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Golden State dreams
“Leaving California would be a failure for me. I got the degree so I could stay here.”
C’mon, California - a steady steam of garbage lined the 94 on Monday morning.
Winding my way up La Mesa’s Mount Nebo on a Sunday morning, I wound up on the Summit Drive cul-de-sac. All but one of the houses sported a tasteful Biden/Harris 2020 sign in the front yard. (A kitschy “I’m ridin with Biden” banner showed up on the slopes below.) A dusty Dodge Charger loitered in the driveway of the single signless domicile.
I was tickled by the thought of a lone Republican holdout — not because I’m such a fan of Republicans, but because I like the idea of people who are politically distant still living in close proximity. I think this was, at one point, an American ideal (you, know, before Trump became a referendum on whether longtime friendships could continue). Even if you thought the other guy’s candidate was going to take the country right into the toilet, inviting him to the cul-de-sac cookout wasn’t fraternizing with the enemy. It was being neighborly: a celebration of common ground, a shared belief in democracy and the old American motto of E pluribus unum. Later on, I spotted a TRUMP: NO MORE BULLSHIT flag on another La Mesa hilltop, and a Qanon t-shirt on a shopper at Walmart in Grossmont Center.
A couple of weeks ago, The Wife got invited to a grievance meeting. Several families we knew had decided to leave California, and wanted to present their reasons for doing so. Money was one; people didn’t see a future for their kids here, and didn’t want to watch them move away. Kids figured into most of the other reasons as well. They were red folks in a blue state, and found that, like the gummed-up Humming-fish in The Lorax, the environment had become unlivable. I am sad to see them go, both because I’ll miss them and because of those photos of old SCOTUS pals Scalia and RBG that floated around on the internet after the latter’s death. Iron sharpens iron, but the right sort of friction can soften a steely heart. Also because they have me wondering.
My oldest just graduated from Berkeley with a degree in mathematics. He thought the prestige of the school and the difficulty of the degree would interest employers. So far, he has found otherwise. I suggested a job in Kansas City, where he has family. “It would mean recalibrating my expectations to reality,” he replied. “Leaving California would be a failure for me. I got the degree so I could stay here.” I started arguing for Kansas City. I started to like what I was hearing. I mean, I don’t surf, fire is looking to become an official season, and the internet has made everywhere local.
My original proposal for this column was Golden Dust instead of Golden Dreams. Sometimes, the dust people rushed here to find was gold. But mostly, it was dust, a desert that had to be watered before we could start pretending it was paradise.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Golden State dreams
“Leaving California would be a failure for me. I got the degree so I could stay here.”
Golden State dreams
“Leaving California would be a failure for me. I got the degree so I could stay here.”
C’mon, California - a steady steam of garbage lined the 94 on Monday morning.
Winding my way up La Mesa’s Mount Nebo on a Sunday morning, I wound up on the Summit Drive cul-de-sac. All but one of the houses sported a tasteful Biden/Harris 2020 sign in the front yard. (A kitschy “I’m ridin with Biden” banner showed up on the slopes below.) A dusty Dodge Charger loitered in the driveway of the single signless domicile.
I was tickled by the thought of a lone Republican holdout — not because I’m such a fan of Republicans, but because I like the idea of people who are politically distant still living in close proximity. I think this was, at one point, an American ideal (you, know, before Trump became a referendum on whether longtime friendships could continue). Even if you thought the other guy’s candidate was going to take the country right into the toilet, inviting him to the cul-de-sac cookout wasn’t fraternizing with the enemy. It was being neighborly: a celebration of common ground, a shared belief in democracy and the old American motto of E pluribus unum. Later on, I spotted a TRUMP: NO MORE BULLSHIT flag on another La Mesa hilltop, and a Qanon t-shirt on a shopper at Walmart in Grossmont Center.
A couple of weeks ago, The Wife got invited to a grievance meeting. Several families we knew had decided to leave California, and wanted to present their reasons for doing so. Money was one; people didn’t see a future for their kids here, and didn’t want to watch them move away. Kids figured into most of the other reasons as well. They were red folks in a blue state, and found that, like the gummed-up Humming-fish in The Lorax, the environment had become unlivable. I am sad to see them go, both because I’ll miss them and because of those photos of old SCOTUS pals Scalia and RBG that floated around on the internet after the latter’s death. Iron sharpens iron, but the right sort of friction can soften a steely heart. Also because they have me wondering.
My oldest just graduated from Berkeley with a degree in mathematics. He thought the prestige of the school and the difficulty of the degree would interest employers. So far, he has found otherwise. I suggested a job in Kansas City, where he has family. “It would mean recalibrating my expectations to reality,” he replied. “Leaving California would be a failure for me. I got the degree so I could stay here.” I started arguing for Kansas City. I started to like what I was hearing. I mean, I don’t surf, fire is looking to become an official season, and the internet has made everywhere local.
My original proposal for this column was Golden Dust instead of Golden Dreams. Sometimes, the dust people rushed here to find was gold. But mostly, it was dust, a desert that had to be watered before we could start pretending it was paradise.
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