End of an Era at Miami’s Flea Market USA

Because saying goodbye is hard to do…

Here’s how a visit to an old Miami flea market destined for closure, reminded us that bidding farewell is a natural process in life and all we can do is hold on to our memories — and take lots of photos.

Today we visit Flea Market USA, a 215,000 square foot indoor flea market located at 3015 NW 79th Street in Miami, Florida. It sits in the Liberty City neighborhood colorfully highlighted in the film Moonlight, directed by Barry Jenkins. The same neighborhood where he, playwright Tarell Alvin McCraney, rappers Trick Daddy and Trina, and I grew up.

Flea Market USA in January 2019

If you’ve never been to this neighborhood or stepped foot inside the flea market, it is kind of hard to explain. It has evolved over the years and continues to do so. A flea market of this kind is not there for tourists (although it once was), but rather represents and serves the community which surrounds it. Its vendors and customers are one and the same.

The online reviews are simply confusing. Some give it the highest praise, while others make it seem downright frightening. The only way I can describe it is to say that it feels like home to me. 

Strange to say that about a place I left behind in 1992 when I was only 11 years old. They say that is when things started to “go down hill” there. I wouldn’t know what that meant. I didn’t return to Miami again until 2006. I drove by the old neighborhood and sought out anything I could remember from those early years, and I stumbled upon it. I had only been there before with my mom and dad, so when I walked in, the hustle and bustle of the place felt intimidating. I did a quick lap and took a few photos of some remnants that still existed from my childhood, like this old Chuck E. Cheese chair ride. The same one I remember running toward each time I walked in the door.

Flea Market USA, Miami, FL, Chuck E. Cheese chair ride circa 2006 – exactly as I remember it in the 80s.

I still remember the sound of the ride whirring into motion and the feeling of weightlessness as I raised my hands in the air and circled around. I smiled, standing there, staring at the old faded colors on the ride. The flea market…it still felt the same.

I never thought about this place again, except for when I was in town and happened to hear one news headline or another about happenings inside and around the flea market. Some headlines, scary enough to keep me from visiting again.     

“Bullets fly at Flea Market USA!”

“Swarm of masked robbers invade Flea Market USA!”

“Police investigate shooting inside Flea Market USA!”

And the all too common:

“Police investigate shooting OUTSIDE Flea Market USA.”

At that point, I had been out of touch with the community for years and was quite honestly frightened by the news reports of the area. But in January of 2019, while organizing some old photographs, I came across one of myself at age 9 or so, standing at the counter of an electronics shop in the flea market.

I was with my dad. It was about a year before he died. The photo was the first of many that would be taken on my new 35mm camera. When he took the photo, my dad told me that I was “Tan bella como el dia que nacistes.” Spanish for: “As beautiful as the day you were born.” He said this because when I was born, he took my very first photo ever. This photo would also be the last one he would take of me.

I looked up the flea market online and learned through social media that it was soon to close.

This is the reason for our trip…to see it one last time.

We take the first flight out and arrive at the flea market. The sign out front looks different and we are nervous about the changes we might see indoors. We use the same entrance that I always used with my family and immediately notice a few things. 

Long gone are the t-shirts that once swept across our faces on the way in, the toys that would squeak and spin around our feet as we walked past, and the (now illegal) tiny red-eared slider turtles that, unbeknownst to parents, spread Salmonella bacteria to turtle-obsessed children everywhere.

On this morning, it is empty and quiet, except for the buzzing of the neon sign for Alex’s jewelry and gold teeth shop. 

You know how when you go back to a place you used to visit as a kid, and it somehow feels smaller? This does not feel like that. Strangely, it still feels the same. 

One glaring exception, the colorful carousel and all the carnival rides and games that once surrounded the food court, including the star of all family photo-ops: a giant giraffe, have already been removed. The only evidence of joyous childhood screams and laughter are the anchor holes that remain in the concrete floor. 

For many outside the neighborhood or those tired of the old neighborhood shenanigans, the place is an eyesore and a haven for all things disreputable. Online reviews show that those who hold this belief are brutally critical. 

“Not for everyone, but built for some.”

“Enter at your own risk!”

Some love and rave about this place.

“This flea market has everything. Get tatted up. Get grilled up. Get your hair done. Promote your business. All kinds of restaurants. a bunch of clothing shops. They even throw events and have shows there…Ya’ll peep it out if you’re ever in Miami.”

While others simply recognize it for what it is.

“This place is a love and hate spot. Yes, It’s super ghetto and not very clean and smells of chemicals inside from all the nail places, but if you’re looking for very affordable prices when it comes to clothing and jewelry, then this place is for you.”

Most agree that:

“It’s not what it used to be.”

