Southern California: The Old Neighborhood
A day after I leave La Paz, I arrive in San Diego, where I spent my childhood during the 70's. My father is now in a nursing home not too far from the house we lived in, and I take extra leave to visit him and assist where I can.
Even most San Diegans are not familiar with South Bay, or are even aware that a large part of the area is part of the city, unlike towns like Chula Vista, National City, or nearby Imperial Beach.
This is more than just a post about the old neighborhood. It's also about moving on.
The United States loves to pride itself in its history of immigrants leaving their homes in their native countries to settle in a brand new place for a shot at a better life. The experience has been immortalized in its history, drama, and has been romanticized for past and future generations to remember or look forward to.
That was not our story.
In fact, as I recall, we left the United States for a better life elsewhere. After seven years of the U.S., Mama had finally had enough of California Dreamin', let alone the American Dream, packed the few things we had and the six little kids, and headed back to Germany. To her eternal credit, things worked out quite nicely, and I am convinced we did achieve the goal of living comfortably and safely. What would have happened in the United States had we stayed there is anybody's guess, although I quit speculating about that long ago.
On the morning of September 18, I pack Axl and Bash into the red Radio Flyer and decide to take a stroll through the old neighborhood. I keep pinching myself, since I was exactly their age when I lived in South Bay long ago, and my own dad was probably as old as I was.
I head toward Barry Elementary School, where I was a pupil between kindergarten and 4th grade. The houses still look the same, really. There are new ones that didn't even exist when I lived in the area in the 70's, and near the school are the old familiar Pacific Village apartments, ugly looking two story buildings that have social housing written all over them, although they looked halfway decent back in the day.
What I now see everywhere are gates, gates, gates. It's the sign of the times, not to mention heightened security. A gate in front of Pacific Village. Gates in front of every square foot of the school. Here a gate, there a gate, everywhere a gate gate. Old MacDonald had a farm, no doubt surrounded by a gate if it's in San Diego.
There used to be a vending machine outside of Pacific Village that sold all of the cool candy back in the 70's. Now and Laters, Smarties, Lifesavers, you name it. The drawback was that the candy cost a dime back then, a lot of money for a snot nosed elementary school kid like me. One day, some clever guy told us you could rip off the machine, which I did at will. You would have to still toss in a nickle, but that would earn me a lot of free candy. Not the five finger special, but a five cent discount was better than nothing.
I pause at the park next to the school, and point out Barry Elementary to my boys. This is where I went to school when I was as old as you, I tell them.
Axl gazes a little at the children playing, genuinely interested in what his old man has to say.
Bash is less philosophical. "We must keep moving," he complains, his skinny little body stirring in the Radio Flyer.
There is more truth to this statement that even Bash realizes.
And I realize that is exactly what has happened. I have kept moving. The neighborhood has kept moving. So has the city. The country has kept moving, although we can argue in circles here just exactly in which direction.
Well said, Bash.
I nod simply, and proceed to pull the wagon back home.
Even most San Diegans are not familiar with South Bay, or are even aware that a large part of the area is part of the city, unlike towns like Chula Vista, National City, or nearby Imperial Beach.
This is more than just a post about the old neighborhood. It's also about moving on.
The United States loves to pride itself in its history of immigrants leaving their homes in their native countries to settle in a brand new place for a shot at a better life. The experience has been immortalized in its history, drama, and has been romanticized for past and future generations to remember or look forward to.
That was not our story.
In fact, as I recall, we left the United States for a better life elsewhere. After seven years of the U.S., Mama had finally had enough of California Dreamin', let alone the American Dream, packed the few things we had and the six little kids, and headed back to Germany. To her eternal credit, things worked out quite nicely, and I am convinced we did achieve the goal of living comfortably and safely. What would have happened in the United States had we stayed there is anybody's guess, although I quit speculating about that long ago.
On the morning of September 18, I pack Axl and Bash into the red Radio Flyer and decide to take a stroll through the old neighborhood. I keep pinching myself, since I was exactly their age when I lived in South Bay long ago, and my own dad was probably as old as I was.
I head toward Barry Elementary School, where I was a pupil between kindergarten and 4th grade. The houses still look the same, really. There are new ones that didn't even exist when I lived in the area in the 70's, and near the school are the old familiar Pacific Village apartments, ugly looking two story buildings that have social housing written all over them, although they looked halfway decent back in the day.
What I now see everywhere are gates, gates, gates. It's the sign of the times, not to mention heightened security. A gate in front of Pacific Village. Gates in front of every square foot of the school. Here a gate, there a gate, everywhere a gate gate. Old MacDonald had a farm, no doubt surrounded by a gate if it's in San Diego.
There used to be a vending machine outside of Pacific Village that sold all of the cool candy back in the 70's. Now and Laters, Smarties, Lifesavers, you name it. The drawback was that the candy cost a dime back then, a lot of money for a snot nosed elementary school kid like me. One day, some clever guy told us you could rip off the machine, which I did at will. You would have to still toss in a nickle, but that would earn me a lot of free candy. Not the five finger special, but a five cent discount was better than nothing.
I pause at the park next to the school, and point out Barry Elementary to my boys. This is where I went to school when I was as old as you, I tell them.
Axl gazes a little at the children playing, genuinely interested in what his old man has to say.
Bash is less philosophical. "We must keep moving," he complains, his skinny little body stirring in the Radio Flyer.
There is more truth to this statement that even Bash realizes.
And I realize that is exactly what has happened. I have kept moving. The neighborhood has kept moving. So has the city. The country has kept moving, although we can argue in circles here just exactly in which direction.
Well said, Bash.
I nod simply, and proceed to pull the wagon back home.
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