’t blame Miami or America for the actions of those individuals. I’ve become so resilient that I can’t be ignored. I’ve also learned that the freedom I obtained came with great commitment. I don’t take it for granted.

A quote by Condoleezza Rice that I once heard really resonates with me, “The essence of America –that which really unites us – is not ethnicity, or nationality, or religion. It is an idea – and what an idea it is: that you can come from humble circumstances and do great things.”So, have I found my place at Miami’s table? I have.

I lead a modest and simple life. But I never underestimate the power my smile, my compassion, my positive attitude, my listening ear, my humble advice, and my faith can have
on other people.

I cannot control what Miami is, but I can certainly control who I choose to be in Miami.

On my first visit to Miami, my host told me it’s a good place to write. I’m glad I listened and moved here. That trip included a stop at the Freedom Tower. I recognized its architecture from a trip to Spain, where I climbed to the top of the Giralda Tower, the inspiration for Miami’s landmark, and looked out over Seville to the ocean.

There’s another tower on the corner of Northeast 6th Street and Biscayne Boulevard, “The Tower of Snow,” a bronze of a young boy on crutches carrying the weight of his home on his back, erected to commemorate Operation Pedro Pan and the child refugees brought to the United States during the mass exodus at the start of the Communist revolution in Cuba. It symbolizes an immigrant’s feelings of duality, fragility and exile—feelings I relate to, having grown up a military brat, in a different kind of diaspora. I’m at home in Miami, where hardly anyone seems to be from here. For the most part, Miami has welcomed me.

Most people associate the Freedom Tower with refuge and welcome and the many Cubans who were processed there when the federal government repurposed the building as an entry point to democracy.

I now work in the Freedom Tower for the Miami Book Fair, where I write the newsletter. I’m greeted at the elevator by a stone carving of a printing press from 1925, when the building headquartered the Miami News. Periodically, the newsletter runs a column called “Freedom Tower Dispatches.” Recently, I found myself exploring the view from above:  

Freedom Tower Dispatch: September 1, 7:23 p.m., 91°F, (RealFeel 102°F): Out of Many, One

2:39 p.m.: Through an east-facing window of the Freedom Tower, my co-worker Gervacio sees a man face-down across the street. Ads for shows and liquor cycle blindly on the giant LED screen attached to the American Airlines Arena. We are seven floors above him, four lanes of city traffic away, watching from our air-conditioned office, while people pass by. He’s not moving; we’re concerned he might be dead. No one stops.

Nothing is as hot as lying face down on the pavement at 2:39 p.m. on the 1st of September in Miami.

Something is wrong.  

Gervacio, our student assistant Yoshi, and I, grab water and cellphones, and head down and across. He’s alive, but his breathing is shallow, his eyes are wide open, glazed, and unfocused. He’s unresponsive to four different languages.

As I write this, hours later, the air is cooled by thunderheads and the setting sun. While the three of us stood over the man, it felt as though we’d been trapped in a broiling oven along with a pot of evaporating water.

We called 911.

Before I moved to Miami, I worked with people with seizure disorders. I have a visceral reaction when I’m close to people in seizures. This man was having an absence seizure, which doesn’t manifest with convulsion. He didn’t need to be repositioned. His airway was clear. I’ve seen people in convulsive seizures, and feel the same distance, an electric aura, something kinetic thrown from the body, the outwardly spiraling moan of a brain with circuitry gone haywire.

It took us about four minutes to get from the 7th floor to where the man lay prone on the sidewalk and in that time, no one assisted him. Once we began to examine him closely, he became an item of interest, and a small crowd gathered. Someone looked at the man’s watch to check the brand to determine if he had financial status. I’m not sure why, but my thoughts wandered to what Lorca wrote about the death of a matador, something about arsenic bells and smoke. In that instant, I felt a great loss.

After a few minutes, an ambulance arrived. The man was coming out of his haze. One of the paramedics pulled a bottle of medication from the man’s pocket before they lifted him to the gurney, and said he’d be better in no time.