While the place still feels the same, I can agree with that sentiment because I remember what it used to be. One common thread throughout the online reviews and the comments on social media: everyone has memories about this place — including me.

Aside from the memories I have here with my family, the fondest memory I have of the flea market actually took place across the street — or I guess I should say while crossing the street. I briefly lived in a trailer park that sat directly across the street from the flea market. One hot summer day, while sitting on my front stoop, bored and trying to fix the Rewind button on my Walkman, I noticed an older woman attempting to cross the street toward the flea market. She kept stepping off the curb and then stumbling to climb back up. I ran over and offered to help her cross the road.

Her name was Veronica and she was mostly blind. She was 91 and I was 9. That summer, we became best friends and spent almost every day together. Her home was cluttered with newspapers, magazines, and trinkets that she would pick up at the flea market. She lived alone and had for many years. She was a survivor of a brutal sexual assault when in her twenties and had news clippings of her attack posted on the wall at the entrance of her home.

Her sunny disposition contradicted the tragic past oddly posted on her wall. She loved to bake and we spent most days in her kitchen doing so. Sometimes she let me help by adding a few droplets of food coloring to the mix.

Each evening, I would leave her watching some phonathon or historical broadcast or another on PBS. My mother let me hang out with her because it kept me from attempting more daredevil stunts on my bike and further skinning my knees, but she never let me eat the cookies she made. Something about strangers and poison. I later moved and never saw her again. I can only hope another nice person offered to help her across the street and listened to her stories as she baked. 

Many are now mourning the loss of this old flea market and think that it is the end of an era. Most cannot remember what this area was like without the massive building running down busy 79th Street. Many my age claim, “It’s been here all my life!”

The flea market opened in 1980 and immediately proclaimed its title as “#1 Indoor Flea Market.” Hundreds of vendors set up shop inside and began offering services demanded by the neighboring community. There were nail salons, hair salons, barber shops, perfume shops, gold teeth shops, luggage shops, clothing shops, electronics shops, car stereo shops, and tattoo shops. You could wash your car there or pick out chrome hubcaps for it.

You could have your own t-shirt printed, catch a show on the main stage, let your kids play on the carnival rides, or dine at the food court. The atmosphere was carried out into the parking lot, with lively food trucks selling sweet and savory street fare. 

It was and still is a multicultural scene reflective of the ever-changing environment. The mix of shops and people are nothing short of eclectic. In fact, although it has since been painted over, the sign out front used to include a world globe and below it, the words “We are the World.” 

Flea Market USA sign circa 2008 once included the “We Are The World” globe and international flags which waved proudly above the building.

Over the years, time took its toll on the building. Paint started to peel and concrete began chipping away. The ceilings hold on to a brownish / black chemical residue and anything else that has filled the space and floated up over time. The place feels poorly ventilated, the floors are sticky, some have reported the smell of marijuana wafting through the air and mixing in with the fumes emanating from the nail shops.

The presence of security guards is obvious but they sometimes blend in with the crowds, both in appearance and behavior. Many booths have sat closed and abandoned for years. Mismatched folding chairs and tables, the likes of those you would find in a home, are scattered throughout the flea market. Even torn and worn couches line the area surrounding the stage. Yet even in its current condition, the flea market retains its landmark status within the community. 

The building has been sold and vendors have been told to vacate. The family that owns Jordache Jeans has had some involvement with the building, but the name of the buyer has not been disclosed. The doors to the public will open and close one final time on March 3, 2019.

After that, the fate of the flea market is unknown. Some fear, given its condition, the building may be demolished and the area destined for redevelopment. A new modern shopping center perhaps. One that will certainly lack the local flavor, quirks, and 80s charms that we have all come to love. One that may even change the landscape of the neighborhood. 

The vendors, some who have been operating out of the flea market since it opened, are outraged at what they feel was very little notice given about the pending closure.

News reports show them marching in the flea market parking lot and chanting “Save USA! Save USA!” They have been left to scramble for new places from which to operate their businesses. They claim high rent rates throughout Miami and state they simply have nowhere to go. 

We know that change is inevitable, but there are some places we don’t expect it to happen. For those of us who remember Flea Market USA…and special moments like riding the old carousel, playing hopscotch on the colorful checkered floor, swinging in the Chuck E. Cheese chair, or memorable daddy-daughter dates — It’s quite the emotional farewell.

The nostalgic in us wishes we could somehow turn back the hands of time…

I’m happy I found that old photo my dad took of me. I think of him most when I’m in Miami. It is where I last saw him and where he is buried. And it is because of the camera he bought that day and my childhood memories, that I was able to return to Miami and piece back together those details of my life that would have otherwise gotten lost in time the way some things do.

Today, we should be thankful for film…without it, we would have no proof that some people, places, or things ever existed.

It truly is the end of an era.