It was a sun-drenched Wednesday in late April 2017 when I finally started the drive to Los Angeles. I got a late start around one or two PM. It took longer to get the trailer ready for travel than I anticipated. Stowing things away and wrapping breakables was just like moving all over again! Knowing I'd frequently move my RV, I vowed to streamline the packing process for future travels, aiming for simplicity and speed. As I headed north from the southernmost end of San Diego toward the northern tip of Los Angeles, the long stretch of road ahead promised a lengthy day. Rush hour was just starting, I had only been driving for about forty minutes when I realized I needed to get fuel for my truck. The area I was in, Poway, didn't really have any easily accessible gas stations. Why didn’t I fuel up before hitching up my trailer? Since the area was unfamiliar to me, I used an app to help me locate a fueling station with diesel. The app proved to be very unreliable. At the first station, I became annoyed as I discovered the diesel pumps were blocked off for maintenance. Cars were zooming around me, making it difficult to maneuver out of the station. There was a station across the street but I would have to make a u-turn somewhere to get to it.
It’s not easy to do a u-turn while hauling a 34-foot trailer. This sized rig needs lots of space, I drove up the street a short way but it was up a steep hill and even though I took it slow with “Overdrive” off, my truck started to overheat. I ended up driving a few more blocks before I could get my truck and trailer onto the other side of the street, where there was another station advertising diesel fuel. I pulled in, fueled up, and just sat there for a little while my truck cooled down.
By this time, my nerves were frazzled. With the engine running, to take advantage of it’s coolant system, under the scorching sun, I sipped on a cold soda, pondering my next move. Surely, I needed to take it to Steve, the mechanic my diesel drivin' rodeo ridin' insurance agent, Fred, recommended, to replace the radiator and fan clutch. I called him. When I told him about my plans, he warned me not to go any further and not to go up any big mountains. I made an appointment to bring my truck in the following Monday. He already knew what was wrong from a previous visit, and I needed it fixed. I could not go back to Pio Pico since my time ran out there. Then I remembered what Jane and Tony had told me about the Thousand Trails Park in Oakzanita, near Julian. However, getting there would require me to climb up some huge mountains. That was not an option. Sitting there, in the gas station parking lot, I called around and found a county park campsite in Santee with a space open only for that night. I booked the night in Santee, but I needed to find another place to camp until Monday. I was bummed that I would not make it to Los Angeles in time for a meeting with Suné, my artist teacher for this semester. Suné graciously requested that as soon as I knew my new arrival date, that I set up a new meeting time with her. Since I had no other choice, I decided to rest that night and search for another campground in the morning.
Moana, an older lady camped in an adjacent site, saw me backing my trailer into my assigned site by myself, walked over and offered to guide me (a great thing). Grateful for the offer of help, I asked her to hang on a bit while I attempted to back the RV in myself. When I successfully maneuvered the trailer into my site, she was amazed and congratulated me! Frankly, I was amazed at myself as well since I had very little experience backing my RV up without guidance. That evening, Moana surprised me with a slice of pizza and a piece of birthday cake. It was her daughter’s birthday, and they were there to celebrate. I was so touched by her kindness that I was inspired to emulate her example of neighborliness.
Exhausted from the day before I slept a little long and the 10 AM check out time came too soon to make calls to other campgrounds. After leaving the Santee Lakes campground, I went to a nearby Walmart parking lot to make my calls. Another day under the relentless sun had begun. The heat emanating off of the asphalt was suffocating. I could only find one other campground nearby with a vacancy; it wasn’t far, but it was very expensive. Additionally, Santee is hotter than other parts of San Diego. So I started looking at cooler areas to camp. I found one next to the bay in Chula Vista. Both campgrounds were really high priced compared to other campgrounds, but they were the only places with vacancies. Irritated that I wasn’t able to find less expensive options, but hopeful that being next to the bay would be a pleasant way to wait out the necessary truck repairs.
The park turned out to be very fancy, with hotel-like accommodations and a luxury price tag of $90 per night! This campground also had a ten year policy. However, because a big group of “Glampers” were there for a rally, the management said my RV would blend in and made an exception for me. Glampers—often women—transform vintage campers into charming retreats, decking them out in kitschy, eye-catching decor. To my surprise, it turned out to be the same club that my Mom belonged to, although she wasn’t there this time. Their trailers are fun to look at. The ladies do it to get away from their husbands and kids! One Glamper, Pam, came to visit me at my site because she thought I might be a new member with my vintage trailer. We ended up talking about our vintage trailers and pets. Bella is just so sweet, that Pam fell in love with her. My mom came out for the evening and we enjoyed visiting with her Glamper friends.
