Southern Periphery

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the state of Florida. More specifically, I’ve tried to grasp how I feel about its national ties. As a native Floridian, I was born, grown, and educated on this sultry peninsula. I’m confident in my vague familiarity with its geography (sorry Gulf-side, I can never remember which cities are really on the west coast), politics, and crazy-ass weather patterns (that last descriptor applies to our politics too). But when I consider Florida as one of our fifty states, I falter as I try to form a comprehensive Floridian identity in my mind. I guess when I think “America,” I have an easier time first picturing the throbbing vein of urbanity in the Northeast, or the seemingly endless panorama of agricultural landscape that unfurls over the Midwest, or even the desert “frontier” of the Southwestern states. But because Florida doesn’t really strike any cord of unified identity, it gives me pause when attempting to place us within (my own perception of?) our national consciousness. This is not to say, however, that I consider Florida to be “un-American.” I just think that since Floridians don’t really share a common statewide culture, it becomes difficult to represent ourselves to the nation as a whole. Many people astutely joke that northern Florida is really an extension of lower Georgia and southern Florida is comprised of geriatric Northern snow-birds.  This state bisection becomes even more complex with the thriving diversity of Miami, which itself is ten million miles away (culturally speaking) from the gentle hills and horse farms of central Florida. Geographically, Florida seems to be this eclectic strip of extra land that awkwardly juts out of our nation’s vast contiguousness into southern periphery (I can only imagine how Hawaiians and Alaskans feel…).  And when we consider non-Floridian-Americans’ perceptions of us, our identity transforms even further. I think it’s safe to say that most people think beaches, sunshine, and Disney when describing our state. In short, we’re a place to vaycay. Since being on holiday is not “real-life”, and our cultural representation to other Americans is fully imbued with an idealized image of fun, sun, and relaxation, I beg the questions: how do other states take us seriously? More generally, can vacation destinations offer more cultural capital (even when they possess other industries besides tourism) than just, say, mouse ears? My impression of this view troubles me further when recalling our nauseating roles in national news. From the hanging chads that greeted us at the new millennium to the horrifying trial involving Casey Anthony just this year, Florida seems to create some really embarrassing stories that supply our nation with loads of gawk-fodder. Obviously, solely basing one’s idea of Florida off these heinous headlines is really reductive and unfair (I hope?). So I guess what I need to tell myself (and other states, for that matter) is that Florida’s identity lies within its very random, starkly fragmented diversity. And when you think about it, its intrinsic heterogeneity seems to reflect that of our very own country’s sprawling variety. So is Florida a microcosmic USA? No. No, most definitely not. But it’s comforting to feel connected to the nation through similiar, multi-faceted identities.

Feliz Cumpleanos to me....

Last Saturday, I turned 23 and was told to clean up human shit. Or rather, I sort of got pressured into volunteering myself to do the deed while working in the lowest echelons of the well-established beacon of suburban consumerism: Bullseye! (I don’t want to use its real name due to an irrational fear of a lawsuit?—so just think red concentric circles…) I guess my Virgoan nature kicked itself into overdrive that day; not only did I sort of play the martyr and earn myself a sympathy (birthday) card , but I begrudgingly acquiesced to my people-pleaser proclivity (with a fast, fun, and friendly attitude, no less! (Bullseye lingo)). Fret not, concerned reader! I was recompensed with $3.48 worth of Starbucks….. So an old man had gone all incontinent and dropped some brown on the bathroom floor (which in hindsight is super depressing—you know, underscoring our cyclical human nature as we regress to trouser-shitting baby-status even though we’re well past the age of 70.) With half an hour left in my shift (notice the ‘shit’ in ‘shift’?), I was told to perform a bathroom check-up to make sure everything was A.O.K. When I entered the bathroom, I immediately stepped in the putrid. Naturally, I swore loudly, ignoring those nagging scruples that would normally berate me to censure my voiced rage for fear of offending guests within earshot. Whatever. So with a shitted right foot, I hobbled back to guest services to obtain a plastic bag with which to act as a momentary barrier, all the while receiving many o’ perplexed stares. Upon returning, a geezer puttered out of the bathroom, who probably was the origin of all the dross. After cleaning up the mess, I checked the stalls to see if there was any more incriminating evidence only to behold a heavily soiled pair of old-man-granny-panties marinating contentedly in the toilet bowl. With a hard roll of the eyes and a quick, self-pitying “What the HELL did I do to piss off Karma??”, I lifted the (not-so-tighty and certainly not-so-whitey)  tighty-whities from their wicked broth and dumped the awful in a trashbag. After disposing of it all in the backroom, I returned only to see that another trashbag I had carried to the back (unsoiled, THANKYOUJESUS) had dripped the length of the floor. There was definitely some teeth grinding and rage induced eye-twitching. So I got some paper towels and drug them through the mess allllll the way down the lane of the store (with the help of another, danke shoen). Soooo how was my 23^rd you may ask? Pritty shitty.