This almost daily dispatch comes to you, yet again, from my hotel room bed in Nanaimo, Canada. This is an impromptu post—it wasn’t part of the plan.
But what, exactly, was the plan?
As a Gen Xer growing up in Southern California, the plan was always a mixed bag. One thing I’ve discovered through ancestral research and healing is that your people have a greater influence over you than you realize. On one hand, I had a stereotypical, follow-the-rules mother. My father? Well, he was none of that.
My maternal line was a virtual superhighway from Germany to the Pennsylvania Dutch. Steeped in religious tradition, the line is dotted with pastors and deacons, alongside blue-collar steel mill workers who gave forty years to the same company, retired, and died. They lived that version of the American Dream.
My paternal line, however, were Mayflower descendants who headed west. This bloodline carried scoundrels, at least one murderer, and a hustle that still flows with intensity through my veins. It’s a deep calling to beat the system and get one over on “The Man.”
As a “California Girl,” I knew I was living a life that was both envied and despised. I knew the rest of the country saw California as a land of “Fruits and Nuts,” and I never really felt American in that deep, patriotic sense—not like my Ohio-born, Eagle Scout, honey does. While in the 3rd grade I did a research project on Norway, my great grandmother immigrated from Norway and somehow landed in North Dakota. Despite my best efforts to find culture, like the rich, deep Hispanic culture around me, all I saw was capitalism and greed by a bunch of white men, and I wanted none of it.
By sixteen, I was donating to PETA and Save the Whales. Getting arrested for protesting was on my bucket list. I fully co-signed the L.A. Riots and blasted N.W.A. in secret so I wouldn’t get “busted” by my parents. I even went to my junior homecoming dance with a gay, Black friend—mostly just to piss my father off. Shout out to you Marvin, I think of you often!
It’s ironic, really. Here I am, the descendant of Mayflower scoundrels and finding myself in the headlines of a Canadian newspaper. Doing my best not to interject myself into a time and place unwanted, yet honoring my own path, that I deserve to find my true north.
Scott and I were recently featured in the Nanaimo News Bulletin, and the irony of being “publicly recognized” while I’m still internally wrestling with where I belong isn’t lost on me. You can read the piece here:
Maybe that’s the hustle—finding a way to plant seeds in new soil before you’ve even decided if you’re staying for the harvest. Nanaimo has been incredibly welcoming, and seeing our story in print makes this “distinct possibility” feel a lot more like a destiny. If you’re in the area or just following along, give the article a read and see how the locals are viewing our little impromptu invasion.
For now, I’m still in this hotel bed, somewhere between the California girl who wanted to burn it all down and the woman who might just find peace under a Canadian maple.
Joy On A Journey 