Exploring American Hometowns: Crawfordville, Florida

An old Florida adage goes, “The further north you go, the more southern it becomes.” The state’s northwestern region is the Panhandle. The name comes from its image as the “handle” of a peninsula-shaped frying pan. The 13 counties that directly border the Gulf of Mexico in this region are known as the “Forgotten Coast.”

Now that you have that vision, the small, rural town of Crawfordville, Florida, has been situated along this stretch since 1866—my hometown. However, calling it small may be an overstatement, as the town covers only 4.5 square miles and has a population of 4,000. With this in mind, I believe it is more fitting to discuss my hometown against the backdrop of Wakulla County as a whole. One of the 13 “Forgotten Coast” counties, Wakulla encompasses the land that exists between the capital city and the sea. More specifically, it lies between Tallahassee and the nearest salty beaches.

I was born at Tallahassee Memorial Hospital in the blistering September heat of 2005. When I was 6, my family moved us 30 minutes away into the heart of Wakulla County. As we entered the county limits and passed cows grazing in a lush field, a large blue billboard with the phrase “Wakulla Loves Jesus” came into view. The sign was permanent and unequivocal in its message, forceful in its decree. I soon found out that this county, much like its sign, stood unwavering and rooted in its values, such as maintaining tradition, preaching Southern hospitality, and appreciating the natural environment.

Before discussing the spirit of my small town, it is important to lay down some identifiers. Wakulla shows up in the lilting Southern accents, plentiful sweet tea, dirt roads with tire marks, and the tell-tale camo outfits that signal hunting season has arrived. Cowboy boots are a must, and football is second only to Christianity. Square dancing is on the educational curriculum, but sexual education is firmly absent.

Those who have met me before are likely to doubt that I grew up in what is essentially the Deep South. I typically do not give off the vibe that I can shuck oysters or successfully guide a pontoon boat onto its trailer. Despite the Southern accents I was surrounded by, I never developed one myself, and my country vernacular only consists of the occasional “y’all.” Even though it is not apparent at first glance, Southern culture and the dynamics of small-town life still shaped me immensely. Even more importantly, I didn’t fully appreciate it until I left it behind to come to Harvard.

My hometown was full of natural wonders. Wakulla Springs State Park is one of the largest and deepest freshwater springs in the entire world. Water feeds it through a 45-mile underground river system of mapped limestone caves. This not only fuels the stunning swimming hole but also supplies a critical part of the Florida aquifer that provides drinking water to the region. Wakulla Springs was also the filming location for the famous movie “Creature from the Black Lagoon” in 1954.

The lush landscape makes the area the perfect habitat for creatures of all sorts (not just movie monsters), including alligators and manatees. And yet, to me, Wakulla Springs was simply the place I would go every weekend to swim in the icy, clear water with my friends before getting my favorite cookie dough ice cream in the lodge. Only in retrospect do I realize how special it was to casually see a manatee while swimming and spend my free time in the center of nature rather than surrounded by concrete—sorry, Boston.

If you drive just a short distance from Wakulla High School (my alma mater), you reach St. George Island, or SGI as we locals call it. It is a thin strip of land accessible only over a bridge and the site of many, many beach trips while growing up. It may have also led to quite a few days ending with blistering sunburns, but I have never regretted tanning on the pure white sand one bit.

Without excessive development and tourism, the island has remained much the same throughout my entire life. As the name “Forgotten Coast” suggests, beaches like SGI remain relatively unknown to the broader population of Florida and the vacationers who travel from up north. While other beaches like Miami and Panama City Beach are wracked with pollution, our paradise has remained relatively untouched by human hands.

Beyond its gorgeous natural features and rich history, one of the most striking things about my hometown is its insularity. Wakulla exists outside the normal bounds of time and space, maintaining its own gravitational pull over the people who live there. Once people move there, they tend to stay, and even when people leave, they eventually come back. I think that is one of the things about small towns. They seep into your body until they are as necessary as the blood that pumps through your heart. Leaving would only result in heartbreak.

Accordingly, many families are generational Wakullians, extending all the way back to the Civil War. You could often tell from a last name whether someone came from one of these historical founding families. Part of that history is difficult: Wakulla was a Southern stronghold during the Civil War. Confederate troops from the county helped defend Tallahassee from a Union attack at the Battle of Natural Bridge in St. Marks. Tallahassee remained uncaptured until the end of the war and was the only Confederate state capital besides Austin, Texas, to remain uncaptured throughout the war. It is not altogether surprising then that while growing up, I would frequently see Confederate flags displayed in neighboring yards or even on the back of trucks.

After all, Wakulla is not the most demographically diverse place. For instance, my family was the only Jewish family in the entire county. This cultural makeup is not intentional by any means, but rather a product of historical lineage and a perpetuating disdain for difference. Part of the small-town charm is maintaining a universal sense of familiarity. Everyone knows everyone. The four elementary schools filter into two middle schools and one unified high school. When people discussed building another high school, outrage ensued over the idea of splitting the football team. Like many small towns, Wakulla resists change in its construction and its mindset. When community and loyalty favor traditionalism, expecting anything else is naive.

This is not to say that my experience growing up in my Southern hometown was inherently negative or prejudicial. While some norms seem derivative of an era that no longer exists, I believe you can appreciate the positive aspects while rejecting exclusionary attitudes. This is likely the biggest change I have experienced since trading quiet slow living for the bustling city streets of Cambridge and Boston. When you are in the echo chamber of traditionalism, it is hard to imagine other places where progressive ideas are at the forefront. After you leave, you begin to understand that you can’t judge places and their communities without context.

My relationship with my hometown may be complex, but the person I am today would not exist without the place I call home. For that, I am forever grateful to the “Forgotten Coast” of Wakulla County.

I learned resilience and independence and developed an invaluable perspective. Small-town life is indeed slow, and it often doesn’t match the pace of changing times in more urban locations. But that doesn’t always mean faster is inherently better. Many aspects of life are worth slowing down and appreciating. As I approach the second half of my undergraduate education here at Harvard (hello junior year), I plan to recall the special stillness that enveloped my hometown and take a moment to exist in the present before change envelops my life once more.

Taylor Thorne ’28 (taylorthorne@college.harvard.edu) is accepting open invitations to go line-dancing.