Category: Miami Stories

I was born at Victoria Hospital in Miami, which is still there.

When I was a kid in the 1930s we didn’t wear shoes, no matter how hot the streets were. I think the bottoms of our feet turned into something else. We would race from one patch of grass to the next. We couldn’t afford to wear shoes because nobody had any money.

My family was living in an apartment in downtown Miami when the great hurricane of 1926 struck. After that my father decided we needed a house and bought one in what is now Little Havana.

My bedroom was in the back of the house and under my windows my father made a beautiful pool and put in koi fish so I could look out and see something pretty. And then, when he saw I was making friends in high school, he made a barbecue out in the back so I could have friends over.

My father had a jewelry store in downtown Miami in the Capital building. We had a fox terrier that would walk from our house in Little Havana all the way to my father’s store downtown. It would cross the bridge and everything. We had no idea that little dog could take that walk all the way downtown until he was sitting by the door waiting for somebody to let him in.

During World War II my father kept two things: a gun and land he had in Tampa. I knew if something happened in Miami he would be putting us in his car and heading for Tampa. And I was really frightened because I think he would have killed us all before he’d let them take us. We were Jewish and the Nazis wanted to get rid of all the Jews in the whole world. Luckily nothing like what had happened in Europe ever made its way to Miami.

For fun we used to go watch movies or go to Bayfront Park to watch the boats come in. The Orange Bowl was right by my house. Celebrities came in all the time. All the kids in the neighborhood would stand there looking pitiful and they would let you in.

We saw some very important people and movie stars. I remember going to see Sonja Henie ice skate there once. I went with my brother, but he didn’t stay with me to make sure that I got in and I was left behind there alone at night. I went home crying all the way and my brother was in deep trouble.

I loved my neighborhood. And it was near a good school, Citrus Grove. I just loved it there. The teachers would use me as a second teacher in the room. In the second grade I used to read to the class when the teacher had to go to the bathroom.

I had been called names by some of the kids, but the teachers made it clear that they loved me. They would also buy groceries for the children who couldn’t afford food. It made all the difference for me. So I wanted to be an elementary school teacher when I grew up, and I was.

I went to high school at Miami High and then went to Florida State, which was an all-girls school then. The men had to come up from Gainesville to date us.

I was later pushed into a marriage. The only good thing about it was my two children. I got divorced from my husband in the early 1970s.

When Norman, a man I dated in college who became an attorney, found out about my divorce, he contacted me, we dated and got married. He was a second father to my children and we were married for 35 years until he died five years ago.

I got my master’s back home at the University of Miami. They didn’t have many buildings back then and they were all wooden. And it was so hot because there was no air conditioning.

My first teaching job was at St. Thomas Episcopal, where I was treated like family, despite my being of another faith.

But they paid next to nothing, so I finally decided if I was going to be a teacher I might as well be in the public school system. I went to Whispering Pines in Cutler Ridge. I was there for about 25 years, from the 1960s into the ’80s. Then a friend of mine asked me to teach with her at Avocado Elementary School in Homestead.

I loved teaching. We had the children who really wanted to learn and I always thought teaching was fun.

I was also teaching children who didn’t speak English and were learning the language. I taught the children in my class to be helpful to these new children. I never had a problem with it because the kids liked each other and they were proud to teach and learn from each other.

The school system changed so much throughout my time as a teacher. They never thought you had to do anything different for a child who had a really high IQ.

A lot of the children that I got would be labeled as “rowdy” and “lazy.” The truth was they were bored to death. So when they sent them to me they thought they’d been dropped into heaven because I realized they needed to be challenged.

My oldest teaching partner was Allie the alligator.

It was my daughter’s puppet that I brought into class one day to play with the kids. He suddenly became very important to my lesson plan. I think children learn a little bit more when they’re also having fun. Also, an alligator is something they’re likely to see outside of the classroom.

So that connects them, in a way, to where they are, Miami, Florida. The place that’s given me everything.

