Category: Miami Stories

On the morning of 9/11 I was in my office at Marsh, Inc. in Sunrise, FL. My assistant told me that her husband was watching TV and saw a plane hit the World Trade Center. I called a colleague at the Marsh offices in midtown and he confirmed that he could see the smoke but did not know what was going on. I ran to our lobby since we had a television with a live broadcast of CNN and arrived in time to see the 2nd plane hit the South tower. I was in shock and could not believe what I was seeing.  

My next thought was that where the plane hit was where Marsh’s technology and accounting operations were located and where my cousin Tony worked. He worked on the 100th floor of the North Tower which was hit first and I knew that if he was there that morning, he was probably dead. I started to cry hysterically and ran back to my office. I called my aunt and uncle who lived on Long Island to see if they had heard from Tony. They had just woken up and had no idea what was happening. They turned on their TV to see the horror that was unfolding. My uncle said that they would check with my other cousin, Yvette since they commuted into NYC together in the morning to see what time they arrived in NY Penn Station on the Long Island Railroad.  

It was an agonizing 8 hours before I found out that Tony had been delayed at Penn Station and as a result had stopped for a coffee before taking the subway downtown to the WTC. He was coming out of the subway station when the 2nd plane hit but he had not able to communicate with his parents until later in the evening since the cell phone towers were down, he was caught in the masses of people trying to leave the area and finally, hours later, found a working payphone in Brooklyn and was able to call to say he was okay. It was a miracle that to this day I am thankful for.  

Unfortunately, on September 12, we found out that we lost 295 of our Marsh colleagues the day before. In the aftermath of tragedy, I found out 3 days later that a dear friend had died after being hit with debris from the collapse of the 1st tower. After accounting for all that were lost that tragic day, five people I personally knew (2 work colleagues, a high school buddy and a college friend) had also perished.  

It is still very hard to process all the lives that were lost that day and 25 years later, it is still something that weighs on me deeply.  

On the anniversary of 9/11, I bow my head and pray for all who were lost but I especially remember John Keohane (forever in my heart!), Salvatore “Sal” Tieri, John Tobin, Michael Cahill, Anthony Fallone, Jr., and Norman Rossinow. 

On September 11, when the second building was struck and it became painfully clear that we were under attack, I was at work. The world seemed to stop for a moment, suspended in fear and disbelief. My immediate instinct—driven by something deeper than thought—was to go get my six‑year‑old daughter from school. I had no idea whether more attacks were coming or where they might be headed, but I needed her with me. I needed to know she was safe.

When I reached the school, the atmosphere was overwhelming. The hallways were filled with parents, grandparents, and older siblings, all rushing to gather their loved ones. Tears were everywhere—on faces strained with fear, on teachers trying to maintain order, on people holding onto one another for support. The sense of panic was palpable, almost physical, thick enough to feel in the air. It was mayhem born from terror and uncertainty, and I felt myself trembling as I made my way through the crowd. As I approached my daughter’s classroom, my thoughts raced. I kept imagining her frightened, confused, maybe even crying. I wondered whether she had heard anything, whether the whispers and frantic movements around the school had reached her. And I agonized over how I would explain something so unimaginable—something I didn’t even understand myself. My hands were shaking as I reached the door. Then something extraordinary happened.

My daughter’s teacher, herself a mother with children in other classrooms, opened the door with a gentle, composed smile. It was a smile that didn’t pretend nothing was wrong, but one that reassured—one that seemed to say, “I’ve got them. They are safe.” She handed the child in front of me to her mother, calmly explaining that the students were unaware of what had occurred. Then she turned to me, meeting my frightened eyes, and said softly, “We are doing well, mommy. Make sure to stay calm.” In that moment, her presence became a lifeline.

Despite the chaos around her, she had managed to protect her first graders not only from the news, but from absorbing her own fear. She had created a small island of peace in a sea of panic, drawing on her strength and love for her students. That image of her—steady, compassionate, composed—stayed with me throughout the ordeal and has stayed with me ever since. I wrote a letter of appreciation to the Principal soon after, but no words felt large enough to capture the impact she had. Even now, many years later, I think of her with deep admiration. She is one of those people whose quiet heroism shapes the lives around them in ways they may never fully know. In the weeks and months that followed, the anxiety of that day filtered through our community like a shadow that refused to lift. My daughter began sleepwalking—a pattern that lasted for a couple of years—an echo of her body trying to process a fear she couldn’t name. Our lives changed forever in ways both visible and invisible.

