Miami jarred me. For the first time in my life, I felt like a minority. And I loved it.
In Brooklyn and certain parts of Philadelphia–my most memorable experiences outside the bounds of middle class, white culture–I had no problem speaking English with the people that live there.
The fact of my whiteness in a sea of non-whiteness was easy to contextualize at those times. They were temporary excursions from my normal life into another place and culture, a protrusion from the bubble that bounds my ordinary pale-skinned life, a tendril that would soon snap back into place as I returned to Lancaster or Wyomissing.
Those experiences didn’t force me to confront the ethnic diversity of the world.
But here I was in Miami, one of America’s most populous cities, staying for a few nights, trying to go about the normal activities of a socially functioning human, and I couldn’t guarantee transmission of meaning in English.
White persons were scarce. The most I saw, besides Melissa and myself, were in Key Largo, and they were all French or German. We turned heads almost everywhere we went in and around the Magic City; shoppers didn’t expect to see our kind of folk at that particular Publix grocery store, on that particular street, in that particular area of town.
Probably, at least, they weren’t gawking at a twenty-something heterosexual couple, dressed plainly, with no visible tattoos or piercings.
That’s not to say I felt awkward or out of place. The surprise at my presence I sensed in the Hispanic locals seemed like amusement rather than indignation.
For example, at Mekatos Bakery, where we ordered empanadas and guava dulces, the women working there spoke less English than I speak Spanish. I fumbled my way through the conversation and received a “Muy bueno, chico” as a reward for my linguistic efforts.
But there’s also a darker side to the lessons I learned during my brief time as a white person in Miami.
I can begin to see, with the blurriest of detail, how unnerving it must be for a non-white person to meet swiveling heads and flickering glances when they go about their business in white society. For these people, being a minority is not “fun.” This idea has become less of an abstraction for me.
These reflections throw my ignorance into stark relief. For one thing, it’s appalling that I haven’t been exposed to a wide variety of places and cultures. Also, I’m sure constructive critics, those who are more familiar with the nuances of such a sensitive subject, will be able to pick out my implicit biases and glaring oversights easily.
But those are reasons I’m taking this trip. So thank you, Miami, for bringing me one step farther out of my shell.