Saturday at 4:30 a.m. If you don’t have trouble getting up, you’re probably a runner. Weekdays are fun runs, under four miles. Saturdays are exciting. Saturdays are long runs! Toe socks, water belt, jelly beans, light clip — it is with a respectful sense of ceremony that I put on my running shoes. I step outside and feel the palm trees smiling at me in the dark. I am ready to conquer the city. My city. Miami.

About five-and-a-half million people call Miami home. And it’s easy to feel at home, whether you are into salsa, jazz, tennis, vintage biking, sushi or pho. Many of us grew up somewhere else — for me it was Guayaquil, Ecuador — and we dreamed of a Miami vacation. Fate was good to us; vacation is only a half-hour from our beds.

#MyMiami is quiet and peaceful. #MyMiami whispers to me on Saturday mornings: “Be the first one to see the new day Cynthia, and nail those miles. You can do this girl!”

The stretching begins at 5:15. Then the different pace groups set off, the fastest first. We head east on Sunset Drive. The trees send us a dark embrace. The sidewalk is uneven, studded with roots. Still, we fight our urge to ignore our pace, for we know very well we need to save energy for the last mile.

We turn left onto beautiful, moon-bathed Maynada Street, which gifts us with a wide, smooth concrete sidewalk. Runner’s paradise. Past the little bridge over the canal, we turn right at the traffic circle onto Hardee Road.

We stop at the water station at Coco Plum Circle. The two-mile warming is done. After the Circle, the run will get real. We all take pictures and encourage one another while the group is still together (we will split around mile 7). It’s still dark. The palm trees, tall and beautiful, smile approvingly at us, next to yachts and houses with guest quarters.

“OK, guys, let’s do this!” says Betty, our pace leader. “Enjoy!” says one of the bikers. “We will!” we respond. The biker means it. We mean it too. Complete exhaustion is such joy.

We go onto Edgewater Drive and hit the Mile 3 mark before turning onto Douglas Road.

We turn onto Douglas Road, past Vanguard School onto Main Highway. There is no sidewalk; the road is narrow and the traffic is heavier. Main Highway is long and dark and curvy. We know every curve, especially the last one, for after that, CocoWalk.

CocoWalk is best when empty. I know, we usually go to, well, walk, and see people. But there’s a certain intimacy between the empty cafes and the runners. We will see dawn in CocoWalk — but first, the towel angels!

We are almost at Mile 5 when this heavenly vision appears at St. Stephens Church: Angels with ice-cold wet towels!

People and their dogs are beginning to show up at the park in front of the marina. They greet us with, “Great job!” We continue down CocoWalk back to Main Highway. As we enter into Main Highway, we chat and giggle, and check on the ones behind. The groups will split at Mile 7.

A little bit before Douglas Road, our perspectives begin to change. We need to focus more, we need to lift up our knees more, we need to want it more. Somewhere down Douglas Road, the groups are regrouped because our paces need to be adjusted.

Motivation comes from all sources. More people, more dogs, more bikes, more cars. Each step is a thought process now, the running technique needs to be applied according to your strife. They may say it becomes natural, but I still have to think about it past Mile 7. On the way to Coco Walk, I see every house, every balcony, every garden; but on the way back I need to concentrate on my steps. “Knees up, land flat on your feet, knees up, land flat on your feet.”

My grandma used to say: “If life overwhelms you, try wearing a pair of shoes one size too small for a day.” Same concept with running. Mile 9 is the point where you let go of your heartbreaks and conflicts, for at this point nothing hurts more than every muscle of your body. You find strength in your pain. Lift up your knees.

Maynada Street. One more mile. The last mile is the toughest mile. Everything is possible if you believe.

Sunset Drive. It is a mental fight now. Your legs will do what your mind commands. Your heart will obey your will. Sunset Place is two blocks away. No stopping until we reach the traffic light across from Barnes & Noble. There is life in the cafes of SoMi. We clap and high-five each other. Our self-esteem is up in the clouds, and Miami, as always, is at our feet.

