From New York Snow to Florida Sun: A Journey Through Culture and Belonging

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When I first set foot in the sun-soaked state of Florida — South Florida, to be exact — I was a mere eight

years old. My mother, a Jamaican born woman, native to island heat and crystal clear ocean waters, decided New York was no longer a place to call home. The constant shoveling of snowy driveways, dreary grey skies for months on end, and the lack of ocean access finally took its toll on her. Soon enough, she packed up her small white Toyota Hyundai, threw me in the back seat, and headed south, in search of warmth, salty air, and a new chapter.

I, a curious child at the time, was bewildered by my new environment. The first dragon-like lizard to zig-zag across my path, sent me into a frantic frenzy that caused me to skip across the pavement like my life depended on it. I have vivid memories of fighting off the giant soaring pterodactyls - aka the dragonflies - that viciously lunged at my head. My mother found this hysterical, while realizing just how much of a city child I was. She'd call my aunt in Long Island and bellow out, “The pickney was ducking and diving, screaming at the top of her lungs from a dragonfly!”, before letting out a long hard laugh.

But what overshadowed this new Jurassic World-like environment I’d been thrown into, was the dazzling mosaic of culture that South Florida held. Up until then, my world was defined by Jamaican and Black American communities. The moment I walked into Plantation Elementary and met my first Haitian “Zoe”, all of this would change.

In my new elementary school, Haitian boys as young as eight and nine, proudly stitched their flags onto their Jansport backpacks, chatting in rapid-fire Creole, a language I never knew existed. Black people speaking anything other than English or Potwai was mind-boggling to my 8 year old brain. I was even more floored, when I learned that Haiti shared the same island as the Dominican Republic, even though their languages and cultures were so different. This would serve as one my first real glimpses of the Caribbean’s beautiful complexity.

As the years passed, my circle would widen. I’d befriend classmates from the Bahamas, Cuba, Puerto Rico, the Philippines, Grenada, Saint Lucia, the Dominican Republic — and far beyond. Every new friendship would add another brushstroke to my understanding of the world.

What many non-Floridan’s may not realize is that, just like New York has boroughs where communities flourish, South Florida has its own cultural neighborhoods. There’s Little Haiti, where Haitian pride runs deep and Creole rings strong throughout the neighbourhood streets. In Miami, entire blocks hum with Cuban music, where Spanish is the default language and the smell of cafecito lingers in the air.

Growing up Jamaican in Fort Lauderdale and Palm Beach meant my weekends were steeped in community with Jamaican church gatherings, family cookouts with the best jerk chicken you’ve ever tasted, and cultural events like Cricket, a popular island sport. My mother always made a point to connect with other Jamaican families, ensuring that even as we navigated new spaces, our heritage remained rooted and close.

Another thing many may not know about Florida, is the Afro-Caribbean connections to the state that stretch back centuries. In the late 1800s, Black Bahamians migrated to South Florida for sea and agricultural work, shaping the foundation of cities like Miami. In fact, Black men made up 44% of the people that voted on Miami becoming a city in 1896. And even earlier than that, before Florida became part of the United States, it was a refuge for freedom-seekers. In 1738, formerly enslaved Africans established Fort Mose, the first free Black settlement in what is now the U.S., just outside St. Augustine. Under Spanish rule, these black refugees lived free, defended the land, and helped shape Florida’s early identity.

This layered history isn’t just something I learned in school, I lived it, and grew up alongside it. These communities weren’t abstract “cultures” to me; they were my friends, my neighbors, my second families. They taught me that someone with a different accent or skin tone isn’t a stranger, but instead they’re a story waiting to be heard.

What makes South Florida special isn’t just the beaches, the palm trees, or the endless summer, it’s the people. It’s the neighborhoods where languages overlap and music mingles. It’s the unspoken understanding that diversity isn’t just a buzzword here, it’s the foundation.

Over the years, the word “community” has evolved into meaning something bigger than just myself and the people I share space with. For me, it is a place where I can thrive, connect, share resources, and preserve the cultural histories that risk being erased by the tides of fear and prejudice. Florida shaped me into someone who sees difference as an invitation, not a threat. And that, more than anything, is the legacy of the communities that welcomed little eight year old me.

Sincerely,

Danielle D.