When I entered the gym that sunny afternoon, it was obvious that very few students had shown up to watch the game that was already in progress. Junior varsity basketball never did attract too much of a crowd, just a sprinkling of parents, cheerleaders, and band. At least our side looked more crowded than the other team’s.
From the doorway, I scanned the bleachers in hopes of finding the only girls I knew. I had hesitated about coming to the game since I knew hardly anyone after two weeks in this school. However, my parents had begun to meet people in the neighborhood and had managed to get me introduced to Vicky who lived two doors down from our new house. Thus, for my first week, which fell in the middle of the semester for everyone else, Vicky had been my tour guide. She had shown me to my classes and introduced me to all of her friends. I really appreciated her help in getting me started because she seemed to know everyone.
When I spotted her friends sitting on our side near the middle of the basketball court, I climbed up the three bleachers with my books weighing me down to sit next to them. The circle included Jan, Carrie, Mimi, and Ann--all varsity pompom girls.
“Hey, Jan, have you seen Vicky?” I asked as I plopped down.
“What are you? Her puppy dog or something?” She sharply retorted and turned back to the cluster of friends. As the other three snuck sneers at me in turns, I wanted to shrivel into the wooden seat. Obviously, even Vicky must have felt this way as she begrudgingly took me around the school. A recognizable wall began to form around the circle, one I had seen before in other places at other times. I was the unwelcome outsider, the intruder to this in-group.
It never occurred to me that my new relationship with Vicky had been so one-sided. Until I felt the sting of those words, I did not realize that I was considered a hanger-on to this circle. I fumbled around for a while in disbelief and embarrassment before I escaped the gym to walk home. Once again I was facing the same struggle -- the nomad trying to make friends with the homesteaders, those kids who had lived in the same town all their lives. Unfortunately, I faced this move with a different dilemma. I was stuck here because this time, with my Dad’s retirement from the Navy, our family was planning to stay. I either had to make connections with the homesteaders, or I had to come up with some other solution. On my walk home that day I determined never to talk to Vicky again. I was not going to be labeled anyone’s puppy dog.
This move to California in 1966 brought out the best and the worst of my nomadic life. To add to the culture shock of moving from the East Coast to the West, I faced my sophomore year enrolled in three different schools. Thus, in one year I left friends I had come to know well, only to start making new friends within two months in one school and then transfer to another. It was at the last school that I met and forgot Vicky.
As a nomad, I was accustomed to moving often. Within twelve grades, I had attended nine schools. My family did not take summer vacations like everyone else. If we were not packing for the next move, we were travelling across country to visit relatives in Arizona. Summers meant a family of five being crowded in a car with no air-conditioning. Unlike the desert nomads who traveled by camel, we caravaned across the states in a maroon Chevrolet station wagon, accompanied by our assortment of denizen including parakeets, chameleons, dogs, turtles, or fish, depending upon our latest interests. Every move was a new adventure –lost in New York City, car sick in the Rocky Mountains, and driving all night through New Mexico.
We usually moved during the summer so that my brothers and I could get to know people in the neighborhood and experience the newness of schools and classes along with the rest of the students. Since we never lived anywhere longer than two years, we traveled light, developed independence, and made friends quickly. My brothers and I had learned to make adjustments as nomads and rarely envied the homesteaders. Some years and locations were really good, and some were bad; but we always knew that we would have a new start soon. Thus, it didn’t matter if I spent a lot of time playing by myself in Rhode Island because in Virginia I might move into a neighborhood of friends who managed to pull off some incredible memories.
When I was younger, I could always spot another new kid within the first few days of classes. We were the ones sitting alone at lunch or playing by ourselves during recess or after school. Fortunately, since my parents usually chose to live near the naval base, I was rarely the only new kid in class. We military kids would cluster together until we could infiltrate the ranks of the permanent resident kids, the homesteaders. Early on, I developed a keen sense for scoping out any new territory for friendly foreigners. Over the years, I learned to bide my time in making new friends in order to avoid making hasty friendships I would regret. And I learned to hold friendship lightly, for the time would come all too quickly for us to pull out the packing boxes once again.
