My arrival in California opened up a very different world. Life in Minnesota was surrounded by family and an environment filled with nature. School was sheltered within a disciplined but loving family of nuns. Education was structured and no doubt strict yet it felt safe and secure. There was no fear or stress. There weren’t arduous schedules full of homework and structured activity. Our afternoons were free to roam in nature and play with imagination. Our home was not overloaded with toys or television. A coloring book was treasured as was a doll. It was a simple life.

In comparison, California felt crowded and complex. We moved into a multi-level apartment building while settling into this new life and finding a family home. I got to wear my red jeans every day which I loved. I made friends with a young girl in my apartment building and we would meet in the back yard where there was a swing set. There was a little road that separated the yard from a dirt field and traffic on the far side. I was happy to have a friend and was teased by my brother that I had taken on my little friend’s French accent.

One day as we played outside I went in the back entrance of the building to go upstairs to get something from my apartment. It was dim inside when I opened the door to an enclosed stairway that led to the apartments above. As I went in a man came out from under the stairs. He came toward me as I stood by the door and said, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” I had no idea what he meant but something told to run. I ran back to my friend and told her what had happened. She grabbed my hand and raced with me to the bright and trafficked front entrance and to her apartment, where her mother called the police. I remember hearing afterwards that someone tried to force a young girl into a car from the field behind the playground. My world was changing.

Before long we moved into our new home. It was one level with three small bedrooms and a bathroom at the end of the hall. My older and younger brother shared one room and before long we were joined with a new baby boy. My parents had the bedroom in the middle and for a time the baby had a crib in their room. My maternal grandmother, now living with us, shared my room at the front of the house.

The neighborhood was comprised of rows of houses closely lined up side by side. There were lots of kids and we were pretty independent. We played outside, ran up and down the streets and used our imaginations. Instead of bikes we had small brooms that we pretended were horses as we ran around. Or we chalked up the sidewalks to play hop scotch. We were free to roam and though we weren’t surrounded by nature we were able to walk to a small dirt road along the bay, just a few blocks away.

The street leading to the bay ended at a path that led up an embankment to the narrow road that went in both directions. To the left the road led to a recreation area and to the right it led to a park. The straight and narrow dirt road could only be accessed by car from the two ends and the path was the only access by foot. The bay side was rocky and strewn with debris. I sometimes went there alone to explore for treasures and once encountered a naked man sitting in his car as I came up from the rocks. I raced down the path and home as fast as I could.

Public school was a whole new experience. My third grade teacher, Mr. Richards was portly and wore a suit. Having had only nuns as teachers I felt shy. By third grades the other kids knew each other and had their special groups. I didn’t talk much and choked up if I was asked anything. Mr. Richards thought I had a speech impediment and sent me to a small cubicle each day where I was to listen to a recording say sentences which I then had to repeat. I looked forward to that time in a quiet room alone and was happy to talk to the machine. Yet again I took on an accent, this time the very precise pronunciation of English words.

Though this new world was bigger, busier and unfamiliar I was learning to navigate. By 4th grade I would walk several blocks to catch a bus downtown where I took dancing lessons. I had been in tumbling and acrobatics classes in Minnesota and now I was starting ballet. The other girls were older and much taller and before long I switched to tap dancing. I don’t recall any hesitation in finding the right bus and getting off at the right stop. Or walking down the crowded streets to the door on the side of a drug store entrance that would take me up a dimly lit stairway to dance studios on the second floor. It was like another world. I enjoyed the music and the easy rapport with the instructor. He was much kinder than his wife, my previous instructor, had been. I loved the music and I loved following his movements. I loved dancing.

I was getting a better grasp on this new world. I adored my new teacher, Miss O’Leary. She looked as Irish as her name, with dark wavy hair just above her shoulders and freckles across her nose. She had an infectious laugh and her face always seemed to be smiling. And she loved Elvis Presley, which furthered my enamor for her. She made me feel confident and smart. Her influence was something I carried through the years. Gifted teachers have the ability to help children realize their worth and potential and the opposite is also true. Teachers who don’t realize the damage of critical and discouraging words can impair a child’s self-image and motivation for years or a lifetime.

Academically school was easy. I got high grades without trying too hard and thought I was smart. I didn’t realize for some time that it was the more specialized learning in my prior school that had given me an advantage. In time I found that I actually had to study and practice to make good grades.

In Junior High I had to walk across an enclosed overpass that crossed a freeway to the other side. It was a tough neighborhood and scary. I built an invisible shield around me, without realizing it, that allowed me to disappear inside and not be seen. It was especially valuable at the end of the school day when there were often physical fights. I can still hear the sound of a boy’s fist hitting another boy and feel an electric shock run through me. Even more terrifying were the fights between girls. Screaming, hair pulling, violent punches. I kept my eyes down, my mind quiet, and walked home as casually fast as I could.

Despite the disturbing confusion of experiences growing up the innocence with which I perceived my early years still influences my view looking back. Many in my generation remember the 50’s and 60’s as more innocent and simple times. It was less hurried. There was more creativity in learning to do things for ourselves. We didn’t have computers, electronics or artificial intelligence. There was no social media. We were connected face to face in real time. We spent most of our time outdoors. And I look back with nostalgia at the music of those years.

Cheryl Canfield, CCHT, 2023