This reminds me how dangerous it is to be shepherded through the corral of our “urgent” agendas. How much is rendered invisible under the cool shade of our haste? Unless someone steps forward to look closely, it becomes just a paseo as always — nothing to see there — nothing lying fragile and frozen on the sidewalk. In the godawful heat of September 1 at 2:39 p.m. in Miami, it can feel bone-chillingly frigid.

When I asked Gervacio what drew him to the window, he said he liked to look at the ocean. He’d like to sail to the Bahamas in the spring.

It’s such a beautiful view from above. Sometimes, when the office is empty, and I need to clear my head to write, I go to the window and look out over the cruise ships to the white buildings on Miami Beach across the bay, and simply breathe for a minute.

I am thankful I work with such a sharp-eyed man as Gervacio, who can see past the glamourous view of Miami, and notice one drop, spilled from an ocean, in danger of evaporating in the afternoon heat.

The first World Aids Day was held in 1988, but we were hard into the epidemic during my time on Miami’s North Bayshore Drive.

From 1983 through 1987, I lived in an old mansion broken up into five apartments. The wood-burning fireplace in my bedroom, the kitchen large enough for a small restaurant, and my unobstructed bay view recalled the home’s former glory. The apartment on the north side boasted a grand staircase that dead ended in a drywall partition. The 12-foot-wide sleeping porch on the south side had been converted to an efficiency apartment, though its layout gave a lie to that name. The second story had been split the way Solomon would never have done the baby, and only the landlord benefited from that.

The house next door served as Mary’s house in the movie “There’s Something About Mary.”

When we moved in, the neighborhood proved so crime-ridden, we sat on the front stoop during friends’ visits to ensure no one stole their cars.

My house stood on the block’s northeast corner. The Cactus Bar & Grill anchored the block’s southwest corner. The Rough Guide to Florida recognized the Cactus as “one of the liveliest gay bars in the area,” which may explain neighborhood’s well-cruised vibe. Like most places with poor people, desire and desperation hung in the air like the humid edge of a storm. My neighbor in the inefficiency, dressed in soiled, skinny white jeans and black T-shirts, would bring working boys home and then refuse to pay. They would argue on the front stoop. He would say, “Who you gonna tell?” I didn’t like him then and still don’t.

My wife at the time, Brigid O’Hagan, and I were struggling to gain a foothold in Miami. Originally from Buffalo, we’d moved from Coconut Grove to North Bayshore Drive for cheap rent and that bay view, but the house brought other dividends.

On one of our first Sundays in the neighborhood, a white Cadillac stopped at the driveway’s end of Mary’s house. Two men dressed in white exited the front seats. The rear passenger side door opened and a woman, also in white, stepped out and began chanting — a slow rhythmic call — in Spanish or Yoruba, I couldn’t tell. It was answered by a voice from the house next door. Together, the three swayed and sang their way up the driveway, each call answered by a response from the house. The beauty of the moment brought tears to my eyes then as the memory does now.

The apartments directly above and beside ours were occupied by a variety of people who only seemed to exist in that narrow strip of land between Biscayne Boulevard and Biscayne Bay. Les Violins was a supper club on the boulevard modeled after Havana nightspot Tropicana. We’d never gone. One of the performers lived above us for a while — a short blonde woman from New York, with a compact Olympic gymnast’s body. She warmed up for her act by accompanying a recording of “New York, New York” with song and dance. She wore tap shoes and could belt it out with a voice like Ethel Merman. The racket she created with those shoes and that voice, while not the best thing in a neighbor, was certainly not the worst.

I can’t remember if she was upstairs before or after the ninjas. The ninjas were a couple, man and woman, who dressed like ninjas. They were a little chunkier than movie ninjas, but they pursued all the same rituals. The first time I saw them land on the front lawn, after leaping from the second-floor porch dressed all in black with only their eyes visible, rolling into crouches, short swords drawn and throwing stars and nunchucks at the ready, it was enough to make me spit my coffee. But after a month or two, their antics became as common as the tide.

