Back in the 1960s one of the largest cities in Mexico was Guadalajara. My mom hailed from this city and made a transfer to Southern California, Orange County to be exact, sometime in early 1950s. Following the fragrance of citrus. And appealing green of avocado.
Her own mother — Refugio Fonseca — decided to make a (very brief) appearance in our home, situated in Garden Grove, an up and coming suburb of the area.
On day two of the visit, that’s one day and a smidgen of a second day, my grandmother announced, “I need to go home.”
It seems she found it far too quiet in the suburbs of Southern California in the 1960s. She mildly complained to my mom that she didn’t like it there. Toooooo quiet. She needed the revelry of her hometown back in Mexico. She needed to return. She needed to leave. Even the citrus and avocado wasn’t enough to serve as an anchor.
There is something to be said for noise. No, not the disturbing type of noise. But the type that sounds as though we are alive. We are vibrant. We are moving. We are not stale. We are not comatose. We are not too quiet.
This served as the date for our make-up class. The adult tap dance class I teach on Friday evenings had been canceled previously for one class meeting when I experienced freeway hazards and couldn’t make the start time.
When I arrived at the studio door on November 30 primed and ready for a fun hour of dance, imagine my surprise. Another dance teacher had displaced me. Well, she didn’t have advance knowledge that her presence would displace me. Apparently, our supervisor had made the error of scheduling the other teacher on the same evening in the same space. I called the supervisor. She profusely offered apologies, saying “I’m sorry” eight times over (maybe nine) with amazing speed. Now, it may not have been such an egregious wrong but I drove an hour one way in Bay Area traffic on Bay Area freeway to get to my appointment…nothing was going to redeem this bust of a night. And after listening to the other teacher explain that she had nothing to do with the mix-up using her sickeningly-sweet-saccharine-voice to do it, I replied, “I don’t like your sickeningly-sweet-saccharine-voice.” “I’m from Georgia”, came her response. I didn’t understand why she felt the need to talk geography. But I was prompted to say, “Yes, and the South lost the war”.
The supervisor mentioned she could offer the students, and myself, a make-up to the make-up. Really? No. We were headed into December…busy holiday goings on. The students were not enthusiastic about yet another make-up date at that point. Georgia got what she needed out of the evening. I returned home with nothing but frustration to show for my two hour round trip drive. An evening without 5,6,7,8. Argh.