The kids who could say they knew each other from kindergarten or who had been born and raised in the same town, sometimes even in the same house, always surprised me. My life has been a veritable sea of faces and memories that have faded in and out of my consciousness. I can still look at a vaguely familiar face and wonder where I have seen that person before -- Arizona, Florida, Rhode Island, or the Bay Area? Smells can evoke fleeting scenes from the edges of my mind, but I have trouble recalling just where and when that moment occurred. My memory has not been able to process all of the people, places and events into any cogent filing system. I cannot recite the names of very many of my schools, much less the names of teachers, good or bad.
Since friendships never lingered more than a letter or two beyond any move, I cannot recall many of those girls I would have considered to be best friends. My memory is a decoupage of snips and pieces of ragged scenes, scents, and sounds that come to the front only when triggered by serious concentration.
Moving was always an adventure and provided for great escapes and even greater expectations. I never had to deal with my past history such as “Weren’t you the one who threw the water balloon through the cafeteria window?” or that of my brothers – “I hope you won’t cause as much trouble as your brother Doug did!” With each new school my brothers and I started with a clean slate. In fact, Jeff could be a scholastic success even though he repeated third grade. Since none of his following friends ever knew, he was never stigmatized by his early failure. Doug, on the other hand, could try out for four football teams before finally making the cut. I went from ballet to Girl Scouts to horses. We were never limited or hampered by our pasts, and we could explore new opportunities with each new move.
If anything, moving taught me to be independent. Although this independence had to be tempered at times, I was not afraid to venture out into each new locale. As early as four years of age, I was escaping into the neighborhood while my mother napped. Before I knew how to ride a bike properly, I would sit myself down upon the back fender of my brother’s bike, stretching out my arms to steer the handlebars, and walk my vehicle around the streets looking for friends to play with. At least two of our moves brought us to homes backed up to delicious forests which provided for hours of make-believe play with our family dog in tow. By the time I was outgrowing make believe, I was filling my time with books, art, and music. I find I still need my alone time, that uninterrupted time to enjoy the quiet.
Because of the frequent moves, we lived and traveled light. My mother never kept momentos from our school projects or even our report cards. Unlike the kitchens of many of our friends, our refrigerator door stood barren of artwork or photos. Because of this, my memories of early school years are vague at best – fleeting images of crayons, desks, and recess games. I can recall my favorite dress from second grade with the subtle brown and black stripes and dainty white lace collar, but I have no idea what I wore in some of my other elementary years. The Navy had a built-in network designed to help those who must limit the number and weight of packing boxes. As soon as we outgrew toys or clothes, Mom would collect them into bags for Navy Relief, the military’s version of the Salvation Army. I still live light today. If I begin to feel clutter gathering in closets or drawers, I get antsy to dump things.
The one solid thread of memories of our childhood years was stored in the box loaded with slides. At least once a year, we kids would beg mom and dad to have a slide show. I don’t know whether we needed the laughter and closeness as a family or whether we wanted to know that we too had a history. We too had an identity that connected us with other people and other places. Although we were nomads, we knew we had a heritage in Arizona, and our slide shows were filled with images of our summer trips – Stoneman Lake, cattle, chipmunks, Ponderosa pines, horses and mules, and of course, lots of family. On those evenings, we could also re-travel through the years, recalling the adventures and good times of all the places where we had lived.
My nomadic beginnings have left their mark on me. For one thing, I am permanently unsettled. I have rarely held a job for more than three years at a time. Even my hobbies change from year to year. My life seems to cycle through interests as if I were moving constantly. I also have this obsession to clean out the entire house each summer. While other people do spring cleaning, I do summer rearranging. If I can’t pack boxes to move into a new home, I must at least redecorate and move furniture in the present one. When I really get restless for a nomadic experience, I can rely on my nightly dreams to fill with adventures of moving into new homes. I awaken feeling the ongoing urge to move somewhere, anywhere.
I still handle friendships lightly. Although I can now say that I have known some people for years, I have to make a conscious effort to keep those friendships going. It does not bother me to lose contact with a friend for months at a time. In fact, I can almost get shy when I think about calling someone I have not seen recently. At times I do not even know how to carry on a good conversation because I spend so much time within myself. My independence has become a comfortable companion that keeps me from hungering for too much society.
I am content to be a nomad, even if it is only a state of mind now. My nomadic life has been rich; I would be delighted to move again any time.
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