Our time in that slice of paradise came to an end when a man attempting to kick heroin came to live with us. The man couldn’t kick it and he brought others into our place to get high. We were no longer beyond the neighborhood’s ills; we had become a part of them. We recognized the need to move on and we did.

That house on Bayshore is gone, replaced by a 47-story condo. The Cactus Bar and Grill exists only as a distant memory. But I imagine the spirits of those boys who tricked in that neighborhood hanging in the shadows of the new building, still waiting — hoping to get paid.

I was born in Detroit, Michigan, and grew up there. I always wanted to travel and meet a diverse group of people, and working with Carnival has helped me do that. I started in 2007 as part of the entertainment staff, and then assistant cruise director, and now cruise director.

I’m the face and voice of the ship – I host the deck parties, help with the onboard programming schedule, do Zumba class and veteran’s appreciation for those vets on board.

Even before I came on the ship, I always liked working with people. That’s very important for hospitality. I’ve also done theater since I was little, so I’m comfortable talking on stage and in front of big crowds. As entertainment staff, you have to do everything for everyone in the department. As an assistant cruise director, there are more middle management duties. Once I became the cruise director, I had to hone in on the managerial details.

Over time you learn that for different home ports and different clientele, you have to provide different entertainment. If we have bad weather and miss a port, you have to come up with a day-at-sea schedule on the spot. Once you’ve done those things a few times, you know what to do, but it helps to be exposed to those situations so you can handle them better.

We work 70 hours a week, with entertainment and planning and scheduling. There are a lot of staff members from India, Indonesia, and the Philippines. We recruit many Europeans, as well.

As cruise director, I use a microphone because I’m talking all of the time. All of the technical things make us look better, so we have high-definition cameras, huge lights and sound systems, and that’s all important for my job. Our newest ship that just launched has an IMAX theater on board, and larger-than-life TV-game shows. Things have changed for the better – now we are way more family oriented than cruise ships used to be. We have a sky course, sky-ride, and lots of fun games.

In my eight years, I’ve only seen one man go overboard. We’ve had medical situations, and the Coast Guard will come out and provide medical care. We’ve had to divert to different ports of call to get someone to a medical facility.

We were sailing out of Baltimore on the Carnival Pride, and there was a 92-year-old guest with us. We had a lip-sync party and he was given “I’m Too Sexy” to sing. He was loving it and dancing and taking his shirt off, and he got so excited that he dropped to the floor. So we relocated the party to a different area, got the medical team there in two minutes, and got him airlifted off in a helicopter. He ended up being okay, and I sent a DVD of his dance at the party and he loved it.

It’s like a floating city. If everything goes like it should, I wake up at 6:30 a.m., check my emails, host a morning show at 9:30, read dedication letters, and then host the Fun-Ashore, Fun-Aboard presentation. After lunch, I go to leader deck and host a master mixology session, and then go with the kids and do Dr. Seuss at Sea, and then we have bingo or music trivia in the afternoon.

Usually the first sea day is “Elegant Night” where we introduce our staff and have a big show in the theater. The bands are playing, and we do giveaways and comedy. And that’s one day, 6:30 a.m. to 11 p.m.

I really don’t have a day off, not with my job. Some do, like the performers in the show have a day off and the spa people can also, but that’s really it for a full day off. On sea days it’s busier for us than port days, because on port days the guests will disembark the ship and then we’ll welcome them back at the end of the day.

You still should have fun – or look like it – or else you’ll be miserable. There are times to be professional, and there are times to enjoy the crew activities. My job is to be the center of the party so I need to have fun so the guests can, too. There are alcohol limits for us on board so we can be ready to respond at any minute. You can have one or two drinks, but that’s it.

The towel animals are learned from practice. The housekeeping staff will do it and pass it on, and there’s a book that references how to make each of the towel animals. Same thing with the fruit; there are usually two or three staff members on board who do all of the carving for fruit and ice. Those people have special skills and that’s why they were hired.

