As we were reminiscing last night with my niece and her friend, I was reminded of the time I was determined to move out of my parent's home at the age of 18. Almost seems unheard of today with so many adult children living with their parents until they are in their mid-twenties or even early-thirties or moving back in with their entire families; but that's another rant another day. I was actually quite happy living at home until I realized some strong prejudices my father had against some of my friends. I was appalled and decided at that moment I needed to be out from under the roof of someone who was so bigoted. That was truly the only reason. My parents were very good to me, treated me with respect, kindness and love.
I think they were a bit baffled that I would take the stance of escape rather than not have my friends over for a barbecue. The search began. Initially I was going to move out with a friend, Hymie. He was a big guy, like a Teddy bear and a bouncer at local clubs. He was just my friend and he wanted to get out. I thought it was smart because we got along and I would be safe anywhere I was with Hymie. Life got in the way and Hymie had to help his brother who suddenly found himself at the front end of a shotgun wedding to the impending mother of his child. So much for Hymie's move-out fund. I was on my own and no less determined.
Price was the issue. I hadn't been taught about "location, location, location" and just went by price and how close it was to my parents. I didn't want to be far from them, nor my job. There I was in Downtown Santa Ana looking for an address around 1st and Walnut and that vicinity. I finally came upon the driveway between a horseshoe arrangement of grayed apartments. The manager's was the first on the right by the street. In 1984 I looked a lot different than I do now; I was at dancing weight, big... smile and full of naivete. The manager all but leaped from his chair to come out through the already opened door. He was almost angry - like my father gets.
I introduced myself and he started shaking his head. He told me that I didn't want to live there. I told him I needed to move out and this was in my range. He showed me some of the less than charming, or clean apartments that left a chill up my spine. He also said the only way he would rent to me is if I called my father and had him come to look at the apartments. I'm still not completely understanding, so I used his CORDED phone to call my dad. He came down within a half hour and introduced himself. They both walked off briefly and then came back to explain WHY I was not allowed to rent there. My dad and I both left to go back home. I was disappointed but began to look at that immediate area with new eyes. Ahhhhh. Not a great place if you were not on the night shift with regular customers.
In spite of this one experience in one part of Santa Ana, I think Santa Ana is a beautiful city. There are some wonderful neighborhoods filled with friendly, family-oriented neighbors. There are artist lofts near the city center, galleries, museums and fine restaurants. I just happened to pick the low-rent, seedy, dangerous district, and it was not for me.
I ended up in the east side of Costa Mesa along what became the 55 freeway near Triangle Square in a studio apartment off the pool. It cost more, but I never worried about coming home at night alone and had friends nearby. I will always be grateful that the apartment manager in Santa Ana stepped in to protect me and to my dad for coming right down to keep me safe.
