-
14 | Wake Up and Live
- University of New Hampshire Press
- Chapter
- Additional Information
Wake Up and Live F rom Miami, Jim, who knows Florida very well and goes there alone each year to recharge his batteries and give his New England skin a needed sunlight therapy, headed south into the Keys, and we went into Little Haiti after saying good-bye in Miami. In the nearly two weeks it took us to organize south of Tampa, through Fort Myers, across Alligator Alley, and around to Miami, Blue had been doing what she said she would do. In Miami, following our Internet postings, she found us. She had completed the mural and now had the money to feel like the adult she had lately become. Jim got to meet her before he left. He had distrusted her until he finally met her and hugged her. “Ah, darlin’,” he said, “you stink!” She had driven the eight hundred miles from Asheville straight through in an old car that would be useful for volunteers to use ahead of us. She laughed, and they were now instant friends. “Wonderful!” he whispered to me. It never takes him long to size someone up, and he always gets it right. After Jim left, Dennis thought we should have a cocktail in South Beach to celebrate Blue’s return and to stiffen ourselves for Little Haiti. We certainly did. Little Haiti is not a slum, but is a hard place compared with South Beach—though more joyful. We could smell its Caribbean restaurants and hear its music as we drove in, the rich white sand of South Beach still sparkling on our tires. Brightly painted buildings, Creole kitchens, beauty salons, music stores, and car repair shops are strung along the main streets of Little Haiti. Behind the commercial streets are little homes and two-story housing projects. The broadcast from the Creole-language radio station blares from screened doorways and from passing cars. The office of the Haitian American Society stands at the heart of the community. We cruised, attracting suspicious glances from the hundreds of people walking along the streets and hanging out on corners. It is odd 14 124 granny d’s american century to come into a new community without much of a plan, knowing we will get many of these people to vote, knowing we will leave with many new friends, but not yet imagining how we will do it. “We are samurai” and “trust the force” were Dennis’s only explanations for it. Blue would correct him: “Ninjas.” We found a cheap motel and settled in for the night. Before I turned in, I looked out the window and saw Dennis reading in the vehicle. There were still people walking on the sidewalks, some obviously plying their trades. We were a long way from home, and it was one of those moments when you wonder what you are doing there. It just seems silly and a little pathetic sometimes. The usual morning would see Dennis knocking at the motel room door with coffee and muffins. Blue would still be asleep, cuddled like a cat in her bed and unready for light or humans; I would be bent over a book, or a sheaf of news articles that had come off the printer in the vehicle, or a speech draft for down the road. I would have my hearing aids still on the night table. As I always seemed to have my back to the door for better reading light from the window, there was nothing I could do to avoid being completely startled by Dennis. After that big morning jump, we would laugh, and I would go scurry for my hearing aids so we could talk about the plan for the day. Getting Blue up would be the first big project, especially that first morning after she had driven so far to come back to us. We found the big Catholic church and introduced ourselves to the pastor, a Father Dabus, pronounced “Daboo,” who was a quiet Haitian man of great dignity. Our inquiries to patrons at a coffee shop had identified him as the man to meet. He listened with suspicion and eventually warmed to us, but he voiced his concern: “People had a bad time voting here last time,” he told us. Indeed, stories of voter intimidation had been following us all over Florida. He told of police arrests in polling places and soldiers posted to keep people in the housing projects. “I will call Jimmy Carter and ask him to send poll...