English is the required and primary language on board. We have a crew training center and ESL classes for our crew members to help new crew members improve their English. It’s funny that everyone teaches you the bad words in their languages first!

I love traveling and meeting people all over the world. I like helping my entertainment staff grow and become better. I’ve seen many places, and I’m able to save a lot of money because I don’t have many expenses.

I’ve done the whole Caribbean, Europe (three times), South America, the Baltic and the Mediterranean. I just came from Australia, and I’ll be going to Alaska soon. I collect a magnet from each place I visit.

I really like helping other people. Although I never became a social worker like I wanted to when I was in college, I realized that I’m helping the guests and the people I work with have a fun time, and that’s what is most important for me.

Our home office is here in Miami, so it’s a huge part of our atmosphere on board. We’re always corresponding with Miami while at sea. Miami is different from the rest of the States because of the Latin population, and the diversity of Miami is important. This is the most popular cruise port for Carnival and having the office here makes me want to live in Miami and stay here longer.

I think Miami is the diversity, the music, the culture, South Beach. It’s an iconic place, and no matter where you travel in the world, people want to visit Miami. These aspects influence the cruise industry and Miami the city and make them special and unique.

Miami has not always had a strong background in my family’s history, but we have begun to make it our home. Our story begins with my father, Bennie Holmes, who was born and raised in Miami but has few stories to tell about the experience. It seems many of his memories have dissolved with time. The few tales he does have are saturated with his youth and speak about immature actions, such as him stealing fruit from his neighbors’ mango trees.

However, one story does manage to stand out from the other mischievous ones, offering me a glimpse into the historical Miami race riots in 1980. He starkly remembers sitting on the bus as he and his fellow classmates watched demonstrations in the streets and acts of violence. Then, soon after his graduation from Miami Southridge high school, my father entered the military and met my mother, Roxanne Morton.

My mother is originally from Gary, Indiana, and was already the mother to my sister, Rhea Berry, who was 2 at the time. In a progressive switch of gender roles, my mother asked my father to marry her, and they quickly moved in together in Miami. My family, as it was budding with only three members, alternated between living in Miami and Indianapolis during this time period. My sister would often be sent to live with relatives in Indiana as my mother and father both strove to create a better home environment for her. When my brother was born he was also sent to live in Indiana with my sister, as making ends meet in Miami was becoming gradually more difficult.

Eventually, just a year and a half after my brother was born, I came along. After asking for many details over the years, I can give the details of my birth quite descriptively. It was a Monday in Miami, Florida, at Baptist Hospital. I was born on July 16 at 10:42 p.m. I was in Miami for just about three months before my mother flew with me to Indianapolis because she wanted to be closer with all of her kids.

My father stayed behind to work in Miami for a while and sent us money to keep a consistent amount of income. We found an apartment that we could all comfortably reside in. My father was the last to leave Miami and did not return for years. Within these 10 years I spent my childhood in Indiana, growing up in a culture vastly different from the one I would have come to know had my family stayed in Miami.

I have two homes. I owe a lot of who I am to Indiana, but Miami is where I defined who I am as I developed from an adolescent to a young adult. When I was 10 years old my father traveled back to Miami for the first time in 10 years to see his mother. I believe it was during this visit that my father realized how homesick he was, and a few months after he came home from his visit he requested that we move back to Miami.

Of course, the idea was not met with much resistance as everyone was quite keen on the idea of moving to Miami. My brother and I were only kids, and we did not even realize our history in Miami, just that it was a whole lot closer to Disney World than Indianapolis was. My sister, Rhea, had just graduated from Lawrence Central high school and was all for beginning her start in such a famous city.

Not much planning went into the idea of moving; it all happened in such a rush. My father called my grandmother Dorothy to ask if we could stay with her, and when she said yes, it jump started our move. Just a few months later our house was up for rent, our belongings were packed, and we were in a van driving to Miami from Indiana.