Ms. Beebee remains on our list of everyday heroes. 

I suspect there are still many of us around who remember the man. Back in the late 1960s a friend was writing for a student publication for an institution then known as Miami Dade Junior College. He asked me if I wanted to go with him as he interviewed a man who gave lectures in his house in the evenings four days a week: Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday.  

The man, according to my friend, was a futurist who talked about his vision of a coming world. His name was Jacque Fresco. We drove over together to a small tar covered house located in the Coral Gables area and knocked on the door. Out came a small, bald, rather funny looking man in his fifties, wearing a goatee beard. He gave us the once over, looked theatrically at his watch, and said “the lecture starts at 7:00.” We got the hint and left. I did return after my first abrupt meeting to attend his lecture and I attended many times after. 

Eventually I ended up renting a room in his house. Jacque, I found out, cobbled together a living by renting rooms and lecturing. We became friends. Jacque Fresco was someone who flew under the radar but was not invisible. On the days he lectured his house would fill up with a variety of local citizens. His house was a salon. Folks would come to hear him discuss his vision for the future. The attendees made up a cross section of the social stratas of Miami.  

In the Miami area Jacque was known, not widely, but known. He was interviewed a number of times by a local talk show host: Larry King. He lectured at various colleges in the area. And, of course, there were lectures four nights a week in his home. His personal vision had many names: first it was Project Americana. Then, when I first met him, it was called “Sociocyberneering.” Then eventually, named after the area where he eventually relocated,The Venus Project.  

Jacques has passed but the organization still exists today and his lectures can be found online. His vision was not of Buck Rogers and laser guns. But of cities specifically designed for and built for people. He visualized how food would be delivered and how everything would be built with no or minimum human intervention. While artificial intelligence was not explicitly on his radar I am sure implicitly it was part of what he envisioned. The old meme “a man ahead of his time” certainly fit Jacque Fresco. 

 Jacque, in his lectures, would foretell of a future time where technology would evolve to where many if not most jobs would be eliminated. It was, he insisted, where we would live in abundance. His vision was detailed and compelling and it strongly resembles the point we are currently entering. Artificial Intelligence is predicted by many to evolve. That predicted evolution reminds me of the man I knew. No doubt there are others living in Miami that remember him as well. 

Tell us a little bit about yourself and where you grew up?  

I grew up in Hialeah, Florida, and have spent most of my life in the Miami area. Growing up in such a culturally diverse city exposed me to many different communities, languages, and perspectives. Although Miami has always been my home, I learned early on that every neighborhood and every person carries a unique story. That awareness later became an important influence on the way I approach photography and documentary work.  

When did you realize photography was something you wanted to pursue seriously? 

Photography became a serious pursuit after high school when I enrolled in college to study art. At first, I focused on painting, sculpture, and three dimensional work, while photography remained one of several creative interests. As I continued my studies, however, I realized photography offered the strongest connection between observation and artistic expression. It became the medium through which I could best explore both creativity and the real world.  

What inspired you to become a photographer?  

Initially, I was interested in surrealism and manipulated imagery because I enjoyed creating imagined realities. As I learned more about photography, my interests shifted toward documentary work and the unexpected moments found in everyday life. I became fascinated by ordinary people, overlooked places, and small details that often reveal larger stories. Photography evolved into a way of documenting life rather than altering it, allowing me to preserve moments that might otherwise go unnoticed.  

How has being a first-generation American influenced your perspective or artistic work?  

I believe everyone’s experiences are personal, even though they are influenced by family, culture, and environment. Being a first-generation American shaped some of my perspective, but it does not define it completely. One of the most meaningful experiences in my artistic development was traveling to Cuba to visit the small town outside Havana where my father grew up. Seeing that environment helped me better understand my family’s history and the circumstances that shaped it. That experience deepened my appreciation for documentary photography and encouraged me to approach people and places with greater empathy.  

In what ways, if any, has being part of the LGBTQ community shaped your creative voice?  