Monday came around, and I went to my nine am appointment with the mechanic. I asked him how long the repair would take. He told me he still needed to look at my truck and order parts. He told me that it might take a couple more days. He told me that he couldn’t start the repair that day because he was all booked up through the end of the week. This really pissed me off because I had expected him to do the work that day. During our phone conversation, had explained that I was expected in LA, on Thursday, and he had already looked at my truck on a previous visit. This delay had a domino effect: missing my scheduled meeting with my artist advisor, needing to reschedule my campground reservation in Los Angeles, and facing the escalating costs at the RV park due to the truck's mechanical issues. Each unforeseen challenge compounded my stress. Unwilling to spend days idling as repairs dragged on, I sought a new mechanic. As each night at the Chula Vista RV park passed, the cost of the radiator repair soared. I turned to Yelp for alternatives and found a highly recommended radiator shop, but it was too busy to take on my job immediately. However, they pointed me to another nearby shop, which promised a two-day wait.
It felt like it was raining shit on me. It seemed that I had nothing but problems with this RVing life. I was beginning to question my decision to embark on this way of living. When I think about it now, in 2024, I did not really have a lot of options. Backed into a financial corner, this lifestyle wasn’t actually a choice. It was a way, so I thought, to be able to afford shelter. During the first month of living in the RV I had experienced many little disasters, the accumulation of these disasters, and the prospect of more, given their unrelenting nature, made me very concerned about my future safety and sustainability.
Despite having left the church years ago, a sliver of faith in a benevolent God lingered, prompting me to ask a friend for prayers. In our conversation, she intuited that I had not forgiven my parents for their inability to co-sign on a new trailer due to their financial constraints. This struck a chord. I realized I was harboring deep-seated resentment towards them; it was the first time I had ever asked for such significant help. My frustration was compounded by reflections on my impoverished upbringing, which I felt had stymied my opportunities for success. These thoughts often occupied my mind. My mother had been just sixteen when she became pregnant with me, leading her to drop out of high school and marry my father. Soon after, her parents relocated to Montana, leaving her to navigate early motherhood with minimal support. Meanwhile, my father, the youngest of nine children, was raised by a single mother after his father abandoned their family when he was only five. Supported sporadically by nuns who brought food from the local Catholic church, his mother struggled to keep them afloat.
My mother raised me alone with no child support much of the time. She left my dad early on, but went back to him a number of times before finally divorcing him after my brother was born. My father always punished her by withholding child support. This has also angered me over the years. Because, by withholding child support my dad actually hurt me and my brother. There is nothing I can do about this reality. In the last few years, my dad has apologized for being a lousy parent. My mother was a child with a child. So I realized, that they really didn’t have the skills necessary for raising children. I prayed to forgive them and apologized to God for holding a grudge. I love my parents and this lack of forgiveness was hurting me and my relationship with them.
Once, after I mentioned wanting to move to a town in Washington State near him, my maternal grandfather, in a matter of fact tone, told me, “It’s better that family not live too close to each other to avoid problems.” I think of this now and again especially when thinking about how my grandparents, aunts and uncle on my mother’s side all lived in different states when they were alive. I want to avoid that in my family, but I really don’t know how. This is why I long for community. Displacement due to financial poverty and from family tensions is part of my life story. It’s a part I want to remedy. My quest for community—be it familial, local, artistic, academic, or spiritual—has taken center stage in both my life and my artistic pursuits. Wondering where I fit and recognizing community when I find it are part of the process and are questions I have. I doubt I will ever fully find the answers. This may be a lifelong endeavor for me.
Driving in my Dodge truck pulling an RV, struggling with repairs had become the latest life change. The turmoil I found myself in brought out all these old family wounds. I am working to sort them out in my head and, like the truck and RV, I try to repair what I can. At this point, I am not sure where all this revelation will take me. Hopefully, it will lead me toward healing for myself and for my family, since this is something I’ve been praying for. How can I have community when my family relationships suffer under so much strain? And beyond my family, do I even have the skills to be neighborly? Sometimes I don’t even want to see people.
In my original plans, the reverse migration project would start with visiting my Aunt Gladys in Los Angeles and visiting the Mormon Family Research Library in nearby Santa Monica. I was eager to get there and to begin. I wanted to better understand my family history and to understand why my family was so disjointed. I hoped researching my ancestry and the places where our ancestors had lived would help me understand myself better. My grandparents used to mention Native American ancestry starting with one of my forefathers leaving his wife and family for a native woman. But I had not found that info from ancestry.com. One of my Aunts, in North Carolina, whom no one else in the family wants anything to do with anymore because of her meanness, owns a book written by my great cousins from New Mexico. Apparently the book details the history and migration of our family. I am mustering up the courage to meet with her so she can share the information with me.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the RV park, the shadows within me also seemed to stretch out, asking to be acknowledged and addressed. This journey was no longer just a physical trek across states; it was becoming a pilgrimage towards understanding and healing. And as I looked toward the road ahead, I knew it was one I had to take.