You know those nightmares where you open your mouth to ask for help, but nothing comes out? And when you finally call out, no one responds? That’s how it felt when my family and I first moved to Miami Beach 18 years ago.
The move started out well.
My husband was offered a position as chief radiologist of the emergency department at a large, Miami-based hospital system, so we sold our Detroit home, packed up our car, four kids, two birds and Bilbo Baggins, the guinea pig, and began our three-day trek to Miami Beach.
The causeway from Miami to Miami Beach was stunning. No matter how many times I cross it, it takes my breath away. The sun shone and the palm trees waved. We were excited and ready to begin our new lives.
Then, we stopped for directions.
Finding someone on the street who could speak English well enough to direct us to our new home suddenly became a huge challenge. Spanish is the dominant language in the Miami area. It took several tries until we found someone who not only understood our questions, but could reply with a response we understood. Prior to this, I lived in Chicago, Pittsburgh and Detroit. I never lived in a multilingual community. Now, I was an English-speaking, American-born citizen who couldn’t find my way home.
The Latin culture dominated everything. Miami papers routinely bumped critical American news off their front pages for updates about Castro. Different attitudes toward appointment times caused long waits to see doctors. Repair workers didn’t always show up, and many who did often came late and didn’t understand what I needed.
We arrived just as the famed Elián González fiasco was kicking into high gear. He was the 7 year old whose mother drowned while transporting him in a raft from Cuba to Florida. A tense custody battle ensued between his American relatives who wanted him to remain and his father who was still in Cuba. A few blocks from our home, dozens of television vans crisscrossed heavy cables to broadcast footage of negotiations between Elian’s American and Cuban families that were being held at the home of Sister Jeanne O'Laughlin. This was a media circus unlike anything we had ever seen before.
Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.
The lowest point came when my 16-year-old daughter couldn’t get an after- school job because she wasn’t bilingual.
But then things changed.
I began to communicate with those around me. A shared smile with a neighbor in a store parking lot gradually grew into even friendlier encounters each time we saw each other. I began to recognize more Spanish words. Perhaps that was my high school French kicking in. I started to appreciate the Latin culture, which is quite amazing ― the cuisine, high octane Cuban coffee, love for family, art, music and fashion, and more. I even found that, after returning from a trip, I looked forward to hearing Spanish being spoken in the airport as a sign that I was home.
Living here helped me hone a skill that Americans have long cherished since the founding of our nation – our ability to embrace newcomers. Despite a hurricane here and there, we do live in paradise. I still have monstrously long waits in doctors’ offices, so I bring a book. And my ear for languages continues to improve every day.
“Welcome to Miami, benvenuto a Miami!”
Janis Roszler is a therapist who specializes in diabetes-related sexual and relationship issues. Her blog articles and books can help transform your intimate life. Have diabetes? Learn how you can reconnect sexually with the one you love. Read Janis’ books, including Sex and Diabetes: For Him and For Her and follow her on Twitter.