When I was almost 10 years old, my family moved to LA. Los Angeles, the city of angels. 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 much about the actual move--we sold (or maybe lost) our house, sold our furniture, packed our most valuable treasures (mine were stuffed animals and books), and hit the road. It took us about 6 hours 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 who were just 2 kinds of people. Boys and girls. Period. This black and white stuff? Unimportant to me. I started school the next semester at a predominantly 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, with 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 for Christmas that year. 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 particular 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. I always wondered about that, but hey, free good food--what's to complain about?
I was soon going to be entering 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 California. Oh, what a life.
I have to say, I loved my time in Southern California. 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 different. I had had some life experiences that they hadn't. I didn't even realize it at the time. I did not know I would end up so accepting of all nationalities, foods, cultures, and beliefs. And yes, I knew 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 groups of people. 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 treated me like one of them. I learned about Mexican culture through them. I learned how to cook Mexican food, and I was taught the culture between men and women, husbands and wives, and the little differences. I loved it. As for 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 Mexican 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 three short years, they became my people, and I became theirs.
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