California Ate My Homework

As we made our way out of San Diego east on I-8, I realized how completely overwhelmed I’d been since we’d crossed the state line 7 days before. I was sad; it felt like we were leaving too soon. And I hadn’t written a word. California had consumed me.

It is not only geographically enormous, with terrain that swings wildly from towering evergreen forests to palm tree-lined coastal promenades (don’t forget the valleys of burnt yellow and big rock deserts), it holds such vast diversity in place and people that vertigo seemed to my norm. Herbivores of Humboldt County, serious vintners in Sonoma, Google-heads and their Bay Area backers; San Francisco — Pacific World populations, hippie lifers and some people from the Northeast. Forget explaining SoCal because you’d have to figure out how to characterize LA and that takes a lifetime. San Diego is manageable; beautiful. A great place to recharge.

I have loved California since my family first visited the summer I was 8. I had never been in a place away from home before where I did not want to leave. Nope. Never. I remember my cousin’s friend April who had these cool rubber-wheeled roller skates (mine at home were still metal) and rainbow kneesocks. I tried very hard to imagine myself in this get up, but it didn’t compute. Didn’t work in the suburbs of Virginia. Only in Southern California. So, I had to stay.

In three weeks, we went to zoo twice, spent hours in Balboa Park, played outside all the time. There were no mosquitos. The flowers bloomed in Technicolor. I know my mom cried when we left (she was a native). I thought about that today as the tears rolled down my cheeks.

California isn’t perfect. No place is perfect. And the traffic is horrendous (can someone please do something about that?). But there is an aura of perfectness. Bright sun, blue sky, pink and white Oleander blooming on the I-5. Upbeat, outside, unhindered from the dull gray back east.

Last night, we capped off our stay with a picture-perfect meal at the Hotel Del Coronado. We watched the sun set over the bay while eating classic California cuisine. Expensive. Certainly. A special treat on a long trip.

My daughter and I excused ourselves after dinner to freshen up. Standing in the ladies room waiting for her, I noticed a family. Mom, daughters, grandma. The youngest was chattering away as most 6 year olds do, oblivious to the women waiting in line staring at her family. Something was off. I looked more closely. Plastic bag, suitcase, layers of mismatched clothes, sandals with socks (and not fashionably so). Her older sister was wearing a man’s hoody. I don’t know for sure, but having lived in New York for twenty years, you get a good sense. Homeless. Probably living in a shelter close by. And I had just spent $200 on dinner with a priceless view.

The mom had the guts to bring her family to a nice bathroom where they could clean up for the night. More striking, she had managed to raise her daughter not to be embarrassed by their circumstances. The little girl was happy, singing. That type of joy amazes me. I had every reason to be as happy as she was, but I wasn’t. My 6-year-old’s dinner of mac ’n cheese hadn’t measured up — my biggest problem of the day. Had the palm trees and nostalgia blurred my vision?

Maybe California is near-perfect for some people, but I’m guessing not. Sunshine — like scenery — can’t save you. And where there is such dense diversity, there will be scarce resources.

Our good friend Marnie is the head of a San Diego charter school that serves refugee populations — Somali, Iraqi, Syrian. She said her school has 10 languages represented. Many kids can’t read when they arrive. Many don’t know how to do school. Most don’t live in safe neighborhoods, but they’re at least safer than where they came from. She told us 15 or so kids were given special assignments for summer to help them grow academically and they chose to come to school to do their work. They missed it that much. What a great school; what great kids. They’re probably a lot like the little girl in the bathroom.

My family is privileged to be on this trip. We’re able to experience the country in a way most can’t. We are all privileged to be in this country. We have many problems too. And California feels to me like the test tube where our country’s biggest privileges and problems crash and commingle.

We’re across the state line. And I’m able to think again. But I’ll miss the perfectly beautiful mess we left behind.