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Posted 12.14.06 A Fourth of July Homecoming: A Mendocino Story The Anderson Valley Advertiser By Freda Moon They say that you can't go home again. As a teenager, full of the requisite restlessness, I never understood why. I was sure that whoever had coined that foolish phrase must never have been to Mendocino, my hometown. To me, Mendocino was the kind of place that one would be lucky to leave behind. The town's greatest flaw was that it sucked and suckered us in. I watched as admired upperclassmen graduated and fled, only to return again. Sometimes they were defeated by the world outside. Sometimes not. But they were always changed. (They had college-induced beer-bellies and disillusioned faces.) Maybe they come home not because they had failed "out there." But, at the very least, they returned because they hadn't found something better. And better was what I was after. More. Bigger. Better. Different. As a teenager, I needed to believe that it existed. So, to me, all of this coming home again was sad-sad the way that Elvis in Vegas is sad; like "the one that got away;" like the last episode of Seinfeld. Seeing those familiar faces back again, settling in and getting comfortable, was like watching a slow death. I mourned for the futures of these once-bright stars of Mendocino, and prayed an atheist prayer that I would not end up like them. Coming home, I knew, was a death sentence for me too. So I left as soon as I could, as a lot of us Mendo kids did. And I tried my hardest to stay away. Even so, it took a long time to get used to the rest of this country. Everywhere I lived-Santa Cruz, Boston, Chicago-seemed as foreign to me as any country I've traveled to. I loved the places I went-Santa Cruz for its natural beauty and beach town casualness; Boston for the North End's Italian grandmothers and their always crisp canolis; and Chicago for its late, late nights and low, low rent. But none of those places made much sense to me. Fundamentally, I was a Mendonesian-a reluctant, sometimes hostile native of this particular stretch of rocky, marijuana-scented coastline. * * * Mendocino is often described as an island, but I see it as a nation-with its own laws, language and a culture as rich and bizarre as a National Geographic cover story. There is no place like it, and the Fourth of July is always the best time to come home. The Mendo Fourth of July Parade is the one day each year when a critical mass of Coastal people leave their homes on the ridges and in the woods and head into town. They wear as much rainbow-colored, tie-dye as Red, White and Blue; they paint their faces and carry signs of protest, tossing candies and beads from the backs of trucks and the inside of old cars. Parade watchers stow champagne in coolers and set up yard chairs along the Main Street-Lansing parade route, cheering and waving as the floats pass by. This year, as every year, I heard grumblings of complaint among my fellow parade-watchers. The event was shorter and less outrageous than usual, they said. It wasn't as "Mendocino" as it used to be. There were too many tourists and not enough nudity. Even so, there was the Rascal Ranch float, "A group of friends reclaiming some old hippy land...and drinking margaritas along the way." Taking up the rear was Crescent Tarbell, with nothing on but a short-ass pair of knickers and Lovely Lucille by his side, a blond bombshell in a fire engine red bikini. On her back was a chalk board: "You know you're in Rascal Ranch if..." I couldn't make out what it said, but I could guess. There was a human in an ape suit, wearing a peace pin. There was a tiny, pink, alien-looking electric car with "Teach only love" painted on its window. From the Mendocino Garden Shop was a float of flowers and flower children. From the Community Garden Project were signs reading, "Food Not War." There were shouting, giggling camo-wearing girls on mini-ATVs and dirt bikes-electric powered, of course. The Ocean Protection Coalition came dressed as an oil spill-a morbid sentiment for a festive day-but they waved and laughed just as well as the rest of us. In the rest of the country, there are red, white and blue streamers and nationalistic speeches praising our founding fathers on the Fourth of July. Here, of course, there was a caravan of pet political causes, each more progressive and more well-intentioned than the next. There was a crew of out-of-season Santas and a man dressed as our Nation's Chief. Seņor Presidente wore a "War Criminal" badge as he was whipped from behind with a pink boa by a member of the Code Pink for Peace brigade. "Disinfect Democracy, Scrub Shrub," "Purge Politics of Oily Empire Puppets," read the signs. "Impeach the Liars: George the Dim and Dismal Dick," said the people of Mendocino, celebrating their independence. Everybody was having fun. * * * The longer I've been away-and the more comfortable I've come to feel in my newest home, New York City-the more I am struck by Mendocino's oddities. I notice its pot-smoking parents, the local affinity for all things New Age and the fact that nobody seems to have a "real job." I notice these things in a way that I never did when I lived here. I notice them the way an outsider would. Navigating the crowded sidewalks during Tuesday's parade, I realized how few faces I recognized among the onlookers. Worse still, for all my effort and inner-turmoil, I couldn't recall the names of people I'd once known well. Their faces had changed with 10 years of time and my over-worked mind couldn't make the connection. Through the rest of the day, long after they were needed, the names came back to me like pathetic late-comers to a really good party. Suddenly I've learned that, well, that foolish phrase was right after all. You can't come home, not even to Mendocino. Not really. |
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