To Florida

The only place I've known.

I lean my head on the plane window, no longer interested in the book in my lap. I haven’t seen my daughter in three days, and I’m counting down the minutes until I hug her. But. But! After a long weekend exploring Washington, D.C., it’s hard to feel upbeat about living in Tampa, Florida. The pilot adds insult to injury as the plane descends when he rattles off the current weather: 89 degrees. I grab my phone to look up the “feels like” temperature — 97 degrees. Welcome to paradise. When I finish weaving my way through baggage claim, I step into the oppressive heat and sigh.

I post an artful selfie that looks casual but takes several tries. The picture focuses on the round “I VOTED” sticker on my dress, which reads “I MADE FREEDOM COUNT!” at the bottom. And I have. I’ve just cast my ballot for a man I believe will be Florida’s first Black governor. I donated to his political campaign — my first time doing so — and got a blue-and-white magnet emblazoned with his name. It’ll stay on my fridge for years. I’m so hopeful about the results that I drag my husband to a downtown watch party hosted by the local Democrats club. Around 9 p.m., my expectations wane. The mood plummets as our expectant joy rushes out of the room. It isn’t the slam dunk I thought it would be. Naturally, I take a picture of myself chugging an alcoholic beverage to document the not-so-great vibe shift. Andrew Gillum, who now has his share of controversies, conceded to Ron DeSantis 11 days later. The race was so close it triggered a recount.

A fitting before and after.

When I’m somewhere else and I’m making small talk, it’s always fascinating to observe reactions to my response to the “Where are you from?” question. Mostly, people smile neutrally, having only asked out of politeness. Of course, there are always folks who are jealous. Mild winters! Lower taxes! The beach! But a couple of times, I’ve seen a mix of amusement and pity flash across someone’s face. No one has to say it because it’s implied. Why would you want to live there? I feel defensive, tempted to stand up for the place I’ve called home my entire life. Sure, I make fun of Florida, but that privilege is reserved for those who have to endure it here, right?

Me during every legislative session.

If Florida and I were dating, our Facebook profiles would read, “It’s complicated.” Because honestly, I can’t decide how I feel about her sometimes! We’d give each other the silent treatment for weeks before falling blissfully in love again. I have moments where I’m overwhelmed by the beauty of my city: the hole-in-the-wall restaurants, sunny afternoons, and proximity to many other places I love. And then the NAACP issues a travel advisory for Black people planning Florida travel, and the governor defends slavery, and Yes on 4 fails, and a friend of a friend moves because they are no longer safe here, and I feel very, very silly for not getting out when I have the means to. And all the things I appreciate about Tampa — can’t I find them anywhere?

Strangers have messaged me on Instagram to bluntly ask why I’m still here. My answer is always the same: my family. My grandfather was born in the Florida panhandle in the 1940s, and his mother was born here in the 1920s. Our family has deep, rich roots. My parents, sister, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and great-grandmother are all within 45 minutes of me. We can barely fit in one house for celebrations, the parties flowing onto patios and front porches out of necessity. When I glance down at my phone on a weekday afternoon, there’s a high chance it’s one of my parents offering to pick my daughter up from preschool. I don’t know what I’d do without them.

I open my laptop, intent on my query. “Beer cities for families prkogressive reddit” is my first search, my fingers flying. Unfortunately, Google can’t figure out what I’m asking, so I must carefully type out B-E-S-T. I scroll through the recommendations: Baltimore, Ann Arbor, Richmond, Philadelphia, Cleveland, Tacoma, Minneapolis. There are so many options they overwhelm me. I close the window. It was a pointless exercise because I know I’m not going anywhere.

Why not, though? I reflect on the reasons I reached for my computer in the first place. I think about the past hurricane season and everyone who lost their homes. I remember that storms will only get worse in the future because of climate change. (DeSantis signed a bill banning climate change mentions from Florida law last year.) The local newspaper emails me the latest draconian law passed by the state legislature. My daughter starts kindergarten later this year amidst book bans and teachers rightly afraid to wear rainbow pins. I wonder if this is the life I desire for me. For us.

It’d be a shock, but wouldn’t it be worthwhile? Our kids would adjust to a life without seeing their grandparents weekly. Meeting people would be easier because I wouldn’t immediately be wary of their potential beliefs. And we have friends all over the country, so there’s a decent chance we’d know someone already. The weather would be so much nicer, our sweaters put to use more than a handful of times a year. Homeowners’ insurance would be more affordable. I’d shudder at national politics instead of what was happening in my front yard. We’d be happy. It’s all within reach. I could call our realtor right now and actually get out of here. Life would be so much more enjoyable. I’d wonder why I didn’t do it sooner.

But something always stops me from pulling the trigger, from going further than the occasional Zillow rabbit hole where I ooh and aah at homes across the country. I’ve lived here for 31 years, and it is so familiar to me. I could drive around my city with my eyes closed. (Those familiar with our roads can attest that some drivers do seem to drive with closed eyes.) I’ve memorized this place and don’t want to let it go. I’d likely feel the same way growing up in Chicago, Brooklyn, Seattle, or Denver, but Florida lacks the Cool Factor. We’re the butt of every joke, which makes it cringe to like it here. Maybe you also know what it’s like to have a complicated relationship with home. To alternate between feeling fiercely appreciative of a place that belongs to you and slightly embarrassed by your pride, like it shouldn’t exist at all.

There’s a Noah Kahan song with the lyric, “If I could leave, I would’ve already left.” I recite it with a smile when people ask if I see myself here indefinitely. But…I could leave! We all have agency (although, of course, having the resources to move is a privilege). At some point, I have to be honest with myself and everyone else. I don’t want to go anywhere, at least right now. The hurricanes, the politics, the traffic, the cost of living, the humidity, the falling iguanas — it could be much, much better. But I got weirdly emotional as I watched the sunset from our backyard last night. Yes, the same sun is dipping below the horizon everywhere, and I’m not seeing anything particularly special. The view is almost certainly more scenic elsewhere.

Still, this moment is mine. I am home.