As a child growing up in the Florida Keys—the “Rock” as we called it—our escape came in the form of a shopping mall on the mainland of South Miami. I can recall fond memories of driving north via our main route—U. S. Highway One. Looking out over the open water that lapped just yards from the roadway, eagerly anticipating the big box stores—Golden Triangle, JCPenney, Sears—the anthesis of our island existence. I was in early grade school and this was our Oz. It would take us just over ninety minutes to reach the Cutler Ridge Mall. In the early seventies, the complex was made up of clustered free-standing buildings. A Zayre store on one side, the two-screen theater on the other, Woolco, Bambergers, Sears, and Sterns in between. On the main road, the Florida favorite—Burdines. There was no food court; just the cafeteria at Sears and a Lums across South Dixie Highway that served famous hot dogs and root beer.
Years later, the walls would extend, the rooves would connect. The conduits between buildings that were outside would become a covered agora; a place of connection. In high school we would drive in droves. A caravan of kids in old used cars. It would take a full tank of gas and at least one quart of oil to make the round trip. We lost many friends on those drives. The dangerous 18-mile stretch between Key Largo and the mainland Florida was dotted with makeshift crosses, flowers, and other monuments. We didn’t care though. The Mall was our escape from the daily boredom of island life. It was our church and we were its congregation, huddling in packs—cliques—kids on the threshold of adulthood enjoying a taste of freedom in our safe place. The theater had grown to twenty screens with surround sound speakers and comfortable chairs. Supersized buckets of popcorn and pails of soda; epidemies of hyperbole. We were kids, consumed with the latest action flick, our latest, devastating break-up, or hopeful make-up, only to return home in the darkness and dream of our next trip north.
Today, many other malls have popped up in the area feeding the needs of a growing urban sprawl. The rooves and walls have receded in favor of more open, conceptual designs. Theaters are smaller, opting for the arthouse experience. And the circle continues.
The Cutler Ridge Mall was renamed Southland. Some call it an ode to that seedy part of Los Angeles. The mall, like its surrounding landscape, had fallen to lackluster investment and the resulting decay. This institution has been on the verge of closing more like so many in the area, the state, the nation. And yet it holds on. As an icon of hope, a golden carousel spins in the center, wooden horses rise and lower as young, impressionable children cling to manes of paint and glitter. While ambition for this dying institution fades, the memories of a child will not.
—T. Rafael Cimino (Executive Writer for HBO Films)
