OK, I will freely admit that it’s kind of a show out here. Exhibit A – they threw out a perfectly mediocre governor because of, well, I don’t even remember what, and replaced him with a Botoxed foreigner who didn’t even pull 50%. And now said Botox receptacle is in much worse straits than his predecessor ever got into, but nobody’s clamoring to heave him out on his steroid-pocked ass, because nobody’s got any better ideas. The local football conference can’t get their bowl bids sorted, and if I’m honest, the hippie quotient is probably above the level specified by the board of health.
And yet.
When I first volunteered to become a DSW, and learned that I would have to be sworn in, the thought occurred to me that this was really it – that after almost five years, I would really be an honest-to-God Californian. Which was kind of a strange thought. Ever since I arrived for good in 2004, my gimmick has largely been that as an Alabamian, I am probably the most exotic ethnicity anybody here will ever meet. Think about it. The Latino population of California dates from Fr. Serra’s string of missions back in the 1770s. The Chinese arrived with the Gold Rush. That person in line in front of you at In N Out could be two weeks off the boat or they could be seventh generation on the Peninsula. Meanwhile, California leads all states in population of Catholics, Muslims and Buddhists and is second in Jews and Mormons.
Everyone known Hollywood down South and thinks they know San Francisco…but people in Berkeley know the real hippies are in Santa Cruz, and people forget that Reaganite conservatism was birthed in Orange County. An entire wave of country music grew out of Bakersfield, when Buck Owens used his radio-engineer knowledge to optimize his sound for AM transmission. There were honest-to-God separatists all the way North, who planned to join bits of Oregon and carve out the new state of Jefferson, but scheduled their big announcement for December 7, 1941…and wound up punting. There are mountains with fog in the morning, kind of like the Smokies. There’s an old downtown with subways and ethnic neighborhoods and major league baseball – San Francisco is basically the New York of the West. There’s cool weather most of the time and rain in a tightly confined space on the calendar and, well, Silicon Valley. You know, where the future comes from.
And all things being equal, there’s a spot for anyone and everything. Just because I struggle with cramming myself into it doesn’t mean it’s not there.
I guess my point is: the thing about California is that it’s just like the rest of America, only more so. I was raised in a very insular place that actively taught that not only was the past not past, you could make things the way they used to be. Out here, not only is the past past, the present’s past, and when the future comes, California is the one kicking down the door and charging through first, for better or worse. California will not hand you everything you ever dreamed of on a silver platter, but neither will it decide you don’t belong and slam the door on you. California is the Mos Eisley cantina – if you want in, seat yourself. Buy the ticket, take the ride.
And that’s where “foreign or domestic” comes in. Given the choice, if I have to decide between here or a place that still thinks they’re two elections away from being able to turn the clock back 50 years…well, the hills send back the cry, we’re out to do or die. To crib from Lord Webber, the choice was mine and no one else’s, and if that makes me a scalawag, well, wag is as wag does.
I don’t always agree with the things you write (especially of the political persuation), but I think you have California nailed pretty well.
Although you did leave out the central part of the state, where I grew up, which often has more in common with the central part of the U.S. (or of Mexico) than with the rest of the state.