OFF THE BLOCK AND INTO THE SUBURBS

1960

     There was sudden upheaval in my life as we moved into a 3 bedroom home in the planned suburb of Rossmoor, which was on the fringe of Orange County and had no downtown, no community center, no churches or stores or gyms, no blacks, Mexicans or hooligan white trash, no crazed dogs chasing you or your car down the street, only identical freshly minted homes in a perfectly symmetrical town-size grid—a sprawling mosaic walled in and isolated from the world. All the trees were new and small. The streets seemed deserted and devoid of the hum and babble of block life, where everybody knew everybody. There was no visible dissension among the white collar families slipping in and out of electrically opening and closing garage doors in their shiny sedans and station wagons. I was exiled from all I’d ever known and sentenced to this strange and utterly vapid utopia that had me unnerved  and feeling like I’d lost all individuality and identity. Nobody waved to me, asked how I was doing in baseball, or how my parents were. I had no crew to run with.

     Worst of all, I would not be playing at Compton High, beside my pals, Paul Schaal and Loman Young, where I was established as an important entity.

     I now attended Western High in Anaheim, a cross town rival of Anaheim High, where Jerry Stephenson starred. I drove eight miles to school in my jalopy. The Orange County kids were cheerful, wholesome, directed, white, the school work harder than at Compton, where many of the black kids migrated from inferior black schools in the south. The baseball coach, Roy Merk, a compact, bald man, rose quickly when I entered his trophy laden office and shook my hand, welcomed me to his program, informed me Coach Edgmon had called and given him a glowing report on my character and baseball skills.

     “He didn’t need to,” Coach Merk said, smiling. “I saw you play in the Anaheim tournament. You’re a helluva a ball player. We’re more than pleased to have you aboard. I think you’ll like our kids and we’ll have a pretty good team.” I was already aware that their team last year had been terrible.

     While we talked, a stocky kid with coke-bottle glasses and a big friendly grin came into the office, and I was introduced to the football team starting guard and baseball catcher, Dave Sturrock, a senior. We shook hands.

     “I saw you play at LaPalma. You’re a great player. I can’t wait for baseball season to start. And hey, I grew up in LA and idolized your Dad when he played for the Stars. I’d be honored to meet him. I’ve still got his autograph from Gilmore Field.”

     It wasn’t long before Sturrock was at the house meeting Dad, who now drove 20 miles to work. By the time baseball season arrived, I’d met all the varsity players through Dave, my immediate good friend, and more than a few of them made the pilgrimage to meet Dad, who regaled them with baseball stories while they admired his silver bat. Gone from our walls were the framed baseball pictures that filled our den in Compton. Our new modernistic furniture was uncomfortable. Mother was now school nurse at Bolsa Grande high school in nearby Garden Grove. Susie took a bus to school.

     In Rossmoor, everybody seemed well dressed and well off, except me, as I still wore rags. Our neighbors prevailed in a sort of smugness, as if they had achieved a level in society higher than ordinary folks like those in Compton. I felt alienated. Something brewed inside me that I was struggling to comprehend—an attitude of denial I was part of this plasticized cornucopia, and a rancorous disdain for what so many had aspired to all their lives—the American Dream and all its luxurious trappings. I despised this place; it made me feel squeamish. I wanted no part of it. I itched to get away from it so I could breathe again. I refused to go into our pool, of which Dad, though no swimmer, was so proud.

      When I tried to explain my new feelings to Mom, she said, “You’ll adjust and make new friends and everything will work out. You’ll discover that people are essentially the same everywhere and observing them and getting to know them will enlighten you. Change can be good.”

      When Dad sensed my discontent and asked what was eating me, I shrugged, and said I couldn’t stand Rossmoor. He seemed confused. “All I ever wanted is to give you a better life, Dell, and better things than I had.”

     “I don’t want any of it, Dad—it’s bullshit.”   

     He just stared at me, as if to say, “Is this my fucking kid?”

     (Next Sunday installment: “Trying to be the Man.”)