By Terrence McCoy
By Allie Conti
By Terrence McCoy
By Scott Fishman
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Allie Conti
By New Times Staff
By Ryan Pfeffer
Like every town in Broward County, Dania Beach has an official city seal. But you can't see it. They won't let you.
The logo you can see -- the one that's painted on their trucks and printed on their letterhead -- isn't actually official. It's just a drawing that was sent in by an art student from the town's summer youth employment program years ago. It has a dolphin leaping, a pelican swooping, the sun rising, some squiggly lines, the usual South Florida logo stuff.
But now, a mere six months after spending city money to spruce up this unofficial icon (and adding the word Beach to the name of the town and, for some reason, a limp starfish to the foreground), some townsfolk want to dump it. They want their official seal back. Not the one they already have. Not the one they won't let you see. A new one. One that nobody has seen.
Never mind. Even some of the most active civic-booster types in Dania Beach don't get it. "I never even saw the old seal," says Benjamin Wohl, president of Dania Beach Main Street, Inc. "What, now we're getting a new one?"
Looks like it. City Commissioner Bob Mikes, whose disdain for dolphins and pelicans is exceeded only by his contempt for starfish, has opened a campaign to rid the city of its current unofficial logo and replace it with something a little less... generic. "We're the oldest incorporated city in Broward County," Mikes says. "And we should have a logo that has some relevance to our history."
Standing in opposition is City Manager Michael Smith, a stalwart leaping-dolphin defender who nevertheless concedes that a citywide contest to choose a new seal is probably inevitable.
So here we go again. Another municipal logo war on the horizon. It's nothing new to Dan Austin, a Nova Southeastern professor of urban planning who has seen these kinds of symbol-skirmishes come and go. Austin knows how ugly they can get. "You go messing around with some city's identifying icons, and you'll find out just how big a deal these things can be," he says. "People take their icons seriously."
The question is, should anyone else? A quick look around the county reveals a plethora of logos that seem designed more as sales gimmicks than as actual symbols of cultural or historical reality.
Consider Wilton Manors. Ten years ago this town went through the same process that Dania Beach is just starting. They had a logo, they wanted to change it, and so they held a contest. The result? The logo they have now features a silhouette of a small bucolic isle with sandy beaches and swaying palm trees rising out of still water like a panel out of a desert-island cartoon. "Island City," reads the caption. It's undoubtedly a beautiful logo -- one of the best in the county. But it does have one tiny flaw.
Wilton Manors is landlocked. It has no sandy beach. The only things it's surrounded by are other cities. Wilton Manors is the Island City like Kansas is the Island State.
Former mayor Sandra Steen, a passionate defender of the logo the city adopted on her watch, insists that Wilton Manors really is an island. It's surrounded by drainage canals. "You can go around the whole city in a canoe or a small boat," she says. "Of course it would have to be a very low small boat, because of the bridges." Of course. Glad we cleared that up.
But now let's move on to North Lauderdale, another landlocked town in central Broward, but one that makes no grandiose claim to island status. No, in North Lauderdale, the sights are set much higher.
Picture this: an all-American family -- dad, mom, two obligatory young'uns -- standing in the foreground in a loving embrace. They're gazing off toward a dreamlike skyline that fills the horizon with fantastic spires, magical towers, and elegant skyscrapers. It is, according to the caption, the "CITY OF TOMORROW."
Drive through North Lauderdale sometime. Keep a weather eye open for skyscrapers and for futuristic skylines shimmering in the distance. See any? Fact is, North Lauderdale doesn't even have a distinct commercial downtown -- unless you count the usual malls, gas stations, and downscale restaurants lining Highway 441.
According to Assistant City Manager Richard Sala, the North Lauderdale logo "was part of the architect's original marketing plan." The spires and steeples weren't really meant to represent an actual city skyline. They're "beacons," he says, or maybe "bell towers" -- and they actually exist. When the city was founded in 1963, famed Art Deco architect Morris Lapidus, an investor in the town's development company, designed a cluster of structures to serve as a sort of entrance gateway to the city. The structures have since been removed from their original location, Sala says, but they are still visible from the road.
Not that it really matters. "Whether a logo has any dose of reality today isn't really relevant," says urban planner Austin. "For example, if you look at the state flag of Kansas, you'll see a covered wagon. There haven't really been any covered wagons in Kansas for a long, long time. So, a lot of these logos serve as romantic interpretations of the past -- or of the future. Sort of like, 'This is what we thought about this city when it was created.'"