I was born in Cuba. My name “Karelia” has an interesting background. The name is not of Hispanic origin but Russian. There is a region known as the Russian Republic of Karelia, and “Karelia Suite, Op. 11,” was written by Jean Sibelius in 1893.

My family immigrated to the United States when I was 5 years old. We arrived as refugees at the historic Freedom Tower in Miami and were welcomed with food and clothes. We stayed with relatives in Miami until we settled in New York. I was 13 when we moved to Fort Lauderdale, where I graduated from Westminster Academy. After high school, my family moved once again, this time to a 1940s Art Deco gem on De Soto Boulevard in Coral Gables. It was designated historic in the early 2000s. I have lived in Coral Gables ever since — drawn to the panoply of distinct architecture in this city founded by George Merrick 90 years ago.

In 1980, shortly before my family’s move to Coral Gables, I met my future husband, Marino, in Fort Lauderdale at the legendary but now defunct Pete & Lenny’s club. It was at the height of disco fever and Marino was a dancer in a disco contest.

Three years later, on May 29, 1983, we traveled from Coral Gables to New York City for our wedding ceremony at the historic St. Patrick’s Cathedral. On our return to Coral Gables as newlyweds, we rented a quaint coral rock home on Columbus Boulevard. Our son, Brenden Marino, was born there in 1985. In 1986, we bought our first and only home — an Old Spanish beauty with good bones, large French windows, cathedral ceiling, pinewood floors, pecky cypress ceiling in the sitting room, and a coral rock fireplace. The outside facade was painted pink and embellished with tall pines that stood as decorative statuettes. That year, the city of Coral Gables recognized our home with a beautification award.

We have been happily married for 34 years — happily living in Coral Gables.

My husband also came to this country from Cuba as a young boy. Today, no longer a disco dancer, he is a private practitioner, a licensed and certified psychotherapist. His credentials include a doctorate in child and youth studies from Nova Southeastern University’s Fischler Graduate School of Education.

We are proud parents of a handsome son who is “an officer and a gentleman” and the pride of the family. Brenden grew up in Coral Gables attending St. Philip’s Episcopal School and Ransom Everglades School. He majored in ethics, politics, and economics at Yale University and continued his studies at the University of Pennsylvania School of Law. Upon his passing the New York bar, Brenden decided to serve his country as a commissioned U.S. Air Force JAG (judge advocate general).

As for me, I hold a doctorate in public administration with a concentration on nonprofit management from Nova Southeastern University.

For me, it is an honor to have the opportunity to serve my community as a nonprofit professional. I am especially drawn to the smaller charitable organizations trying to do so much good with so little. From facilitating an organization to reach its million-dollar milestone to setting in place the tools and structure for sustainability — I am honored to offer my expertise. Many small nonprofits just need a bit of professional guidance in order to attain financial viability.

At present, I am an independent fundraising and communications consultant after many years employed in the not-for-profit independent school sector. I headed the alumni office at Ransom Everglades School and before that as development director at Carrollton School of the Sacred Heart. As a consultant, I have worked with St. Thomas Episcopal School and St. Stephen’s Episcopal Day School.

I continue to love my City Beautiful and give back as much as possible.

I call myself an “accidental preservationist.” I basically stumbled into serving on the Historic Preservation Association of Coral Gables (HPACG) board back in 2012. Lured to join the organization by long-time preservationist and founding HPACG member Ellen Uguccioni, I find myself gradually becoming more drawn to the protection of historical patrimony and an ardent protector of all things “old” here in the city of Coral Gables and beyond.

One of HPACG’s signature preservation projects has been years in the making and has required perseverance and deep dedication. Our group’s focus has been advocating the historical importance and preservation of the last remaining landmarked streetlights in Coral Gables known as the “1926 White Way Lights.” One of the barriers to the preservation project has been a convoluted contractual relationship between the city of Coral Gables and the Florida Power & Light. The barrier impedes the city in forging ahead with much-needed restoration. Hopefully, a satisfactory outcome will soon pave the way for Coral Gables and HPACG to begin restoring the remaining 45 of the 500 original streetlights.

