Progress Came and Took its Toll

The heat, of course, is a given. Here in Florida, it does not merely arrive; it settles, a physical presence, a humid shroud that clings to the skin and mutes the sharp edges of the world. One chooses this, or one leaves.

I chose this heat, this particular light, this singular tangle of green and shimmering water. And anyone who has paid attention for more than a moment understands the fervent, almost intemperate, pitch of my regard for this unruly, unforgettable state.

But even the brightest days bleed, eventually, into night. And lately, it is the humid density of the so-called, much-grieved Real Florida – the one unfolding in the stark, unsparing light of 2025 – that presses in.

That loaded phrase, "The Real Florida," drifts through conversation like the scent of sage on a tropical breeze. It is the official gloss for the State Parks; a curated vision of palmetto-fringed horizons, the improbable pink of a spoonbill against a pale, indifferent sky, the languid menace of an alligator glimpsed, briefly, in the distance. A postcard. A meticulously constructed myth.

Yet, Florida, the one marketed as "Real," is vanishing at a clip that feels less like progress and more like deliberate erasure. And what is taking its place – the blunt instrument of political force bending to quick profit, the relentless march of housing developments swallowing scrubland whole, the roaring indifference of the interstate, the ever-widening chasm between those who have and those who certainly do not – that is no less real.

Indeed, the uncomfortable truth is, this is the Real Florida now. The other stuff, the wild beauty, the untamed corner of America? That is the dream those of us with roots here still clutch; a fading image in the rearview mirror, a place scorched and destroyed and not ever coming back.

Nostalgia is a dangerous indulgence. A quick, romanticized glance back at the Florida of yore conveniently overlooks the brutal realities etched into its very soil: the ghosts of racial massacres, the silent cries of abandoned children, the violent echoes of war, the periodic, and indifferent fury of hurricanes that redraw the coastline. Trading the messy, complicated present for a selectively curated past is a fool's errand.

And yet.

This is the ground I have chosen. This stubborn patch of grass I keep returning to. It is the story that has been tugging at my sleeve since I left in 1998.

So, for a moment, let us acknowledge the shadows that lengthen across this beloved landscape, the disquieting truths that cannot be ignored. And then, perhaps, we can turn, however tentatively, toward the stubborn glimmers of joy that still manage to pierce through the encroaching darkness.

The most pervasive weight I feel is the architecture of power.

To my eye, it is a structure built on the ambitions of predatory real estate developers, their appetites seemingly insatiable, enabled by a political class that often appears willfully blind to the long-term costs. The economic engine, fueled by relentless, rootless growth bows before them. The historical chasm between the haves and the have-nots in Florida feels wider, more starkly defined, than ever before. The cost of simply existing here climbs while the value recedes, and the sheer crush of bodies strains an already fragile infrastructure. The social safety net, never robust, feels increasingly threadbare.

These architects of growth, these wielders of political influence, often seem to regard this singular place not with reverence, but as a vast, untapped ledger of potential profit. That, in its purest form, feels like a corruption of the very idea of place.

And yet.

Another shadow, the one that invariably surfaces first in conversations about Florida, is the back-and-forth of politics. In a handful of short years, Florida has hardened into a reliable shade of red, becoming a national crucible for culture wars waged over religion, race, and sexuality. In a state as inherently diverse as this, a chaotic, beautiful collision of cultures drawn from every corner of the globe, such differences are inevitable.

But these differences are increasingly weaponized, deliberately used to cleave us apart for partisan gain. Governor Ron DeSantis has navigated this fault line with a chilling effectiveness. (In the pursuit of some semblance of balance, one might search for a comparable Democratic figure, but the current statewide political terrain offers a starkly different picture and the reality is the Florida Democrats are no better than DeSantis and, in some ways, are much, much worse)

I have never been drawn to states defined by rigid ideological boundaries. California, for all its undeniable beauty, can feel like an echo chamber. Illinois and New York wrestle with their own entrenched forms of corruption and and excess. Texas, where I once lived under a vast, indifferent sky, left me feeling largely uninspired. And Alabama … well, Alabama is another story altogether.

The inherent danger in these two dominant shadows – the skewed power dynamics and the divisive political landscape – lies in their tangible impact on individual lives. When economic mobility becomes a mirage, when access to essential medical care is curtailed or denied, the very possibility of a sustainable existence in Florida erodes. Similarly, when individuals face prejudice, harassment, or outright hostility from their neighbors or their government based on who they are, life becomes an intolerable burden. When people tell me they are packing their bags and leaving Florida, there is a grim understanding that settles in. It is often not a flight from beauty, but a pragmatic retreat from an increasingly hostile reality.

These are not abstract debates that can be easily dismissed; they are the daily realities for a growing number of Floridians. And this slow bleed of talent and diversity chips away at the very soul of Florida, the odd, the unexpected, the gloriously strange – the very qualities that have historically made it such fertile and unpredictable cultural ground.

Roughly a decade ago, when Florida still clung to its precarious "purple" identity, there was a flicker of something new, a tentative reaching across divides, a sense of possibility. For the first time, a significant wave of young people who had actually grown up under this relentless sun were injecting fresh energy into the state's stagnant cultural arteries – in music, in food, in a nascent sense of regional identity. But too many of those bright sparks were ultimately forced to seek more welcoming landscapes, their innovative ideas struggling to take root in a shifting climate. Finding your tribe and your purpose elsewhere is, of course, a valid and sometimes necessary act of self-preservation.

So, what thin thread of hope do I cling to amidst this encroaching darkness?

