Hialeah, 33012

West 13th Avenue, Hialeah, Florida, 33012.

My family moved to a house on that street in 1960; it remained our family home until 1999. While on 13th Avenue, I went from first grade through college. In that microcosim between 58th and 60 Street, I learned to read, listen to music, play with others and share. I found my "voice" and "tested" my material. There were happy times, mini-dramas and acts of kindness. It was our "small town" and we all shared the sense of community.

On the street we helped each other through hurricanes, kept an eye out for each other, played cops and robbers or cowboys and indians, we celebrated holidays with each other and went Trick-o-Treating together as we ventured off our turf. We were connected by the events of our youth; and we bring those connections into adulthood.

At the end of the block was Sparks Park. Most of us had our first kiss stolen in the playground there. In our pre-teen years there were dances every Friday night; with live music. I'm not sure those bands were any good, but we did treat them like rock stars; screaming for them the way we saw the girls scream for the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show.

Sparks Park was also the voting poll in the neighborhood and both my parents worked every election. I remember one election that the lines wrapped around the park and continued like that most of the day. It was the presidential election of 1968. I went down to the polls to find my parents when I got home from Palm Springs Jr. High (there were no middle shools then). I regretted that curiosity when I was sent home to make 30 sandwiches and iced tea for the poll workers. People in line waiting to vote thought I was selling the sandwiches to those in line.

The house on West 13th Avenue played host to many a family gathering, block rosaries, summertime cook outs, the parent's club meetings and cocktail parties and of course a number of my teenage parties. Not all the neighbors were pleased with the turn out to my high school parties. I remember one gathering that upon the "witching hour" that everyone was sent home, my father handed me a trash bag and a flashlight and sent me back outside. "I believe," he said, "you will find a number of empty cans and other trash around the yard. I do not wish the neighborhood to wake up to that sight." I dutifully patroled the perimeter of the house picking up trash and wondering not only how it got there, but what exactly was going on outside? It was passages of youth.

As much as I wanted to get out of Hialeah, in my mind I often find myself back there; in flip flops in the Florida sun, making spirit dolls with my friends and getting ready to return to the first day of school. It is now two generations beyond us that are starting school. I hope they enjoy the same innocence and make those sacred memories that we shared.

Peace out.