Taking On A Couple Floridians

 subtitled what I wish I had the presence of mind to say instead of what I didn't

 

My previous automobile proudly displayed a number of bumper stickers and decals, including one identifying Amy Klobuchar as my US Senator.  In Minnesota, no problem.  I was, then, a little taken aback when a couple different people in the complex where we were wintering in Florida kinda sidled up to me and asked, sotto voce, "Is that car with the Minnesota plates yours?"

I claimed it as such, and they then said, to a person, "You've got to be careful who you talk to about politics here.  I'm an Amy Klobuchar fan, but not everybody is."

Duly noted.

In polite conversation, I chose to wait to see which way the wind was blowing as opposed to blasting in with the hurricane of my beliefs.  Some were clear that talking politics was a non-starter and that was respected.  Others spewed MAGA and/or DeSantis dismantling of freedoms and for the main, I steered clear of those chats.  Because though I have tried, I just don't get such philosophies and, consequently, I find myself tongue tied when challenged that my belief system doesn't align with those.  

My belief system doesn't align with those because it's nothing more than common sense that we, as a country, espouse that EVERYBODY means EVERYBODY when it comes to human rights.

However, I chose to wade into the Florida Swamp of Lies, Recriminations and Hatred one day last week at Pickleball.

A digression about Pickleball, the fastest growing sport in the United States.  If asked, those who play Pickleball will tell those who don't that Pickleball People (it's a thing) are really very nice and welcome EVERYBODY to play, which is stretching the truth to some extent when you are a neophyte looking to play recreationally and not whack the hell out of the ball.  My goal when I started playing regularly down here was to improve from being Piss Poor to Mediocre.  The jury is still out as to whether or not that goal has been accomplished.

Because there is a certain amount of down time between games, given the high number of people coming to play, there is also a certain amount of banal sidelines conversations.  As in do you live here full time?  Where are you from?  Where are you staying?  When do you go home?  Do you rent or own?  Have you eaten at Crabby Bill's this season, I hear the food isn't very good since Bill's kids took over after he died.  That kinda stuff.

For the most part, those who indicate they live in Florida are transplants.  Honestly, I think I can count on one hand (okay, maybe 2) the native Floridians I've met.  Once they share where they're originally from, I make a summary judgement regarding the safety of expressing my opinions about what stuff and nonsense Ron DeSantis and the Florida legislature are up to.  

Once someone hears I'm from Minnesota, there's the requisite comments about the terrible winter weather, to which I can readily agree.  Others from the Northeast or Midwest commiserate and the Southerners just shake their heads, until...

Until, and this has happened more than once, the Floridian (transplant) inquires, and this is how it is phrased, "When are you gonna move down here?"  As if that's a given, I just haven't seen the light yet. 

Now, I have a bit of experience with this question in another life.  When I became Director of Community Education in Hastings, which was a 45 minute drive southeast of where we (used to) live in Minnetonka, a fair number of Hastings residents asked guilelessly when I was moving to Hastings.  I mean, why not, and similar to Floridians, why would I NOT want to move to Hastings?  Or Florida?

To which I would--and did--throw up the shield of the family.  "My kids all live in the west Metro," I would say to my Hastings friends, who then would nod knowingly and issue absolution.  Of course I would want to stay in Minnetonka.

Routinely, then, I respond to the Floridians that my adult children and 8 grandchildren live within 20 minutes or so of us so I didn't see myself moving to Florida.

Again, this has happened more than once.  To paraphrase: "Once we moved down here, my daughter/son/grandchildren followed.  You'd be surprised."

Wouldn't I just?

Here's where good sense no longer prevails.  I don't always know where the people I'm talking with emigrated from, because I've learned that those same people commiserating with me about the terrible weather Up North are more likely to share my political ideology that those who migrated from a state south of the Mason-Dixon line.  What I should do is just smile and ask where their favorite place to have breakfast is, my husband loves the Eggs Benedict at Belleair Cafe.

But nooo...

Instead, I say, "I honestly don't think I'd want my grandchildren going to school here, given how the governor and legislature are dismantling the education system."

Eyeballs shoot darts at me.  I begin to back pedal.  "I'm a retired school administrator and I believe that the legislative branch is interfering with what should be the purview of the schools."

Now, this is as close to accurate as my faulty memory will permit me to recount.

Pickleball Player One: "The schools should be teaching reading, writing and arithmetic."

Retired School Administrator: "My experience would tell me that's a significant part of the curriculum."

Pickleball Player Two: "Somebody's got to keep the schools from teaching kids all that crap."

 

Here the Retired School Administrator should have challenged PPT regarding a definition of crap and how she knew for a fact that crap was being taught in the schools.  Instead I said, "I don't think that's what the schools do."

Pickleball Player Two: "There's a thing called social media and you can go on there and see teachers telling boys that if they want to come to school tomorrow dressed up as girls, they can."

At which point my brain was exploding and, thankfully, both players were called to play and I was left to sit there, stewing at my ineptitude as well as disbelief that I had just been schooled not just on the pickleball court, but on the sidelines as to the existence of a thing called social media.

Two days later, a woman sat next to me on the Pickleball sidelines.  I turned to say hello.  Turns out it was Pickleball Player One, who said, "Oh, yeah, you're the one who doesn't want to move to Florida."

I think I'm going with being proud of being branded that way.

On a completely different note, we'll be heading back to Minnesota April 30, moving in with our oldest daughter until we get our legs underneath us and can decide what our next move will be, given there's nothing on the real estate market that we're interested in.  It will work out.  It always does.