Historically, Florida has proven to be a state of abrupt and often dramatic shifts. A hurricane can redraw the map and the economy in a matter of hours. A national recession can trigger a sudden and widespread upheaval. A demographic shift, fueled by its ever-churning transient population, can realign the political landscape in a handful of election cycles. The entire state, it seems, can be remade in a few short years. Sometimes, as feels chillingly evident now, that remaking is for the worse. But history also offers fleeting glimpses of more positive transformations, moments when the pendulum swung in a different direction.

So, my hope, perhaps a stubborn refusal to surrender to cynicism best savored with a strong cup of Cuban coffee, is that the tide will turn again. It is a long view, offering little immediate comfort to those currently struggling, but it is the horizon I choose to focus on, for now.

So let us turn toward the stubborn glimmers of light that still manage to pierce through the shadows, the enduring sources of a uniquely Florida joy.

The Real Florida, the untamed, often brutal beauty of the natural environment, remains a powerful, almost visceral source of hope. I am constantly humbled by the mysterious resilience of this place, the way life persists in the face of heat, humidity, and the relentless human encroachment. I hold onto the almost childlike belief that perhaps others here, even those whose eyes are currently fixed on the bottom line, will eventually, truly fall in love with it, too. I still swallow the myth whole, even as I choke on it.

Marjory Stoneman Douglas, in those indelible opening lines of The Everglades: River of Grass, spoke a profound and enduring truth: "There are no other Everglades in the world." That single sentence encapsulates the irreplaceable singularity of this place. Nowhere else on earth quite replicates this intricate web of water and sawgrass, this delicate balance of life and death. Not the rice paddies of Vietnam, despite the shared sweat. Not the sun-drenched shores of the Caribbean. Not even the familiar landscapes of neighboring Georgia and South Carolina.

We remain unique, captivating in our wildness, and it feels like a profound act of self-inflicted blindness, a damn shame really, to fail to see and cherish what lies right before us. It is still, unequivocally, worth fighting for, worth loving with a fierce and unwavering devotion, perhaps best articulated after a long, hot day with a cold beer and the sound of crickets.

I spend hours, often sweating like a broken faucet under the relentless sun, cultivating native plants in my small patch of Florida. I am continually astonished by their tenacity, their remarkable ability to thrive in this often-unforgiving climate, and the almost immediate influx of life they attract – the iridescent flash of hummingbirds, the tireless industry of bees, the intricate dance of countless insects, creating miniature, self-sustaining ecosystems in my own backyard.

I am often moved by the quiet wisdom contained within the pages of field guides, learning about the traditional healing qualities of these native species, their potential to mend both the ravaged earth and the human body.

One day, I hold onto the quiet conviction, we will collectively awaken to the extraordinary, often-overlooked bounty of natural resources we stand upon here in Florida, recognizing their intrinsic value far beyond the short-term gains of development. It is a slow burn realization, like the subtle heat of a datil pepper, but one worth waiting for.

There is also a stubborn, undeniable joy to be found in Florida’s chaotic, often contradictory diversity. By any objective measure, this is one of the most culturally rich and varied states in the nation, a vibrant, sometimes jarring collision of traditions and perspectives drawn from every corner of the globe. Miami pulses with a Latin American energy as potent and undeniable as its humidity, a place where Spanish often feels like the lingua franca. The Tampa Bay region serves as a dynamic crossroads for people from every imaginable background, a melting pot seasoned with the flavors of Cuba, Italy, and beyond.

You can still find the quiet dedication of engineers pushing the boundaries of the possible on the Space Coast, and the enduring resilience of fishermen who still cast their nets in the Gulf, carrying on traditions that have sustained generations, their faces weathered by sun and salt. So much of the rest of the United States can feel like a slow drift toward homogeneity; Florida constantly throws the unexpected in your path, a sudden burst of a different language, a new flavor on the street corner, a tradition you have never encountered before. It is a place that keeps you on your toes, never quite letting you settle into comfortable assumptions.

I am always drawn to the way Florida shows up on screen, a landscape as diverse and unpredictable as its people – from the stark beauty of Kelly Reichardt’s River of Grass, a haunting portrayal of a Florida on the fringes, to the quintessential ‘80s absurdity of Summer Rental, and the quirky, unforgettable characters of documentaries like Vernon, Florida and the poignant beauty of The Last Resort. Even the surreal humor of Caddyshack and the unexpected heart of Magic Mike feel intrinsically tied to this strange and wonderful place. It is a cinematic landscape that reflects the beautiful weirdness of the state itself.

And then there are my neighbors and friends, the unexpected connections forged in the shared experience of navigating this often-baffling state. We swap stories over fences about the vagaries of Florida weather and the surprisingly complex lives of our backyard chickens. They invite me to impromptu barbecues under the sprawling branches of live oaks, the scent of grilling meat mingling with the humid evening air and the low hum of cicadas. Life, in its most fundamental form, can be remarkably simple anywhere you choose to put down roots, and Florida, despite its complexities and occasional outright lunacy, offers those moments of quiet, human connection, often over a plate of something fried and a cold drink.

I suppose those simple joys – the shared laughter over a backyard fence, the unexpected kindness of strangers encountered in a dive bar, the quiet satisfaction of coaxing life from the stubborn soil – are universal, found in communities across the globe. But these are my joys, the small, persistent glimmers of light in this increasingly complicated landscape, and for now, I choose to find solace and a fragile, stubborn hope within them, right here in the sometimes-heavy, always unforgettable embrace of the Real Florida.