Get ready for a laugh!
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
Did my time in the California Conservation Corps
I was 18 years old in 1979, and had been raised in a homogenous suburb of San Francisco called Castro Valley. I had no clue what I wanted to do with my life. I had started Junior College and that brought forth no answers either. What I needed was a major change---something that would get me out of my parent’s house and be an adventure too.
Someone had told me about the California Conservation Corps, a program run by the State of California for young adults age 18-23. They were planting trees, working in the forests and mountains, and making a difference in the community---this definitely appealed to the romantic sensibilities of an 18-year-old girl. I imagined meeting young men with long dark hair and closely trimmed beards that would appreciate a girl who was scented with patchouli oil, wore Birkenstocks, and listened to Dan Fogelberg and CSNY.
I went to the State of California employment offices where I applied and was accepted. They requested a 1-year commitment, though this was a contract that could be broken if need be. I was instructed to buy 2 pairs of brown Lee jeans and a pair of work boots---they would provide the khaki colored shirts with CCC patches and the hats that I would wear.
“Basic Training” was a 3-week induction into the CCC. I arrived in Angel’s Camp with my new uniforms, my bottle of patchouli oil, and with hopes of meeting other like-minded young men and women to bond with.
I became aware fairly quickly that the C.C.C. wasn’t what I had imagined it to be. The girls who I had already encountered in my barracks weren’t very friendly---they seemed hard-edged---much more street-wise than me. I was already feeling out of place here.
These girls had a mission, and it was to make this my life as miserable as possible. They had begun to harass me, threw away my patchouli oil and short-sheeted my bed.
My anxiety was rising, but I knew that once I was transferred to San Luis Obispo, that everything would change. I would be able to bring all of my personal items---my guitar and records and clothes for leisure time. I would have to leave my Golden Retriever at home though---a fact that grieved me terribly.
I got through this mini boot camp and headed for SLO. We had shared cabins here, so there would be more privacy and perhaps more tolerance for individuality.
I began to meet people and started working on some of the projects assigned me. The projects weren’t that bad---I wasn’t planting trees, but we were doing some work in the community, and we even assisted with mop up work at some wild fires in the area.
My disappointment---what made this the worst job ever---was that in my naiveté I didn’t understand that a lot of the kids who had joined the CCC were actually from the “streets”. Some had been diverted from the legal system, some had terrible family problems, some were just looking for a place to escape to---like me I guess.
My cabin roommate seemed friendly enough. I even brought her home to my mom’s house for a weekend to hang out. She was from Merced or Modesto or somewhere like that, and it seemed like we could get along---that was until her boyfriend accused me of giving her Valium---I don’t know where she copped the V. --well, the guy actually threatened to kill me.
I felt helpless and ill equipped to understand the culture that I had landed in, or the hostility directed toward me. I was a nice person, always friendly and open. I just didn’t get it, and I was getting scared.
There was a pregnant girl at this camp. She had a boyfriend who claimed to be the nephew of John Forsythe, the actor of Dynasty fame. I had made the mistake of getting a little too close to said Dynasty star nephew, not knowing about the pregnant girlfriend of course, and before I knew it I was being threatened in the bathroom by his girlfriend and her pals.
I think that I had a panic attack the next day, and had to be taken to the local emergency room for observation.
I called my mom and cried “uncle”, and the next day she sent my brother-in-law down to pack up my stuff and bring me home.
In my wildest imagination I didn’t think that I would find such cultural diversity, or kids with such varied personal histories. I had seen bullet and knife scars on some of the young men at that camp, and I had never really experienced that kind of “I’m gonna beat your ass” mentality among my peers at home.
I didn’t find Dan Fogelberg or hang out among the redwoods, but I did come home with a little more life experience, which isn’t such a bad thing after all.
Someone had told me about the California Conservation Corps, a program run by the State of California for young adults age 18-23. They were planting trees, working in the forests and mountains, and making a difference in the community---this definitely appealed to the romantic sensibilities of an 18-year-old girl. I imagined meeting young men with long dark hair and closely trimmed beards that would appreciate a girl who was scented with patchouli oil, wore Birkenstocks, and listened to Dan Fogelberg and CSNY.
I went to the State of California employment offices where I applied and was accepted. They requested a 1-year commitment, though this was a contract that could be broken if need be. I was instructed to buy 2 pairs of brown Lee jeans and a pair of work boots---they would provide the khaki colored shirts with CCC patches and the hats that I would wear.
“Basic Training” was a 3-week induction into the CCC. I arrived in Angel’s Camp with my new uniforms, my bottle of patchouli oil, and with hopes of meeting other like-minded young men and women to bond with.
I became aware fairly quickly that the C.C.C. wasn’t what I had imagined it to be. The girls who I had already encountered in my barracks weren’t very friendly---they seemed hard-edged---much more street-wise than me. I was already feeling out of place here.
These girls had a mission, and it was to make this my life as miserable as possible. They had begun to harass me, threw away my patchouli oil and short-sheeted my bed.
My anxiety was rising, but I knew that once I was transferred to San Luis Obispo, that everything would change. I would be able to bring all of my personal items---my guitar and records and clothes for leisure time. I would have to leave my Golden Retriever at home though---a fact that grieved me terribly.
I got through this mini boot camp and headed for SLO. We had shared cabins here, so there would be more privacy and perhaps more tolerance for individuality.
I began to meet people and started working on some of the projects assigned me. The projects weren’t that bad---I wasn’t planting trees, but we were doing some work in the community, and we even assisted with mop up work at some wild fires in the area.
My disappointment---what made this the worst job ever---was that in my naiveté I didn’t understand that a lot of the kids who had joined the CCC were actually from the “streets”. Some had been diverted from the legal system, some had terrible family problems, some were just looking for a place to escape to---like me I guess.
My cabin roommate seemed friendly enough. I even brought her home to my mom’s house for a weekend to hang out. She was from Merced or Modesto or somewhere like that, and it seemed like we could get along---that was until her boyfriend accused me of giving her Valium---I don’t know where she copped the V. --well, the guy actually threatened to kill me.
I felt helpless and ill equipped to understand the culture that I had landed in, or the hostility directed toward me. I was a nice person, always friendly and open. I just didn’t get it, and I was getting scared.
There was a pregnant girl at this camp. She had a boyfriend who claimed to be the nephew of John Forsythe, the actor of Dynasty fame. I had made the mistake of getting a little too close to said Dynasty star nephew, not knowing about the pregnant girlfriend of course, and before I knew it I was being threatened in the bathroom by his girlfriend and her pals.
I think that I had a panic attack the next day, and had to be taken to the local emergency room for observation.
I called my mom and cried “uncle”, and the next day she sent my brother-in-law down to pack up my stuff and bring me home.
In my wildest imagination I didn’t think that I would find such cultural diversity, or kids with such varied personal histories. I had seen bullet and knife scars on some of the young men at that camp, and I had never really experienced that kind of “I’m gonna beat your ass” mentality among my peers at home.
I didn’t find Dan Fogelberg or hang out among the redwoods, but I did come home with a little more life experience, which isn’t such a bad thing after all.
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