I did not realize the impact of our decision to move until the school year started. We had found a place to live on our own, a duplex, and my brother and I were enrolled at Cutler Ridge middle school. The cultural diversity was amazing.

In Indiana I was surrounded by predominantly Caucasian people, but when I moved here there were so many different races and ethnicities that opened my eyes up to the rest of the world around me. Hearing about the different places that these people had come from caused me to honestly take a look at myself and think about where I came from.

I’ve heard many people describe Miami as a “melting pot;” however, one idea that truly resonates with me is the “salad theory,” where, rather than different people coming to Miami to become like each other, various people come to Miami and bring their own unique aspects, and for the most part, everyone still lives in harmony together.

In Miami I have found my home in different ways. I watched my brother blossom and dwell more comfortably in the environment around him. My sister has found more opportunities than she can recount, and I have found an identity that I did not even know I was looking for at such a young age. I found people whom I honestly care about and have watched them grow into adults. My father has made his way back home again as a nurse and seems content with his life at 44. I could not have asked for a better home.

Miami is everyone’s home. Miami is a place with diverse cultures all in one area. Miami is my home and my family’s home. Miami mostly has Hispanics and people from the Caribbean but there’s a mix of everything here in Miami. I’ve lived here all of my life. I was born in Miami at Mercy Hospital, and when I got a bit older my family moved south of Miami.

My family from my mom’s side is from Honduras, while from my dad’s side they’re from Puerto Rico. I grew up in a Hispanic home, so most of the time everyone is speaking Spanish, Cuban coffee is always being made, and always we have rice and beans with chicken or any other type of meats. My family is the typical Hispanic family, but no one was born and raised here expect for my brother and me.

My mom was born in Honduras and raised there until she was 5 years old. Her mom wanted to start a new and better life, so she left Honduras, and when my mom was 5 years old her mom came back for her and took her to Miami. They started their new lives here in Miami. My mom would always say how when she came into this country that it was completely different. She said that coming to Miami wasn’t that hard, except for the language barrier. Most of the people here in Miami speak Spanish and English, so imagine coming from another country and only knowing one language. It was difficult for her to learn English because everyone was speaking Spanish most of the time, but she learned, and she speaks fluently.

My mother always tells me how happy she was about the decision her mother made to move to Miami. It doesn’t matter where you’re from, Miami makes you feel welcomed. For me, growing up was difficult because I was learning both languages at the same time. I had to learn how to speak, read, and write in English and Spanish. By the time I was in the first or second grade I knew both languages fluently. Adapting in Miami isn’t so hard because you can find people from the same culture, which means you feel more comfortable, but you still get a bit homesick.

Miami became my mom’s home and everyone else in my family. As I was growing up a lot of my family started to move to Miami to be closer to the rest of the family. My aunt from my mom’s side used to live in Honduras, but she moved here to Miami. My aunt left her kids in Honduras, but she did the same thing as her sister, and brought her kids into this country later.

By the time I was 9 years old my cousins were living here in Miami. They went through the same thing my mom went through when she came into this country. They had to learn English, which was hard for them, but they did it. Later on, after my cousins learned the language, they wanted to get their citizenship. They had to study everything from writing to reading and then history. After they passed and got their citizenship, my aunt wanted to get her citizenship, and by the end of the year she was also a citizen.

My family got very comfortable with Miami and it had a good effect on them. My family is very happy here where we are part of a bigger family with different backgrounds and cultures. You get welcomed everywhere you go. Everyone is so accepting and diverse, and you can be who you want to be. That’s why people feel so comfortable here in Miami.

This picture is an artifact and represents my family, the Parrilla family. In this photo it is New Year’s and we had a family get-together. The meaning in the picture is that no matter how far we live from each other we are still a family.

My family is a happy, crazy, funny family. They brought their own culture to Miami because there aren’t that many Hondurans down here. The Honduran restaurants, especially, are very limited and rare. My family makes Honduran food and sells it to different types of people who are interested in tasting it. Now, most of the family lives in Miami and the Honduran culture is getting noticeable. The picture represents my family’s happiness and how close we are and how much we love each other, no matter what.