Photography teachers often encourage students to photograph what they know. Much of my early work consisted of self-portraiture, street photography, and documentary projects because they reflected my own experiences. Later, I realized there was another important part of my life that I had never photographed: the kink and fetish communities that I was part of. Rather than separating my identity from my work, I allowed photography to naturally expand into documenting those experiences. My goal has always been to represent people honestly and respectfully while showing aspects of human experience that are often misunderstood or overlooked.  

Can you describe a photograph or project that is especially meaningful to you, and what is the story behind it?  

One of my most meaningful projects is South from Here, a body of work created during my visit to Cuba. My father passed away when I was in fifth grade, leaving many questions about his childhood unanswered. Traveling to Cuba became a way to reconnect with that missing part of my history and better understand the place that shaped him. While photographing the people and landscapes, I was struck by the resilience of the communities despite difficult political and economic conditions. The project reflects both a personal journey of reconnecting with my family history and a broader exploration of identity, resilience, and community. 

 What have been some of the biggest challenges you have faced in your artistic career? 

Creating photographs has never been the greatest challenge because I am constantly working and almost always carry a camera with me. The more difficult part is finding opportunities to share the work with the right audience. Artists often have to become their own promoters, and that can be challenging. While I have participated in solo and group exhibitions, I sometimes feel that Miami’s art scene favors work that is decorative or commercially appealing. My photography often addresses more complex emotional and social themes, so finding viewers and institutions that connect with that type of work has been one of the biggest obstacles in my career.  

Have there been moments when you questioned your career path? What helped you continue?  

There was a period when I seriously considered giving up photography. I found myself asking whether I was truly living my own life or simply documenting everyone else’s. Whenever I attended events, I was constantly thinking about composition, timing, and lighting instead of fully experiencing the moment. I eventually stopped photographing for a while so I could reflect on that question. Over time, I realized photography remained an essential part of who I am. What changed was my understanding that I needed to find a healthier balance between documenting life and participating in it. That realization renewed my commitment to photography.  

How do you hope people feel when they experience your photographs?  

One of the most meaningful comments I have received came from someone who said my photographs made them feel as though they were witnessing something deeply private. I appreciated that response because intimacy is something I hope viewers experience. My goal is to create images that encourage empathy rather than judgment. I want people to connect with the individuals in the photographs and recognize shared human experiences despite differences in background or circumstance. If viewers leave with a greater understanding of someone else’s life, then I feel the work has succeeded. My artistic practice also reflects my appreciation for slower photographic processes. I primarily work with analog film, including 35mm, medium format, and 4×5 large-format cameras, occasionally experimenting with glass plate photography. Unlike digital photography, analog requires careful planning, development, and scanning before the final image appears. That slower process mirrors my philosophy as a documentary photographer, encouraging careful observation and a deeper connection with the people and stories I choose to photograph.

El Faro

Chapotear le refrescaba y le calmaba los nervios. Ya no soportaba la inmovilidad de estar parado en atención vigilando al horizonte. La mayoría de las personas a su alrededor estaban en constante movimiento. El temor que alguien sospechara crecía con cada segundo que la dichosa lancha no aparecía. Se sentía ajeno a sus alrededores, vestido de rojo de pies a cabeza, como un arañazo. Había acatado al dedillo las instrucciones indumentarias que le dio la noche anterior su papá desde Florida. —Hasta la gorra, para que te identifiquen. A media mañana te recogen. —le dijo.

El resplandor de agosto cegaba a quien osara explorar el horizonte. Hubiera deseado tener las gafas de sol, pero las vendió semanas atrás para abastecer de comida a su niña. Gracias a sus contactos clandestinos consiguió carne, pollo y leche en polvo para unos meses. Su mujer le aseguró que estiraría todo lo más que pudiera. Se despidió bastante tranquilo. No sabía cuándo podría mandarle dinero.

Encontró a un muchacho con reloj y preguntó la hora. Mediodía. ¿Los habrán capturado en alta mar? ¿Se habrá roto la lancha? La preparación mental no acaparó tal retraso. Tampoco contempló la posibilidad de pasar otra noche sin electricidad en el infierno terrenal que se había convertido su vida, junto con la de varios millones más. “No puede ser” y se le aflojaron las piernas. Aunque el calor era insoportable no quiso darse por vencido. Asumió una vez más la posición de faro agotado y se concentró en el mar.

