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.