Beside historic preservation, my other passions include art and travel. I enjoy art in all its forms — from paint to performance to everything in between. The world is our oyster, as the saying goes. As a family we have traveled to more than 30 countries to date. In 2016, my husband and I made several emotionally laden trips that included visiting our native Cuba for the first time since our childhoods; joining parishioners of the Church of Little Flower in Coral Gables on a pilgrimage to Lourdes, Normandy, Liseaux, and Paris in celebration of the church’s 90th anniversary; and traveling with Miami Archbishop Thomas Wenski to Rome for a private visit to the Vatican and an audience with Pope Francis.

Yet all roads lead back home. Our sense of place is in Coral Gables. Our historic home is our haven.

I call Little Haiti home. Though I don’t physically live there, it’s part of what I refer to as “My Miami,” and a big part of what makes this city so cool. Over the past seven years living in South Florida, I’ve had many moments reflecting on the similarities between Harlem, the place I was born and raised, and Haiti, the country where my spirit flies to every night as I dream.

Just like Harlem, Little Haiti has been viewed negatively; it’s perceived as a tough ghetto. Drugs, gang violence and abandonment have overshadowed the positive cultural contributions. But the truth is that Little Haiti is a place like any other, where people work and spend time with family and friends, fall in love, make great art. Viter Juste, known as the “Father of Little Haiti,” led the community in renaming the neighborhood, from historic Lemon City, which was one of the oldest black neighborhoods in Miami, to Little Haiti, because of the mass exodus of Haitians who settled in the area due to the political instability in Haiti in the 1970s. But this settlement of Haitians in Miami, and the subsequent renaming of the area, exacerbated the divide between Haitians, African Americans and other black Caribbean communities. Something similar happened in Harlem, too. As a kid, this divide led me to hide my identity because of the teasing and hazing most Haitians received in school. It was a tough time and easier to pass as African American than to acknowledge being Haitian.

Little Haiti was not the most attractive place for my family, the typical pseudo-Haitian bourgeoisie. They were able to achieve slight opportunity and stayed far away from Black Harlem and the Haitian community in NYC. And like most South Florida Haitians who tasted a bit of the American dream, they left Little Haiti and invested their modest earnings in other communities in Florida, such as Kendall or Broward County.

Regardless of the economic hardships and disparities and lack of government investment in Little Haiti, the people of the community, many of them so-called “boat people,” persisted despite prejudice and discrimination, and they opened businesses, bought homes, worked multiple jobs to try to get to their piece of the dream, and created one of the most culturally relevant communities in Florida.

I fell in love with Little Haiti when I screened my documentary film, “Harlem’s Mart 125: The American Dream,” at the Little Haiti Cultural Center back in 2010. It was a pretty new facility at the time, and I began to meet fascinating people. I loved to eat at Leela’s Restaurant, grab a book on Haiti at Libreri Mapou, stop by the Little Haiti Thrift Store to sift through their “made in Haiti” jewelry and get my dance on at Big Night in Little Haiti (now called Sounds of Little Haiti), a free Haitian music concert every third Friday of the month at the Cultural Complex. The center began to attract all kinds of amazing programming, and as years went by, the cultural activities began to grow. Under Sandy Dorsainvil, the former director of the Cultural Complex, and groups like NEP2, the Haitian Cultural Alliance and others, in just a matter of three years, Little Haiti became what is now one of the hottest cultural enclaves in the city of Miami.

It’s been attractive to politicians, too. In just one year, I’ve seen Hillary Clinton, Donald Trump, former mayor of NYC Rudolph Giuliani, Bernie Sanders, and a slew of other world leaders and celebrities visit the center. Little Haiti has landed on the global stage.

Just like Harlem is a Mecca for black civil liberties activists and others, Little Haiti has always been the place where activists gather to discuss and take action when politics are affecting the Haitian diaspora community. It warms my heart to meet them and help. Lately, I’ve volunteered with political activist Marleine Bastien who is working on issues dealing with the gentrification of Little Haiti. As three huge developers come into the community, just like what happened in Harlem, many residents feel like they are at a crossroads.