“El Capitan,” a reliable, sturdy rod crafted by experts that has served my father and his father for years now. It has brought in fish, some worthy of taking a picture with, and some that should not even be mentioned. Something my father cherished, and something I now cherish.

Miami, Florida, a city and state that I have come to adore over the years of living here. Aside from the amazing fishing in the Florida Keys, the Hispanic-cultured restaurants, and thrilling theme parks, my parents have brought their own mix of culture to Miami. The Cuban and Colombian culture is nothing new to South Florida, but being able to pass it down to my siblings and me is a blessing from my parents.

Something my dad has invited to my life that I enjoy very much is the sport of fishing. Fishing is indeed a sport, but to my parents and me it is more than that. It is something you do to forget about work, school, or anything that causes stress. I recall being a young boy, somewhere around 3 or 4 years old, when my father brought me to a beach, and with his fishing rod he would patiently wait to hook a fish. Then he would hand me the rod in hopes that I would get hooked on fishing. I did.

My mother was not always a fan of fishing, however. She would get upset at my father for going fishing with her brother until 5 a.m. and leaving her at home with my brother and sister, who were still toddlers. (I was nonexistent then.) But one day my father convinced my mother to go with him. They left my siblings with her sister, and ever since that first night of fishing my father said she became addicted to it – the thrill of feeling the fishing rod throb, the fear of losing a big fish, and the funny jokes and conversations one has on the bridges or boat.

My parents find it strange how out of their three kids I was the only one who showed interest in the outdoors and outdoor hobbies. My father has taught me all kinds of tactics and methods to be an amazing fisherman, even the types of knots to do in order to compensate for weather conditions, type of fishing, and species type.

My father is passing two things down to me to keep not only his legacy but the items’ legacies alive: a yoyo and “El Capitan.” The yoyo is basically a very large ring that is wrapped with fishing line and used as an alternative fishing rod. This yoyo has been used by his father, and his father’s father and so on, making its way from Cuba and Santo Domingo to South Florida.

The second item, “El Capitan,” did not make it from Cuba but from a flea market in the Florida Keys, a little way from Islamorada. It is not about where it was purchased, but the fights I and my ancestors saw that rod and reel go through. From snapper of all kinds to grouper as long as 40-plus inches to even a 500 lb. bull shark 20 miles off Cuba. That bull shark is a man eater that no doubt can easily tip a Cuban raft and feast upon the voyagers. El Capitan has been used on so many bridges that the butt of the rod has worn down into an angle, perfectly aligned with most bridges’ guard rails. And that is only what I have seen.

The yoyo that was mentioned is actually a quite interesting piece. When my grandfather visited from Cuba he chose the yoyo instead of a modern-day fishing rod and reel. Turns out my father was serious when he told me his dad does better with a yoyo than a reel and rod because he caught more fish than my father, mother and I. The yoyo is unique because of the method used to cast out the line. You do a lasso motion, swinging the line, weight, hook and all over your head, while simultaneously tilting the yoyo horizontally, and then release your thumb and hope you get the distance you want. That was the case for me, at least on my first few attempts. The largest fish I witnessed the yoyo catch was a little over 20-inch mutton snapper.

Aside from the outstanding stories that can be shared from these two pieces, the fact that they relate to something that plays a big role in my life, like fishing, allows me to keep my sanity. These two pieces hold a lot of sentimental value to not only my father and my grandfathers, but to me, too.

My mother has made Miami home by cooking her country’s dishes. Something I look forward to every time her parents visit from Colombia is the food. They make sure to bring all kinds of sweets and foods that do not make it out to the United States. The best combination is to go fishing with my family in the Florida Keys while bringing our culture and ethics from Cuba and Colombia at the same time. Making Miami home.

I was born in Montreal, Canada, on June 16, 1969.

My father is English and my mother is Venezuelan, and they ended up in Canada. I lived in Montreal until I was 7 and then we lived in the U.K., Tampa and Colombia until I settled in Miami in 1990.

