We Seceded Where Others Failed
We Seceded Where Others Failed
An unlikely rebellion.
I did not partake in the secession. I was too young and on the opposite side of the globe. It is a minor regret in my life, but I atone for it with an annual pilgrimage to the place of the insurrection.
The secession unfolded on April 23rd, 1982. That it happened in the United States is what boggles the mind.
It all began with a blockade of a tropical island. Law enforcement barricaded the only road to the mainland to stop illegal immigration and drug trafficking. This choked the flow of tourists to the island and pinched the local tourist-dependent economy. The residents protested, but the government ignored their complaints. What could they do? They seceded.
The mayor and local officials proclaimed the establishment of an independent Conch Republic. They broke a loaf of Cuban bread over the head of a man in the US Navy and declared war on the United States. But the nascent republic had no standing army and instantly surrendered. Vanquished, they requested one billion dollars in foreign aid.
The “rebellion” happened in Key West, Florida. Although the story is entirely true, the event was tongue-in-cheek — a humorous and creative way for the locals to draw attention to Key West’s economic problem. In a way, they won. The US Border Patrol lifted the blockade following the “secession.” The insurrectionists escaped without consequences.
The event left a mark on the local psyche. Forty years later, the Conch Republic flags still fly from the houses, and locals wear “We suceeded [sic] where others failed” hats.
I loved the story of the secession when I first visited Key West in 1998. This humor and irreverence drew me to town. And the warmth, the ocean, the food. Hemingway fell in love with Key West and made it his home for a decade in the 1930s before moving to Cuba. Like him, it captured me.
My partner Alexandra and I spend two to three months in Key West yearly. The town is a mixture of quiet streets, loud bars, frivolity and seriousness, ocean and land, pale tourists and tanned locals. It is all corral and concrete — the locals call it “the rock.” It is also a garden of tropical plants that greenthumbs struggle to keep alive in their house pots in the northern states. But here, they grow with abandon. I find these contrasts alluring.
On Duval Street, Key West is a tourist town. People bump into you, spilling their drinks. Or you bump into them when they stop to take a picture of a rooster pecking on a dropped bun. Souvenir stands, outdoor bars, boutiques, galleries. Smells of ice cream and fried food.
Queues at the Southernmost Point of the US. Queues at the Mile Marker 0. Queues at Truman’s Summer White House. Queues at Hemingway’s home.
People come here to experience the most foreign American city. They come for the architecture, fishing, and carefree fun. In late October, they come for the Fantasy Fest.
I dragged my sister and her family to the island when they flew in from Europe for warmth, sunshine, and to say hello. Alas, I mistimed the weekends and brought them to the Fest—unintentionally, truly.
Duval Street was chaos. A man walked by with only a sock for clothes and not on his foot. Two women passed us wearing nothing but paint, artfully covering their bodies. A group of elders dancing shirtless. A young couple kissing on the street. My sister’s eyes darted between the bodies. Her husband glanced at me with a smirk. Their seven-year-old daughter giggled.
I suggested we take a side street, but they wanted to forge on. What is it? They asked. This is how Americans blow off steam on Fridays, I joked. Every Friday? Yes. But I backtracked and told them of the Fest. It has been around since 1979. Does the US have decency laws? Yes, the fest ran afoul of those in the past but survived.
My sister tells this story every chance she gets. It defines the openness of America to her, and no amount of my protests convince her of how unusual her experience here has been.
This frivolity and risqué fun are a patina over the vibrant community that lives underneath. People move here to escape the cold or find the ocean. Most work for a year or a few, then grow tired of the island and move away. But some stick around and form the heart and culture of this place.
Larry is a man past middle age. I ran into him at the Hemingway Social Club, a tasting room at Pilar Rum Distillery. Panama hat, loose buttoned shirt, and island sandals clashed with his northeastern accent. He was playing piano and covering jazz standards with a female vocalist in her early thirties. They moved on unhurried island time, stopped between songs to highlight local events, and gossiped with each other.
We chatted during their break. Larry played jazz professionally since his early teens. He toured with bands, produced records, and hosted a musical showcase on New York television. He chose to finish his illustrious career in Key West. Here, he is among his peers.
“You like Dave Brubeck?” he asked me.
“Ah, Dave Brubeck?” I blanked.
“Take Five? No.” He shook his head, then muttered with a smile, “Young people today.”
I am in my mid-forties.
I followed Larry to his next gig. At the Gardens Hotel, a couple more Larrys, Skip, and Christine played for a crowd. I grabbed a drink at the bar and talked with people. Locals? I asked a couple. Yes, most are locals here. The couple were a retired accountant and a teacher. A woman in a floral dress — an artist. A man in a Wisconsin hat — a lawyer. A couple with an ugly small dog — an artist and a musician. A man in cargo shorts — antique shop owner. A slender woman in a sundress — forgot. But they all lived here, some for years, others for decades.
At a break, a lady reminded everyone they must pick the theme for next year’s Fantasy Fest by next week. She ran the organizing committee. These people loved their town.
For Alex and me, Key West is the winter home port. We love the little island.We know every street. We know individual trees and remember to duck under their low-hanging branches at night. We learned to avoid particular vigilante roosters that attack our dog. We know the rotation of our favorite musicians and the venues they play.
Some find such intimacy suffocating; maybe we would too if we lived in Key West year-round. But the deep familiarity with the peculiar details of the place is a gift for the few stationary months when we are moored in one location. The rush of places is exciting when we sail the rest of the year. But so is a deep dive into a single locale.