I plan to be there, waving my Haitian flag, on Friday when when international pop star Wyclef Jean was set to perform May 19 at The Sounds of Little Haiti fundraiser. Another event that makes me proud and hopeful is the Little Haiti Book Festival created by Jan Mapou of Sosyete Koukuy in partnership with the Miami Book Fair. It will take place on Saturday evening, May 27, and all day Sunday, May 28. Authors from Haiti and the diaspora will be in conversation (with simultaneous translation into English), there will be free books for children, workshops for writers and delicious food, music and dance — a Voudou ceremony will close out the night. I will be there too, waving my books by Haitian authors and celebrating our rich, intellectual heritage. I will also screen a film based on a novel by one of Haiti’s most important authors, Dany Laferrière.

I celebrate the courage of the people who came here for a better life, and I will work to make sure that these courageous people can stay here for decades to come, always maintaining love for their homeland of Haiti and their home, Little Haiti.

Rachelle Salnave is an Emmy-nominated filmmaker, creator of Ayiti Images Film Series and Adjunct Film Professor at Miami Dade College. Her film, La Belle Vie: The Good Life, re-airs on WPBT2, Monday, June 19th at 10 p.m. 

As a city girl from the Bronx, the only strawberries I had picked were at the corner supermarket. Oftentimes on weekend trips with my husband we would be driving through strawberry fields on the way to an Islamorada Keys getaway. Today, I live in an East Kendall townhome built on top of former farmland.

But how did I wind up in this beautiful place?

Our family had occasionally vacationed during the winter in Miami Beach. We would travel on the Orange Blossom Special train from New York. Miami was still a very small town back then and very clearly “South” not “North.” I remember asking my mother about the odd sign I saw in a supermarket water fountain on one of our trips: “Colored Water.”

My father’s respiratory issues grew worse from the brutal New York City winters, so the choice was to move to either South Florida or Arizona. Being that there weren’t too many kosher butchers or delicatessens in Phoenix, my parents chose Miami, and in October 1950 made the move south. They settled in an apartment north of Coral Gables, just in time for a late season hurricane to hit and blow the roof off the building! My parents later bought a house in Coral Gate and my brother, Seymour, went to Miami High and then on to graduate from the University of Miami. I initially stayed behind and decided to work part-time in Manhattan. However, I soon followed the family and in 1951 found myself, at 20 years old, in the Magic City.

I started working and participating in singles functions at the Coral Gables Jewish Center, and it was there that I met my first husband, Murray Levine, who was living on the Beach and had just started a concrete business with his younger brother. Our second date was in October 1951 and by December, we were married in the chapel of the beautiful Temple Emanu-El in South Beach.

While Murray was building his concrete business with his brother Sam, I raised our growing family. We built a house “way out” on Miller Road — 10 blocks west of the University of Miami. Three of my four children were born at Doctors Hospital on the university campus. There were no traffic lights in our neighborhood; it was still a quiet part of town. On the occasional cold winter morning, I’d find a sheriff’s deputy on his motorcycle sitting in our garage waiting to catch someone running the stop sign. We left our doors unlocked, and I would feel comfortable in the house leaving my baby daughter on the porch in her carriage with only our German shepherd watching over her. It was a simpler time in Southwest Dade.

As our children grew during the 1950s and ‘60s, so did the city. All of my husband’s brothers and sisters lived within a few miles of us, so we were always together with the extended family on weekends. There were picnics at Matheson Hammock, trips to the Zoo and Seaquarium on Key Biscayne, movies at the Tropicaire Drive-In, or dinner at Shorty’s on U.S. 1. The air-raid siren on top of Riviera Theatre would go off precisely at 1 p.m. on Saturdays. We could smell the bread baking across the street at the Holsum Bakery.

