Only in Miami Stories from The Miami Creation Myth

I made it, everyone! The Dirty Thirty. The Double Quinceañera. 30,000 pounds of trash.

Even when injured, dehydrated, moments from heat stroke, one wish kept me from collapsing into the mud forever: selling shirts to papi chulos.

“I’m the Secretary of State!” yelled a short, tubby man with a Miami accent. He shook his bars as the dozen other people in his cell grinned.

A comprehensive guide of the many types of Miami bros one is liable to encounter in da clurb.

Two years ago, when I self-published a silly little book titled The Miami Creation Myth, I set the goal of selling 1,000 copies.

Many elements contributed to Cuban Americans’ recent rightward shift but I want to focus on two particularly salient factors: trauma and anger.

Let’s embark on a tour of some of Miami’s most gentrified neighborhoods that’ll serve as your next post’s perfect prop.

I and many of my fellow Miamians could be left unmoored—culturally adrift, unable to find purchase in our long-lost motherland or newfound home.

How do I proceed as a satirist and champion of Miami when well more than half the county fundamentally and sometimes violently disagrees with me?

I do my work because of its intrinsic pain, anger, frustration, and cathartic release. I do it for the mangroves, but I also do it for myself.