I came in January of 1990 to stay with my aunt here whom I’ve always been close with. I got a restaurant job a couple of weeks later. When I moved here I made the commitment to pursue music for 10 years.

My aunt lived in the Fontainebleau area, in this big, ugly, apartment complex thingy she had just moved into. There was a utility closet, and that was my room. I had a bedroll, my stereo, turntable, and a guitar, and I sat in there and did my thing for a year.

I found the local record spots. There was one on 97th Avenue, a place called White Rabbit where I got some Frank Zappa records. On Bird Road there’s Yardbird Records. They had blues, jazz, funk, African, Latin, all kinds of stuff. I just kept feeding my taste, and at that point I was all over the map.

I would buy stuff, put it on the turntable, and learn as much as I could. Then, I went to school/hung out at Miami-Dade College to learn and get the information, but I never took a test, never turned in a paper.

I would go, hang, and observe what I could, and certain teachers there I liked. I got some music theory, some classical guitar, and some jazz theory, just to be able to communicate. I could see and understand chords, but I wanted to know bonehead, basic music theory. After that I went off on my own and did what I could. That was my first year in Miami.

Then I met this guy at the T.G.I. Fridays where I worked in the Miami International Mall. This busboy was a Haitian guy named Max Selesteen, and he found out I played guitar, so he wanted to get together and play. I started going over to his place and we got together once a week for a while.

I got really into his playing style, and I found some Haitian records that I started checking out. I already had a conception and familiarity with Haiti from when my family lived there in the 1950s. My mom always told me good things about Haiti, and I was curious about the music.

After playing with him and listening to Haitian and voodoo records, I started thinking, “Is there a music with some combination of guitars and these voodoo drums? “

Then I walked into this venue on South Beach called Stephen Talkhouse. There was a band playing on stage, and they were doing just what I was fantasizing about. They had the voodoo drums, and other instruments, and it was really cool.

I was looking at it, and standing next to some Haitian guys there. And they asked me, “Do you play?” I said yes, and they asked me to play a gig with them two weeks later at the Marlon Hotel. It was totally wild.

Eventually I started my own band in ’93 or ’94 and called it Spam All-Stars. I’ve been working in the Miami music scene ever since. We recorded, toured and eventually got a Latin Grammy nomination. I saved money for the first time in my life, so I was able to put it down on my house here.

Now I make part of my living from playing in the band and I make a little money from being a DJ. We’ve basically kept it pretty steady for almost 10 years. I make about the same amount of money every year, and keep doing what I like to do. The venues come and go. At this point we’ve outlasted every single venue with the exception of Churchill’s.

I had to have a name to DJ. I already had Spam All-Stars, and at that time (late ‘90s and early 2000s) there were a lot of French house DJs in Miami. I was just being goofy and called myself “le spam.”

Miami’s made of many, many sounds, and it always has been. There’s always going to be a million different intersections of things going on at any given time.

To me, I see every band as having its own unique mythology and texture. I think people look at our band scene here in Miami, and it’s fractured. Miami has had for many years a big experimental, outside music scene, and it goes way back. I think it’s almost a reaction to how slick music comes out of Miami.

Disco came from here. Then in 1980s it was the Miami Sound Machine, and these kind of bands that were creating a slick sound. Now the music we’re mostly known for is Pitbull and Rick Ross, and it’s slick.

But if you don’t really dig deep into the Miami scene you would never know that it’s there. It’s always been, since the ‘70s, a dance music town.

We’re in a real tropical environment and we’re in a place that’s very transient, very new – a place that’s not dwelling on the past very much, for good or bad. This creates a certain amount of energy in the people who live here. If I lived in another place, the music that I make would be totally different because you’re feeding off of everything around you when you create.

I think we have a deep genetic pool for creativity here, and we are all bouncing off of each other with this stuff. This goes for all the artists that I’ve worked with – whether in visual arts, choreography or theater. Each person is what makes Miami. I’m happy to be a part of it in some way.