*This was a paper I had to write during an English class I took in my late 20’s where the professor would settle her bohemian draped girth on her desk, tell us to never get married and to sleep with as many people as possible before we decided to chain ourselves down to family life. She would go on random tangents about former theater lovers, how “pedestrian” the Great Gatsby novel was and told me to never turn in handwritten notes because I “wrote like a third grade boy”.
Needless to say I loved her.
(Note: There will be a real time witty commentary in italics)
California Lost (2005)
I grew up in Los Angeles. When I say this I am either met with complete indifference or complete awe (a theme that I let follow me). For years growing up LA didn’t matter to me…didn’t seem different in the least until a cousin from out of state (they were from Spokane, Washington) told me when I was nine that most people dreamed of living where I lived (God, the grammar). I remember the complete, utterly incredulous feeling that crept over me as I gaped at him. People want to live here?(Shock and awe, I tell you) People thought I was cooler for living here? What makes this so different? I still had too early of a bedtime, my TV watching time was heavily regulated and I had a curfew like every other kid on my block. So like any other nine year old (with like, zero other living situations for comparison), I shrugged it off and didn’t think about the allure of a California upbringing until I was out of state at the age of twelve during a family trip. (This is the trip where I listened to New Orders Substance 1987 on repeat so much that I wore the cassette out before we got back).
We were somewhere in New Mexico, in the middle of a drive to Florida. After hours of sitting in the backseat of our minivan, my sister and I had beelined it to the pool after setting ourselves up in the room (I’m assuming this was throwing suitcases on the bed, and then shoving ourselves into swimsuits). There were other kids there, and one of them asked me where we were from. The minute I said “California” I was besieged (just utterly ambushed apparently)with questions about movie stars. The adoration, and worship this girl had for my birthplace was puzzling and embarrassing (and cringe). Again, what made that place so wonderful?(Pretty sure the Night Stalker was arrested just before that trip) Sure the beach was fun, and really it was kind of nice to wear sandals year round but I knew for a fact there were several other places that this feat was permitted (up to and including New Mexico, where we were sitting). And movie stars? Who cared?! They filmed movies all over the place and frankly it seemed a little silly. (This might be the blandest paper ever written. I wonder if it was my first and I didn’t want to unveil my zany, madcap writing style to the professor yet, so I settled for bland with a side of boring)
This theme continued well into adulthood but the reception was opposite. Instead of admiration I was rewarded with suspicion and attitude (Finally). At the tender age of 31 and sitting in a bookstore in the middle of Chicago land suburbia…I was immediately informed that my boss would not like me because of where I was from. Why? Because we (as in Californians, I’m assuming) thought we were better then anyone else. Oh of course. So sorry. (To be fair she was a raging bitch with an alcohol addiction and hated everyone that was not a male in their mid 20′s)
Never mind that years of conditioning, years of people informing me that I AM better then they are because of where I was born never once rubbed off on me (ok, found the humble brag. Please read on for my ambivalent innocence as a victim of circumstance. EYE. ROLL). I’ve had the impulse to get up and go before I was out of the cradle (I was also a fussy, grouchy baby). In fact all I wanted to do, from the moment I knew what a plane was, was leave the golden state and explore the world (facts). We lived about 20 minutes from Los Angeles International Airport, so the air traffic was somewhat heavy but not very loud. I would lay for hours, on the slide at the park near my various homes throughout my childhood and gaze up at the sky and try to imagine where each plane was headed, picturing sun drenched tropical beaches, snow covered mountains, flat prairie’s…anything that was different from the concrete jungle I had started to resent.( While poorly written-these are all facts. I spent a lot of time just dreamily looking at the sky and imagining what life would be like somewhere else)
(This has not stopped to this day, I just manage the impulse better plus NO one can afford to move right now)
However, I am not hating on my home state (well, not YET). Once I moved to Northern California, and once I shook off the lacquered over self image issues that Southern California undeniably possesses (shots fired!) I embraced the north half firmly (I had no choice), trading Disneyland and downtown LA club life (I went to like, three and one of them was in the VALLEY) for Napa wine tasting, cheap punk shows and day trips to San Francisco. I started having adventures but there was always that lingering feeling. My embrace was still at arms length(kinda goth, I love it). One foot in sea, and one on shore (plagiarizing Shakespeare‘s Much Ado About Nothing I see). I was still waiting for …something.( to one thing constant never)
I knew what it was. (then sigh not so)I was back on the slide again (but let them go). I wanted to hear from these irritated people (who? Who was mad?!) what it was like where they lived, because it was different and new. I wanted to fully experience seasons, I wanted to live where snow fell and I wanted to be lost in places without maps. (And be you blithe, and bonny)
Little did I know that my taste for the unknown would spiral out of control and land me in several different place (Here comes the intense part). Little did I know that I would become the essence of what I was craving, and despite the hard living, the set backs, the financial ruin, the fact that I have only left the continent once so far, and the trail of broken hearts I left strewn behind me.(I think that was supposed to be humor). Every minute has been worth it.
This time its me looking out of the plane window, down at the little girl on the slide.
( converting all you sounds of woe)
(into hey, nonny nonny)
Welcome to my origin story!
-S
A 2005, less wrinkled, thinking I’m cute, me
The Devious Scribe 
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