When I was almost 10 years old, my family moved to LA. Los Angeles, the city of angles. Don't ask. Well, actually I'll tell you. My dad's business was going kaput so he needed to find a job post-haste with another realty firm. And my parents thought southern California might be nice. I don't remember a lot about the actual move--we sold (or maybe lost) our house, we sold our furniture, packed our most valuable treasures (mine were stuffed animals and books) and hit the road. It took us approximately 6 hours or so to get down there. Yes, we drove.
There we were, the 4 of us--our car, some suitcases and not much else. My folks rented a small home in Venice. Venice in the '60s. Now there's a not so nice thought. Let me explain why. Riots. Riots to the left, right and middle of us. I recall hearing gunshots during the night, I was terrified. Things were dicey. Scary. I remember the day my dad sat us girls down for a talk about race. What? What is race exactly? I really didn't have a clue. I had friends that were just 2 kinds of people. Boys and girls. Period. This black and white stuff? Unimportant to me. I started school that next semester at a predominately African American school. Honestly, it was irrelevant to me. I was 10 years old. Who cares! Just let me play teether ball, kickball, maybe some hopscotch and have fun. And you know what? Most of us kids felt that way. We were there to have fun, be together and make friends. Let the adults sort it out. It made no difference to us.
As usual, we moved soon after into another apartment, this one in a nicer neighborhood--Westwood and then a few months later to Beverly Hills, lots of Jewish kids. For me, it still made little difference. Except for the fact that I now wanted to become Jewish more than anything. So, my mom bought me a beautiful little Star of David necklace that year for Christmas. I was so proud of it. We moved during Christmas vacation though and I never got to show it off.
This next move was into East LA. Yep, brain surgeons, my parents were not. Again, other than changing schools for the 4th time in 2 years, kids are kids. I made friends easily. And these friends were Mexican. Good food. Beautiful families. Gangs all around us. What a life. My best friend at that particle school was Estelita. I loved her family. Typical Mexican, 4 kids, cute bungalow home, warm friendly people, who (I believe) felt sorry for me. They took me everywhere with them. Their family was a little different from ours, in a good way though. They had huge gatherings--food, music, so much fun. Culturally, they were different. The women prepared the food, the dads ate first, and then the women and children sat down to eat afterward. I always wondered about that, but hey, free good food--what's to complain about?
I was soon going to be entering into what we referred to back then as Junior High. 7th grade. Time for gang initiation. I told my folks what I had to look forward to--according to my new school friends. And before the semester was up, we high tailed it back up to northern Ca. Oh, what a life.
I have to say, I loved my time in southern Ca. I met some awesome friends. Had some fantastic food. Great learning experiences. Learned a lot about cultural differences, and felt for the most part as though I had spent some time abroad. Yes, it was that different. Maybe that is what eventually sparked my interest in travel, who knows. I just know that my life lessons during that specific time were invaluable. They changed me. Unlike some of my northern California friends who had never moved out of their city, let alone their homes--I felt and was different. I had had some life experiences they hadn't. I didn't even realize it at the time. I did not know that I would end up being so excepting of all nationalities, foods, cultures, beliefs, etc. And, yes, I had the knowledge that they weren't the same as mine, however, I saw the beauty in those differences. They were so much a part of my being. Again, I did not realize it until I became an adult and found myself defending those very people groups. After all, I had lived among them, I knew them, and while I agree we were different--were we really?
Looking back this is what I know--my friends were wonderful. Their parents accepted this little white girl into their homes. They fed me, let me join in family celebrations, gave me hand me downs (as we were quite poor during those years) and they treated me like I was one of them. I learned about Mexican culture through them. I learned how to cook Mexican food, I was taught the culture between men and women, husbands and wives, and the little differences. I loved it. As for the black culture--well, I have a funny little story to share. My best friend while living in Venice was Jackie. One day after school she asked me to come over and play. The best part of the day was when I showed up and witnessed the shocked look on her mother's face. She had assumed I was Merican because of my name. We had a good laugh about that. She told me later that she was afraid that my parents might get mad if they ever found out that Jackie was black. I said--oh no, they know she's black. They don't care. Jackie's mom was pretty impressed by that. Yes, I have some pretty wonderful memories of those friends in southern California. I wonder if they remember me? I wonder if they know how they shaped my character, my personality and my desire for travel? I wonder if they knew how much I loved them and appreciated their teaching me about their cultures, their way of life and for letting me be one of them?
I believe they taught me some very critical life lessons.
Lessons of love, acceptance, and sameness.
For 3 short years, they became my people, and I became theirs.
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