I’ve lived in Miami most of my life (though I drank away about nine months in Orlando once). My feelings about Miami have always been as erratic as our weather. But having just come back from what I’ll call “not-Miami,” I’m here to tell you: Miami is not a kind place. And we? We are not a kind people. We aren’t the America that America wanted to be. It’s like we’ve been cut off from the rest of the country. County Line Road might as well be a dotted border.
This isn’t a trash-Miami piece, mind you. That’d be too easy. But if we’re talking about kindness, try changing lanes on I-95. As soon as your blinker’s on, cars speed up to box you out. That’s why we don’t use turn signals, right? Now try changing lanes in a small town. It’s like the world pauses just for you. That kind of courtesy? That’s the America America wanted to be.
Miami had its shot. We could’ve been that America. But we sold our elbow room to the highest bidder. Now it’s a tight squeeze. Unoccupied buildings birthing more unoccupied buildings. Mid-century homes, the ones that gave Miami its look and soul, get bulldozed for another glass box with no character. Meanwhile, in the America I just visited, people preserve the old homes, the history, the human scale.
Of course, Miami’s not the only city going through these anti-American mutations. And no, this isn’t about politics. It’s about a way of living. A way of seeing. A way of remembering. One that’s slowly slipping away. In small towns, the only “new” is a McDonald’s, and even that feels like a sore thumb on a hillside moose.
Maybe keeping things small is American. This whole “go big or go home” thing? That’s what pushed us from the good ol’ days to just trying to get through the day. Walking around Black Mountain, North Carolina, it felt like I was living an original life. Back home, it feels like a constant remake. And wasn’t originality supposed to be the American dream? These days, we’ve got more destroyers, sorry, developers, than preservers.
It’s been a bit of a culture shock here in Black Mountain. A side of America I’ve never experienced. Miami, and I know this is low-hanging fruit, not unlike a sun-ripened avocado, is more Latin America than “America”-America. And hey, I married a Chilean. I wanted a little Latin in my America. But being here has lifted the palm tree–themed veil and shown me a less humid, more human way of living.
