Now, here's a story I've always wanted to tell. I've just
been putting it off. The summer after my senior year, I worked in a plastic
factory in Hialeah. For those of you who aren't familiar with greater
Miami-Dade County, Hialeah is a labyrinth of churro stands, Cuban cafes with
perfect ropa vieja, and industrial
facilities due west of the city, adjacent to Everglades. It is the border of
the South Floridian frontier, US-27, where people end and animals begin; far
away from Mansion Nightclub and the American Airlines Arena. Miles and miles away,
but still within city limits.
I wake up in Broward, due north. My eyes flick about to
Little League trophies and baseball caps, a map of the United States, and an
old Mike Piazza bobblehead. My bathroom is nautical-themed, with whitewashed
plywood on the walls. My toothpaste lies in a little rowboat that my mommy both
from Ross. A cup of French Roast coffee waits for me in a kitchen with
faux-cherry cabinets, and faux-granite countertops. I shake off the eeriness and
slip into an abused pair of sneakers, tying the laces in a double knot.
When I’m quite convinced that I’m far enough south to be
past the exits where my any family friends or neighbors might be making their
commute, I light a Newport. The language on the billboards begins a slow shift.
“Se habla Español… llama ahora.” I exit onto Okeechobee Road and can see the
fringes of factory rooftops before a swamp on the horizon.
This part of my typical morning was the tipping point, between
my Atonist life and a Jes Grew, latinocentric, alter ego. I turned into a
different person, an Alice entering into the fog of heavy industry. Plastic
fumes, smoke inhalation, grease dripping off of “dos McChickens.”
(Mumbo Jumbo, with undertones of Heart of Darkness)
http://hotdoghysteria.blogspot.com/2012_09_01_archive.html
