America 1982-Chapter 507 - 97: Everything is Open for Discussion_3
"What if it does exist?" a reporter stepped forward and asked Jeff.
Jeff looked at her and spoke calmly, "Either have the Democratic Party office of the Eighteenth District fire that woman, or I’ll leave the Democratic Party. Either way, I cannot conspire with murderers."
"You are a candidate for the Eighteenth District, but this is the Southern District. The Eighteenth District is in the Northern District of Miami, why are you holding a fundraising event in the Southern District?" the reporter asked, puzzled.
The Jewish people present were also somewhat dumbfounded. This muscular white man looked like he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. The words he uttered confirmed that his brains matched his looks—a candidate from the Eighteenth District in the Northern District coming to an unrelated Southern District on Coral Street to canvas for votes and raise funds?
Did he think the Jews in the Southern District had too much money with nowhere to spend it, or did he think they were all as peculiar as him?
Donating to a local district representative might yield some returns, but giving to one from another district was less useful than buying a ticket to a comedy show. After all, a politician’s speech only puts people to sleep, while at least a comedy show might get a few laughs.
Jeff took a deep breath, then said earnestly, "My campaign manager told me the same thing. He said I should focus on my own district’s voters, that coming to the Southern District would be a waste as nobody would care about me. And it’s true. We’ve been standing here a long time with nobody willing to listen to me. But I don’t regret it, and I’m not here just to raise funds. Even though this isn’t my district, I feel that speaking my thoughts here better represents my determination, even if no one listens."
"If you don’t mind, you can share what you want to say now. I’m actually somewhat interested... after all, I’ve never encountered a candidate who crossed districts for a campaign event before," said the reporter without bluntly mentioning that she had never seen such an absurd situation of a candidate seeking votes and funds from the public in an irrelevant district.
In elections, it was not uncommon for companies or organizations outside a candidate’s district to make donations, usually because they needed the candidate to speak up for them in Congress or wanted to curry favor ahead of developing business in the candidate’s district. But it was rare for ordinary citizens to support a legislator from another district in such local congressional elections, unless the candidate’s personal charisma was so dazzling as to make geographic boundaries irrelevant.
But the fierce-looking brute before them certainly wasn’t that kind of person.
Though they considered Jeff a fool, the two or three hundred onlookers surrounding them didn’t leave. They shared the reporter’s curiosity and wanted to understand what the dull-witted fool was trying to promote across districts.
"Uh... should I speak now?" Jeff looked at the reporter and then at the camera, hesitated for a moment, and without taking out any written speech, began, "Alright, thank you all for giving me this opportunity to speak."
"My name is Jeff Raven. I’m a plumber, and behind me are my wife and four children. I’m running for Congress in a special election in Miami’s Eighteenth District, with the campaign slogan ’Say No to Cubans.’"
As soon as this slogan was uttered, there were immediate angry jeers from the crowd, given that Little Havana was just next door. Among the onlookers were some of Cuban descent who expressed their discontent at the white man’s slogan.
"Why choose this slogan? Why come to Coral Street? As far back as my great-great-grandfather’s time, the Raven family had settled in Miami, Florida. From what my late father told me, we initially lived in the Southern District, not in the Northern District where we reside now. The Raven family lived on Ojus Street in the Southern District for over a century until 1959 when we moved from Ojus Street in the Southern District to our current home in the Northern District. My grandfather was a carpenter, and his proudest work was a beautiful oak English-style carved liquor cabinet he handcrafted for the former Round Light Bar on Ojus Street. My grandfather always believed this liquor cabinet would last at least a hundred years. Regrettably, after just thirty years, the bar and the cabinet both vanished. Why? Because Cubans came. Their numbers grew more and more, they took over Ojus Street, and they bullied the original neighbors, intimidating, causing disturbances, robbing, and stealing. My father said that Little Havana used to be called Ojus Street, lined with gentle and cheerful European-descent Jewish neighbors. But as the Jews became fewer and the fierce-eyed Cubans more abundant, eventually, our family too could no longer bear the harassment and moved to the Northern District. The Round Light Bar also perished in a fire started by Cuban drunkards."
These words made many of the older Jewish people in the crowd pause—Round Light Bar, a name buried deep in memory for too long, was not something this young man should have known. Yet, his mention of it signaled the truth, as indeed, the Round Light Bar was torched in 1959, deliberately set alight by a Cuban arsonist.
Jeff’s words plunged the Jewish elders into reminiscence. Ojus Street and Coral Street had been predominantly Jewish neighborhoods since the 1920s, where Jews lived peacefully alongside nearby whites and blacks until the arrival of the Cubans. Those Cubans were too wild, like cockroaches—if you saw one Cuban on the street, there were probably a hundred more hiding nearby.
Thus, Cubans took over Ojus Street, and as the living environment deteriorated, whites and Jews were pushed out, retreating to Coral Street. Once completely overtaken by Cubans, Ojus Street was renamed Little Havana.
