Twenty years = china
Today, it is the 20-year anniversary of my moving to California.
It did not happen in a good way, back in 1986. I was 16 years old, and my parents made the decision, without consulting my sister and I, or so much as a “by your leave”, that we were movin’ to California because my dad had procured a job there. While my parents were on vacation. Without us. Who the hell goes on a job interview when they’re on vacation?, I ask you! Apparently, my father does. So on a balmy August day in RI, we were driven to the airport where we boarded a plane to take us to our new lives.
Turns out to have been the best decision they could have made for me (I can’t speak for my sister, but she seems happy to be living here—at least, she hasn’t gone back yet).
Rhode Island is a great place to grow up. We were embedded with that great blue-collar work ethic (can’t say Protestant work ethic, since we were Catholic), had enough money to live on and have some fun, but not be spoiled, and had wonderful, down-to-earth people (family and friends) in our lives. And I did learn the value of a commitment there. But I have to say, as a rule, my kind is generally not cottoned to very kindly there, at least in my experience, when I lived there—that is to say, as an artist, I would probably be looked upon as a fucking freak. Oh, everyone loved my ability to draw—I was the class artist when it came to drawing the chalkboard calendar, putting in the yearbook finishing touches, writing calligraphy, drawing pictures for classmates…they loved me then. But as an adult, with all the “weird shit” I’m into now—let’s just say that RI, even though largely Democrat in its demographics, is also largely conservative in lifestyle, as a general rule of thumb. I had people in my life who didn’t truly get me, even as a baby artist who didn’t yet know who she was and what was out there to be discovered. Now that I have a good idea as to who I am and know a bit more about what’s out there, I don’t think I would have found many kindred spirits. Great, fantastic, incredible people, but not many who lived creative lives. Paying your mortgage, raising your kids, having a barbecue every so often—that was valued. Not painting the next “Starry Night” or writing volumes of kickass poems. That’s not to say there is no art in Rhode Island—it’s where RISD is, for cryin’ out loud—but the art is not as plentiful as in other places in the world…like, say, Los Angeles.
So California was the logical place for me to come of age. But my parents didn’t think about that when planning to move here—it was just a happy side effect. They liked the sunshine and the 5-lane freeways and the mountains. I didn’t see California as a good place for me to live, though, and wouldn’t see it for another 20 years. For many, many years, I hated the state. I used to call it, with much disdain, “Cali-fucking-fornia”. I wanted to go back to where I was comfortable, familiar. Where people didn’t say “Raaad!” and didn’t listen to the B-52’s “Rock Lobster” by choice. My god, who WERE these people??? But I made friends in high school (I don’t like to stay bitter for too long)—mostly out-of-state transplants like myself, but some natives, too—and some of which lasted into college and beyond. I made friends in college, at jobs I had, through mutual friends. I made art, wrote poems and journal entries, had boyfriends, changed jobs, graduated college, got married, bought a house, sold said house, got divorced. I’ve lived some while I’ve been here. I’ve made a life for myself. And I see now that California has provided opportunities that I may not have found elsewhere. I’ve found lifelong friends here, and found creative outlets, in the visual arts and in theater. I’m just not sure I would have found these things in Rhode Island. Maybe, but then again, maybe not.
So bravo, Mom & Dad, for moving me here to this weird, creative, free-to-be-you-and-me state. You have no idea what a world of good you did me!
Happy 20th Anniversary, Cali-fucking-fornia!
You’ll get me a commemorative china plate to mark the occasion, won't you?
It did not happen in a good way, back in 1986. I was 16 years old, and my parents made the decision, without consulting my sister and I, or so much as a “by your leave”, that we were movin’ to California because my dad had procured a job there. While my parents were on vacation. Without us. Who the hell goes on a job interview when they’re on vacation?, I ask you! Apparently, my father does. So on a balmy August day in RI, we were driven to the airport where we boarded a plane to take us to our new lives.
Turns out to have been the best decision they could have made for me (I can’t speak for my sister, but she seems happy to be living here—at least, she hasn’t gone back yet).
Rhode Island is a great place to grow up. We were embedded with that great blue-collar work ethic (can’t say Protestant work ethic, since we were Catholic), had enough money to live on and have some fun, but not be spoiled, and had wonderful, down-to-earth people (family and friends) in our lives. And I did learn the value of a commitment there. But I have to say, as a rule, my kind is generally not cottoned to very kindly there, at least in my experience, when I lived there—that is to say, as an artist, I would probably be looked upon as a fucking freak. Oh, everyone loved my ability to draw—I was the class artist when it came to drawing the chalkboard calendar, putting in the yearbook finishing touches, writing calligraphy, drawing pictures for classmates…they loved me then. But as an adult, with all the “weird shit” I’m into now—let’s just say that RI, even though largely Democrat in its demographics, is also largely conservative in lifestyle, as a general rule of thumb. I had people in my life who didn’t truly get me, even as a baby artist who didn’t yet know who she was and what was out there to be discovered. Now that I have a good idea as to who I am and know a bit more about what’s out there, I don’t think I would have found many kindred spirits. Great, fantastic, incredible people, but not many who lived creative lives. Paying your mortgage, raising your kids, having a barbecue every so often—that was valued. Not painting the next “Starry Night” or writing volumes of kickass poems. That’s not to say there is no art in Rhode Island—it’s where RISD is, for cryin’ out loud—but the art is not as plentiful as in other places in the world…like, say, Los Angeles.
So California was the logical place for me to come of age. But my parents didn’t think about that when planning to move here—it was just a happy side effect. They liked the sunshine and the 5-lane freeways and the mountains. I didn’t see California as a good place for me to live, though, and wouldn’t see it for another 20 years. For many, many years, I hated the state. I used to call it, with much disdain, “Cali-fucking-fornia”. I wanted to go back to where I was comfortable, familiar. Where people didn’t say “Raaad!” and didn’t listen to the B-52’s “Rock Lobster” by choice. My god, who WERE these people??? But I made friends in high school (I don’t like to stay bitter for too long)—mostly out-of-state transplants like myself, but some natives, too—and some of which lasted into college and beyond. I made friends in college, at jobs I had, through mutual friends. I made art, wrote poems and journal entries, had boyfriends, changed jobs, graduated college, got married, bought a house, sold said house, got divorced. I’ve lived some while I’ve been here. I’ve made a life for myself. And I see now that California has provided opportunities that I may not have found elsewhere. I’ve found lifelong friends here, and found creative outlets, in the visual arts and in theater. I’m just not sure I would have found these things in Rhode Island. Maybe, but then again, maybe not.
So bravo, Mom & Dad, for moving me here to this weird, creative, free-to-be-you-and-me state. You have no idea what a world of good you did me!
Happy 20th Anniversary, Cali-fucking-fornia!
You’ll get me a commemorative china plate to mark the occasion, won't you?
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