A Trip to California

Note: these entries originally appeared on a blog that I had many years ago (it was called In My Head). I have decided to (re)introduce these pieces to the public on this page. Maybe some of you will be amused, shocked, or at least moved by my story.

The year is not completely clear to me, but I do remember the right moments. My father had passed away at the end of 1983, a few days before Christmas, and my mother went through this loss with a determination to live her life as fully as possible. We moved not too far from our old place into a larger home with a larger backyard, basement and more rooms. My own room was the smallest one and had obviously been used for a baby boy (the bottom half of the wall was wallpaper with Paddington Bears in different poses). I did not care about how childish the room was or looked; it was a new place and a new start for us. And there would be more.

In the summer of 1984, a close friend of my mother came to visit us. Jennifer had worked with her in a nursing home for many years before she was seriously injured in a car accident and confined to a wheelchair. I wonder now how she was able to make her way around our new home so easily (there were many levels separated with stairwells). She had a very advanced wheelchair with a motor and a lever to control her motion. Her husband, whose name I cannot remember, was a strong man who helped her when he could. They also had a nurse who bathed and fed her. Finally, they had a younger daughter. Nathalie was a nightmare for a slightly older boy who had a growing interest in girls but no way of approaching them beyond awkward gestures and silly comments.

They now lived in California, in a city called Ontario. It was in the desert, not too far from the heat and aridity of the famous Death Valley area. I did not think it strange at the time that we had guests with such divergent backgrounds: Jennifer was black and West Indian; her husband was a black American with a deep southern accent; the nurse was a white woman who sounded like someone from the Midwestern states; and Nathalie was pure California to me, or what I would think of that state (I had not yet seen the film “Valley Girl,” a 1983 release, but I could guess what it would be like). The fact that they were now in another Ontario was a pleasant symmetry that would stay in my mind as we returned to their place in the West.

I think the decision to head to California with them was something my mother planned well ahead of their arrival. She never said a word about driving back with this other family during their stay with us. The plan was a tit for tat one: they had been shown hospitality by us, so why not let them return the favour with some time at their place. We were to share the space in their van for a few days, stay at their place for a few more days (about a week), and then take a flight home from Los Angeles. My mother had an urge to get ourselves out into the world to see different places. I always thought, and I still believe today, that this was to make sure that my memories of that year did not include just a holiday that everyone celebrated with a complete family and the cold irony and misery of not having even that during a time of the year devoted to miracles and second chances. She wanted me to have more.

Was I excited about the trip? I suppose I was. When you look back at moments in your childhood, it involves a strange pairing of exaggeration and denial. The summer of 1984 began with us living in a new place, and the possibility that we could lead new lives. I remember the music I listened to, the toys I played with, and even the clothes I wore as special and unique to me. That is what children do. Their worlds can seem so completely self-contained that other realities no more exist than any other fantasy seen in movies, comic books or TV programs (again, all unique and special for and to me). For all of these reasons, I am very glad that my mother decided on that trip. I had been to the Caribbean to visit family – our last trip had been to bury my father on the island of Curacao – but I had never left my home country for a place where I knew no one; where I had no familial or cultural ties. It was the first time I was exposed to an environment I only half-knew through its powerful and impressive media. It would be a very direct experience of our neighbours to the south.