a few months after i arrived, a friend
​messaged me to ask how it is here.
i texted back this photo.

i arrived shortly before the 2016 presidential election.
not long after that, another friend messaged me
​and here's how that went.

.​April 11, 2017
​
a last minute screening of this documentary
about Nobel Laureate, Derek Walcott. 

programmed by O, Miami as part of poetry month
i saw it outside at O Cinema Wynwood



geckos crawled over the same wall that the images moved across, their shapes and shadows becoming part of the projection. this is when it finally dawned on me: this place is not quite part of the americas and not quite part of the archipelagos in their midst. not quite the continent, and not quite the caribbean, this place is more an island, a place alone and adrift.


it's a huge realization and necessary shift

midway in the film, we see Wolcott at his home in Saint Lucia as he reads Love After Love. i’ve been to Saint Lucia, swimming by the pitons we see in the background as Wolcott reads his masterpiece. and in that moment, there somewhere between miami and the antilles, i was shattered in the best way possible.

​                                        Love After Love
The time will come 
when, with elation 
you will greet yourself arriving 
at your own door, in your own mirror 
and each will smile at the other's welcome, 

and say, sit here. Eat. 
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart 
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you 

all your life, whom you ignored 
for another, who knows you by heart. 
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, 

the photographs, the desperate notes, 
peel your own image from the mirror. 
Sit. Feast on your life. 

i was downtown in summer, wearing a new wide-brimmed hat to shade me from the beating heat of the sun. i'd just been to an exhibition at History Miami
and was heading to la casa de las viejas, my favourite shop in town.

walking east from the museum on my way to the notions emporium, i passed a man on the sidewalk who was approaching  from the opposite direction. as we crossed paths, he yelled at me: ku klux klan cracker bitchI 

it was jarring, and i was afraid. i kept my head down, somewhat hiding under my brim, careful not to make eye contact. he continued shouting as he walked away down the street. i recognized the mental illness, wondering if my father ever yelled at people on the street,  and i felt for this man. but i didn't turn around. like all other encounters here, i'm fearful of guns and violence suddenly taking over.

i thought a lot about it. of course i've never been called that before, never having lived anywhere with this particular strain of history baked into the place. the exhibition i'd just visited was about the aftermath of hurricane andrew, about the city a flattened devastation in its wake.

my encounter outside is part of  another form of flattening. another devastation. though this one not yet really addressed.

July 1, 2017
Canada Day
North Miami

At 18h tonight "open enrollment" closes. That means that if I don't take the time to "re-enroll" I have no "healthcare" next year. (I call it for-profit medical insurance.)

I took time out of a frantic schedule to try to understand the "options" before committing to anything, before "deciding" which plan and carrier to "choose". I clicked on links, I tried to see which doctors are part of which networks. When I opened a PDF that was supposed to breakdown terms, DRAFT was imprinted in watermark on each page and in several places were the words "enter link here" in bold yellow. This document wasn't final.
So, trying to remain calm, I picked something. Who knows what it really is.

When I finished, I looked over at my colleague, and said:
          Do you know how I got healthcare in Canada? 
          How? she asked.
          I was born, I said.