My parents still lived in the Gables where they were very active in Temple Zamora. Most of their brothers and sisters made the move from New York, as well, and they settled on Miami Beach. Dinners with them would be at restaurants such as the Glorified Delicatessen or The Pub in the Gables, or Junior’s Deli or Embers on the Beach. Later on, my mother would enjoy Freddie’s great onion soup at The Studio on 32nd Avenue just south of Coral Way.

When I wasn’t doing the bookkeeping for the latest company project, or volunteering at PTA or attending a Hadassah meeting, I would be carpooling one of the kids. Mondays, however, was bowling in the B’nai B’rith league at The Coliseum Lanes. Weekend trips could include a drive to Key West, a Pan Am flight to Havana or Nassau, or an Eastern flight to San Juan. On our last trip to Havana, one of the floors of our hotel had been commandeered by a young military officer named Fidel Castro.

My husband’s company, Samson Concrete, supplied much of the infrastructure of South Dade, from an initial plant on Coral Way to a second plant in Homestead. My two brothers-in-law, Barney Landers and Sidney Falk, started a building supply company called Banner Supply, initially located on Dixie Highway next to the Royal Palm Ice Company.

As my children grew up, so did Miami. Traffic lights replaced stop signs and new schools were built. Publix was closed on Sundays, and for kosher food you still had to go the local butcher. Drive-Ins became shopping centers and Tropical Park racetrack became a beautiful park with tennis courts and baseball diamonds.

I lost my husband Murray prematurely in 1968, but a few years later found a great soulmate in Emmanuel “Manny” Seitlin, whose family had even deeper roots in Miami. Manny was born and grew up in Coconut Grove. Their family home’s roof was lost in the Labor Day hurricane of 1935. He would tell me stories of watching the Pan Am seaplanes landing at Dinner Key, where Miami City Hall is now. His family founded many local businesses, including Seitlin Insurance. We were married in 1972 as the city was just about to enter its next major growth spurt.

The pace of life in southwest Miami in the 1970s started increasing along with the population. South Miami High opened up — with its “Cobra” mascot on the roof relocated from the old Serpentarium. Waves of new residents and citizens, largely from Cuba, joined our schools and neighborhoods, and arroz con pollowas added to the local menus of hamburgers and fries and lox and bagels.

By the early 1980s, my youngest son was off to college in Gainesville and the house became a little empty. But in a few years, my children would start getting married and soon the house would be filled with grandchildren and holiday parties. My daughter and sons stayed in South Florida as their careers and families grew.

In the 1990s it was time for me to downsize the original family home. I moved to Kendall where I still remain quite active in Hadassah as past president of Naomi Chapter and past advisor to the Greater Miami region. My kids have moved a bit north to Plantation and Aventura, with only my eldest son in Pinecrest. Shabbat dinners now often involve an overnight bag. I have 12 grandchildren and five great-grandchildren. Unfortunately, most of them live up north in Washington, D.C., Philadelphia, Georgia and Colorado, so I don’t see them as often as I would like. How ironic that the family is moving north — just wait for a couple more winters like 2014 and perhaps they’ll see the same thing I saw in warm, magical Miami!

My immediate family consisted of my mother, father, three brothers and two sisters. My father, Bishop Henry Curtis, came to Miami in 1910 from Port Howe, Cat Island, Bahamas. My father had been a farmer in the Bahamas. Since he had no land to farm in Miami, he used his knowledge of farming to become a gardener. He was fortunate to work for wealthy white people in Miami Beach. The pay was good. He was also a minister. My mother, Lenora Clark Curtis, was from Exuma, Bahamas. She was a maid.

My father’s employers only stayed in Miami during the winter. They required my father to live on their premises while they lived up north during the summer. I was born in Overtown in the house my parents owned at 1827 N.W. Fifth Court; my brother was born on Miami Beach at 4609 Pine Tree Dr., where my parents worked and lived in the servants’ quarters. The Bureau of Vital Statistics, however, refused to put Miami Beach on his birth certificate because he was black. Likewise, my brother and I were not allowed to live with our parents in Miami Beach. This meant that my grandmother, Melvina Clark, and her daughter, my aunt Beulah Clark, had to move to our home in Overtown so we could have adult supervision and attend Dunbar Elementary School.