Un chillido no muy lejos de su posta, lo puso en alerta máxima, pero no divisó ni una aleta. Se sumaron gritos y una risa estridente le hizo comprender. Alguien había chocado con los desechos de otra persona y ahora lo usaban para jugar empujándolo con el agua en varias direcciones, siempre tratando de evitar que tocara a los unos, mientras lo empujaban hacia los otros. Así, lo mantenían en el medio de un círculo de manos frenéticas, hasta que los participantes se cansaran, o tocara a alguien, y lo dejaran continuar su viaje corriente abajo. Pensó que si todo salía bien su niña no tendría que jugar con mierda. Tendría juguetes de playa, como cualquier niña normal, en cualquier país normal. Sonrió.

Volvió a escudriñar el horizonte y la vió. Una interrupción en la línea imperfecta formada por los diferentes tonos de azul. Ahora es cuando es. Inspeccionó sus alrededores. Bullaranga playera, cada cual en lo suyo. Se ajustó la gorra. Pensó en su niña, y se encomendó a sus santos. En dos pasos largos le llegó el agua a las rodillas. Dos más pequeños y alcanzó medio muslo. Dos más y rebasó la ingle. Una ola le golpeó la cintura. Retrocedió. Trató de adelantar a zancadas. Demasiada resistencia. Optó por dar brinquitos rápidos con las manos fuera del agua. Silencio…mierda. La silueta de la lancha se perfilaba cada vez más. La algarabía explotó como una olla de presión. Se lanzó a nadar. Escuchó chapoteos y entró en pánico. Trato de bracear más rápido. Algo le tocó un pie. “No puede ser.” Mantuvo el ritmo de las brazadas 1,2,1,2. Alguien le agarró un pie y gritó— esa lancha es mía —. Tragó agua salada y ardieron sus pulmones. Escuchó una respuesta que no entendió y pateó con fuerza. Se liberó y continuó 1,2,1,2. Ya escuchaba los motores. Faltaba menos 1,2,1,2. Le dolía todo el cuerpo 1,2,1,2. Tragó agua y paró. La lancha se detuvo cerca de él. Dos hombres a bordo gritaban frenéticos para que se acercara. Flotó de cara al cielo y reanudó las brazadas 1,2,1,2. Su mano derecha chocó con la lancha. Lo agarraron por ambas muñecas y aterrizó delante del capitán. —Agárrate que nos fuimos—. Dijo dándole la espalda.

Fue difícil enderezarse con la lancha a toda velocidad. Nunca había estado en altamar. Tuvo la sensación de estar suspendido en el espacio varias horas. El color del mar no cambió mucho. Tampoco el del cielo. Notó el dolor en las manos cuando el capitán redujo la velocidad, al entrar en aguas estadounidenses y le dijo “bienvenido.” Trató de no llorar, los hombres no lloran. Se desplomó al ver tierra y se desahogó por los últimos años de penurias impuestas. El capitán le consoló con una palmada en el hombro y le dijo con ojos húmedos “ya estás en casa.” Llegó a Los Cayos de la Florida cerca de las cinco de la tarde. Su papá lo recibió vestido de blanco y azul, los colores de la Virgen de Regla, reina del mar y protectora de travesías marítimas. Lloraron abrazados por varios minutos. Los lancheros interrumpieron para cobrar su trabajo.

Su familia le sorprendió con una fiesta de bienvenida, tres mudas de ropa y un par de zapatos que le quedaron un poco ajustados. No dijo nada para no parecer malagradecido. Disfrutó por primera vez de una ducha caliente y aire acondicionado central. Fue surreal interactuar con familiares que solo conocía por fotos. Muchos de los abrazos que recibió, fueron acompañados de un billete de cien dólares y alguna variación de la frase “para que te encamines.” Nunca había visto uno, y de pronto tenía más de diez.

Se sorprendió por el exceso de comida y bebida. Hace años que no veía un cerdo. Calculó que debía pesar alrededor de setenta libras. El pellejo estaba crujiente y la carne suave. Pensó en su mujer y en su niña. No conocía varios de los platillos que sirvieron en la fiesta, y aunque probó todo, invariablemente regresó al cerdo. Se avergonzó cuando una muchacha que no conocía le dijo que dejara de vigilarlo, que no se iba a escapar. Su nombre era Estrella y también era recién llegada. Conversaron toda la noche y el próximo día lo acompañó a comprar zapatos. Se casaron un año y medio después.

No volvió a ver a su niña.