A generation of feral children. That was my street, Indiana Avenue.
I grew up on a street where a bunch of kids ran amok, in the streets. Fighting, chasing, throwing mud pies, slinging pine cones and snowballs, missile-ing down the slip-n-slides during the summer.
Late-night conversations that went into the wee hours in the summer were my favorite memory.
My earliest memories of Indiana Avenue are of visiting my grandparents. At that time, Indiana dead-ended into a large field of tall grass and cattails. Cordon road was off in the distance, you could hear the distant whooshing of passing cars. Between the dead end and Cordon was a field of grass, where imaginations ran wild.
As kids, we’d play war, hide-and-seek, explore, skip rocks, and follow the little creek as far as we could.
I couldn’t wait to run through the grass; I’d have to do chores with my grandfather before I could. Pops, I called him. He was gruff, wrinkled, rough hands made that way from his work as a cement mason. His skin was dark brown, it always seemed like he had a thin layer of ash on his skin, I always thought it was the pavement he laid down, he could never wash the freeways off of himself. He usually had a wooden pipe, packed with captain black, hanging from his mouth. His cars always smelled like Captain Black, it was unmistakable. So much so that when I had my first car, Pops’ old work truck, people always asked me if I smoked.
My grandmother was always nicely dressed, her clothes were always pressed, always wearing colorful blouses, ascots, scarves, and pleated pants. She did jazzercise back then; maybe they were in their forties then. Her features were more delicate, she had lighter skin, she was mexican, like my grandfather. “Mijo, we’re indigenous, we were here first,” she often said, telling me stories of the Californios that ran California before the US took over the territory.
My grandmother was an artist, well-read, and appreciated details and style. I loved her so much, and I always felt like she understood me. My grandfather was tough, didn’t talk much, and complained much about the family. He was a hard worker, and we didn’t have much in common. We never bonded, yet he was a pivotal male figure.
I always felt like I was trying to prove myself, seeking his approval. It never came, even at the end of his life.
I feel like I let down a lot of people in life, through my choices. Given how I grew up, a feral child of Generation X, I can see why—I understand more today than I did back then.
I can see the things that made me so unhappy. I can see the things that tripped me up. The fact is that I started off in a traumatic place, I was left to figure things out with a mother who had to work but also had unresolved emotional stuff, and an absent father.
I didn’t have a safe environment to grow up in, and I got by the best way I knew how; I made the best of what I knew as a child. All of the children on Indiana Avenue grew up the best they could, they all had trauma. Ineffectual parents, drunk parents, absent parents. You name it, we kids had it.
I don’t know that I knew of one kid who grew up in a stable home on Indiana. Everyone was messed up in some way or other.
When I go back home to visit, the old house on Indiana is still there except now my Uncle lives in it. The street goes all the way through to Cordon road, lined with houses on either side and streets that cut through it. The little creek is still there. I don’t see too many kids on the street playing, though, and I know there are kids there.
We all made it out, though. Some of us had big families, some of us didn’t, some of us grew distant, and we lost track of some of the kids. I’d like to think all of us turned out alright.