My parents were proud of their Bahamian heritage and brought us up in Bahamian traditions and culture. They were not interested in becoming American citizens until they found out that they could get a tax exemption as citizens. They took citizenship classes and passed the test to become American citizens.

My father studied the United States Constitution and was quick to share his knowledge. One night when we were driving home from church on State Road 9, the police stopped us for driving with bright lights. One of the policemen ordered my father out of the car and to take off his hat. My father asked the policeman what law he was violating by keeping his hat on. Incensed by the question, the officer slapped my father, knocking his hat off! My father stooped down, picked up his hat, put it back on his head, and told the policeman, “I’m the last black man you’re ever going to slap.”

Shocked by my father’s response, the officer turned to my poor mother and persuaded her to calm my father down, but she couldn’t. The policeman said he would have to arrest my father because of his lack of respect for an officer, and they took him away, leaving us on State Road 9 not knowing how we were going to get home. My father told the officers that he knew he had the right to make one telephone call and he wanted to call his boss. Rather than going through the trouble, they brought him back to where they left us, and my father drove us home.

Our lives centered on church, school, neighborhood and family. We attended the Church of God of Prophecy on a regular basis and participated in all activities in the church including Sunday school and youth group activities. At Booker T. Washington High School, I participated in plays and organizations. My brother, Isreal, played football and sang in the school chorus. I served as president of the student council during my senior year, which gave me the opportunity to meet and greet celebrities such as Bill “Bojangles” Robinson and boxer Joe Louis. I was even asked to participate in a Brotherhood Week radio broadcast with white students from other communities.

Afterward, I was mentioned in an article that came out in the Miami Herald about a cross burning in front of the house of one of the white students in Coral Gables who had invited me to speak.

My family and friends feared for my safety and said I should stop following Ms. Marie Roberts, my civics teacher, who frequently attended integrated meetings despite segregation and Jim Crow. My father refused to be intimidated and did not stop me from going with Ms. Roberts. His courage and fortitude for justice continues to live within me and motivates much of what I do today.

My parents had strong values and expectations for their children, but the sustaining elements in our home were always love and pride. We were told that we were special because we were a Curtis, and our name became a source of pride and belonging for my brother and me. Our name represented the best within us and we had to live up to it. This meant that we had to finish high school and further our education.

After high school, my brother went to the Air Force. He received an honorable discharge and began working for the Miami Herald, where he was the first black pressman. I went on to study social science at Talladega College in Alabama, earning a bachelor of arts degree. I returned to Miami and became a teacher at Dorsey Junior High and a counselor at Edison Senior High School. I earned a Master of Science degree in guidance and counseling from Barry University and became assistant principal at South Miami Junior High School, where I retired in 1991.

I served as a board member and the first African-American president of both Dade Heritage Trust and Natives of Dade and Pioneers of Miami. As a dedicated historic preservationist, I uncovered research showing that African Americans were buried at the City of Miami Cemetery, and I led efforts to preserve the Miami Circle, the Historic Hampton House Motel, the Lemon City Cemetery, and a unit of Liberty Square, one of the nation’s oldest public housing complexes. I have been awarded honorary Doctorate of Humane Letters degrees from St. Thomas University and Talladega College.

Above all, I credit my achievements to my parents and the example they set with their strong values, commitment to family, and involvement in church and community activities. I am married to Frank Pinkney.

“En San Jose, Nohemí Alarcón, Noticias 14.” I wouldn’t go to sleep until I heard those words. That was Moder’s signature signoff.

Moder was my nickname for her, if you were to pronounce the word “mother” with a Hispanic accent. I was her biggest fan! She was a reporter at Univision’s local affiliate in San Jose, California, a job she got just months after graduating with a degree in mass communications from Santa Clara University. After three years in that role, she wanted a bigger challenge and a bigger audience. She set her sights on Miami, “the capital of Latin America,” the perfect place to move her burgeoning career forward.

In 1996, my father, mother and I made the transnational move to the Magic City.

