The 45 Project, part 3: Florida, for goodness’ sake

I call summer our reverse winter. Here in Jacksonville, on the north edge of Florida, actual winter is short and mild — just cold enough to wear fuzzy socks and light a fire in the fireplace, just long enough to enjoy the season’s pleasures without it wearing out its welcome, and interspersed with just enough surprise warm days to nourish you. Not like growing up in Indiana, or the 14 years I lived in New York, when winter lasts so long past the time when you think spring should have sprung that it almost breaks your spirit, and you don’t see the sun for all those long gray months.

In Florida, reverse winter is what you have to worry about — in July and August, it’s so hot and humid every second of the day and night that you don’t go outside unless you have to. It’s just like all those winters I lived through in the north: the weather so harsh and intense that when you open the front door it’s like the air is trying to kill you.

I find these two months a very fair exchange for gorgeous days the rest of the year. The thing I love most about living here is that there’s so much green — trees and grass, and so much water — river and ocean, and so much sun, shining almost every day of the year. At some point in every day (except for reverse winter, of course) you can find me sitting outside with a book and a beverage, soaking up that sun. It’s good for me; in fact, it’s drastically improved my quality of life, my day-to-day mood, and my health. Of course, I wasn’t thinking about what would be good for me when I came here — I was thinking about my work, which is pretty much the only thing I ever thought about back then.

I moved here for a job, leaving the home I’d made in Harlem and starting over in a place I’d never been until my interview. When I made the decision to take the job, I knew only two things about the place that would become my new home: Jacksonville had a beach, and it was 30% Black — and I figured that was enough to build on, especially for the sake of the work I wanted to do.

Adjusting to the change in environment took time — in the first few months, it was so quiet at night that I had a hard time sleeping. In New York you can always see and hear other New Yorkers, even if it’s only voices from the street below, or the glow of the TV that is always on in the apartment across the way. For a while I had a recurring dream that the apocalypse had happened overnight but I didn’t find out until the morning that I was the last person left.

Building community took even more time. I moved here knowing no one, just as I had the first time I moved across the country, from Indiana to New York at 23. But making friends in youth and grad school is easy, and making friends as a somewhat jaded adult is not.

But one day I looked up and realized I lived here now. I ran into friends at the store. I had a mechanic. I knew where to get good pizza or a great slice of pie. A neighbor told me that after being here for years I was no longer allowed to introduce myself by saying “I just moved here from New York.” When I meet new people over Zoom and they ask me where I am, I’m sometimes still surprised to say I live in Jacksonville. It’s far from anywhere my 23-year-old self could imagine living, but somehow exactly what my 45-year-old self needs: a slower speed, more time and space, an expectation of kindness. One of the city’s tourist slogans is “it’s easier here” — and it is.

There are times when I reflect on the fact that I’ve moved to the south, a place my father left like so many other Black men and women of his generation, seeking what they hoped would be a better chance to be seen as fully human in the north. In some ways I am choosing to live with things he moved to get away from, but I also feel closer to my beloved grandparents Honee and Beagle, who are buried in Memphis where I spent my childhood summers. My elders here remind me of the ones I grew up with, who posted my report cards on the church bulletin board and kept me in line when I needed a firm hand, and prayed for me every night.

Yes, there are all the ‘Florida Man’ jokes to contend with — but the truth is, I value that I can’t hide here from how deeply divided we are as a nation, or how afraid people are on both sides. And frankly I appreciate that I never have to wonder where anyone stands, because it’s loudly proclaimed on their lawn sign or bumper sticker or t-shirt. I grew up in Indiana — a southern state that just happens to be in the midwest — in an inter-racial family that drew a lot of attention and sometimes hostility, so I’m not new to this. As long as I have clarity, I know how to deal with it.

Since I left New York, I’ve never missed living there. And yet, I never stopped loving it. The first time I stepped out of the train station and joined the rush of fast walkers on the street, was also the first time I ever felt like I belonged somewhere. I loved the energy. I loved the attitude. I loved the anonymity. But those last couple of years, I started going to a botanical garden every weekend and sitting under a tree reading for hours — just for space and quiet. I had to get all the way here to realize that I’d been needing a shift for a while. I’d been needing sun on my face, my own tree to sit under, and water to rest my eyes on. I’d been needing the ordinary things of life to be more easeful. I’d been needing to slow down.

Even though moving here has been so good for me, I never would have done it just for myself. Most of my life I didn’t think I had the right to choose what I wanted my life to be like; I thought it was my responsibility to do the work that needed to be done, no matter what I had to sacrifice. I could go to Florida beaches for vacation, but you don’t get to live there. But it turns out you can live there, and as I reflect on how doing so has changed my life, I realize that Jacksonville has been the home ground I needed to be able to shift my long history of working too much, of putting work at the center of my life. But that’s a story for next month.

This is part of a monthly series, The 45 Project, reflecting on my first 45 years — find the other installments here.