The move was difficult. The challenges, unexpected. As welcoming as Miami was for so many, the same could not be said of the city’s media market. The airwaves had a Cuban stronghold and she was a Venezuelan newcomer with no insider connections. Let’s just say the job offers were not trickling in.

Only one thing guided my mother, though, and that was her vocation for communicating on behalf of her community. If that passion didn’t find a place in Miami, she would find it elsewhere. That unstoppable drive led her to a gig with The Weather Channel in Atlanta. I worried about our future. I was happy in Miami, just starting second grade, making new friends. Would we have to move again?

But we didn’t give up on Miami and Miami didn’t give up on us.

After that year of uncertainty, my mother got her big break and started working at el Nuevo Herald. She was a general assignment reporter and had a weekly column dedicated to issues relevant to the Venezuelan diaspora. She also became the public face of el Nuevo Herald with her own segment on Telemundo 51 and then Univision 23, where she would give a rundown of the most important stories folks could find in the next edition of the paper.

That was just the beginning. Bien tempranito, bright and early, her new signature signoff, was more than a tagline — it became a way of life. She was up bright and early dashing all over Miami, finding the story that had to be told. Her talent was finally being recognized and opportunities came pouring in. She started her day on the radio with Cuban journalist Agustin Acosta on WQBA 1140-AM with a morning show appropriately titled, “Good Morning, Miami!” From there she would head to the Herald and end the day at the TV station. She was covering stories she had only dreamed of, including interviewing Fidel Castro and Hugo Chávez. And most important for her, she was a voice for Miami’s growing Venezuelan community.

It was all happening! And I was along for the ride! I grew up in Miami’s newsrooms as Moder’s most trusted production assistant. Between homework and book reports I helped her research her stories, practice her script, and of course, choose her outfits. Layered between the bustle of the news world were my most important life lessons. Moder always said the most rewarding aspect of her career was being able to convey the stories of all kinds of people, from presidents to homeless families, sometimes all in one day. And she treated each with the same respect and dignity.

Those values are what made her such a beloved figure in our community. Everywhere she went, from the ventanita in Hialeah to the supermarket in Miami Lakes, someone had a kind word for her. Her charisma was infectious, her journalism chops, among the best. What folks did not see on screen or read between her lines were the pains of a difficult divorce from my father, who eventually became estranged, the struggle of raising me alone while her whole family was back in Venezuela, and the challenge of advancing a career in journalism as newspapers were in rapid decline.

Eventually, Moder left journalism, but never Miami. In 2006 she became the regional director for community relations at Aetna, serving our city by providing grants and resources to organizations advancing health and wellness in the Magic City.

Ironically, after surviving a battle with cancer, post-surgical health complications took Moder’s life too soon.

Since her passing in 2013, the Miami Herald building on Biscayne Bay has been torn down and local news viewership is not what it used to be, but the mark she made on both will never be forgotten.

Before she was Nohemí Alarcón, she was Nohemí Torrealba. Hailing from Altagracia de Orituco, a small town in the plains of Venezuela, she was the fourth child and only daughter of Dora Lopez and Amador Torrealba. After 23 years growing up in Caracas, she married Federico Alarcón and followed him to the United States, mostly for love, but also led by the dream of going to an American university to study what she loved the most, journalism. The rest, as they say, is history.

As I look back at her life I cannot help but make so many parallels to my own. Two years ago my then-fiancé and I decided to leave our exciting life in Washington, D.C., to move back home. Like my family’s trajectory, our move to Miami also didn’t go according to plan.

But as fate would have it, we’re proud residents of “Doralzuela,” living not even a mile away from my first home in Miami, from John I. Smith Elementary, my first school in Florida, and from that same Univision station where I grew up. In so many ways I am my mother’s daughter.

Today would have been Moder’s 51^st birthday. The best birthday gift I can give her is remembering her Miami story, our Miami story, and renewing that pledge we made over two decades ago to never give up on Miami just as it continues to not give up on us.

Happy Birthday, Moder. I hope to keep making you proud.