Dreamin’ California Michael A. Gonzales (bio) When I was a young boy living in Harlem during the early 1970s, I thought of Los Angeles as the Promised Land. It was where Disneyland was located, television and movies were filmed and, I imagined, palm trees grew on every block. L.A. wasn’t a city, but a fantasy—a pleasant dream where the Beach Boys provided the soundtrack and the sun always shined. Staring at the smiling faces of game show contestants on the TV screen, I was convinced that everything in the West was perfect. “If we ever move, can we go to Los Angeles?” I asked my mom when I was about six. “Of course,” she said. I realized her answer was just another parental lie nine years later when mom announced, in the winter of 1978, that we’d soon be moving to Baltimore. We’d visited my Aunt Charlotte and cousin Marie there for years, so I somewhat knew that the spooky industrial southern metropolis by the sea, best known for steamed crabs, the Colts football team, and being the place where Edgar Allan Poe died, was the complete opposite of Los Angeles and the dream city I imagined living in. ________ It was the era of Jimmy Carter in the White House, Three’s Company on television, and disco music taking over America’s airwaves. At my new high school, Northwestern, I became fast friends with Larry Ressin, a jock who played lacrosse and drew as well as anyone at Marvel Comics except Jack Kirby. We met in first period journalism. He and I bonded over rock music, comic books, and movies. After a while I was spending more time at his house than my own. His mother and father were cool, and he had a twin brother named Terry who was in a couple of my classes. Although I made a few white friends the first few weeks of school, I couldn’t help but notice how segregated the city was as opposed to my old New York neighborhood. There was a huge Confederate flag hung in a Dundalk comic book shop I visited and, later, I was warned from venturing into the white enclave of Hampden. Coming from a community that was a melting pot of cultures, races, and religions, I had grown up in a family that befriended, and sometimes married, other races; I rarely thought about race and racism until I moved to Baltimore. [End Page 117] One afternoon, Larry and I were hanging out in the third-floor hallway waiting for our biology teacher, Miss Solomon, when I noticed a tall, stunning blonde wearing blue jeans and a gray Jackson Browne T-shirt. Though it was cold outside, Northwestern was always overheated. Most kids left their coats and sweaters in their lockers. Her Browne tee indicated that she was, like me, a music fan. Unlike some kids today who wear vintage band shirts without knowledge of group, back then who you wore on your T-shirt reflected personal taste. “Who the hell is that?” I asked Larry as we both glanced at the girl leaning against the wall. Larry smirked. “I don’t have the slightest idea, but she’s hot.” Indeed, it was the also the era of Hollywood starlets like Loni Anderson, Suzanne Somers, and Farrah Fawcett—“hot blondes.” The stranger looked as though she’d come straight from central casting. I moved closer to Larry and whispered, “Watch this.” I started speaking louder so the mystery blonde could hear me. “If the teacher doesn’t hurry up, I’m going to cut class and go home and play my Jackson Browne album.” The blonde turned around, looked at me and smiled. “Are you a Jackson Browne fan?” she asked. Truthfully, I knew that Browne was down with the Los Angeles/Laurel Canyon music scene that included Joni Mitchell, The Eagles, Linda Ronstadt, Neil Young, James Taylor, and others who rocked in a folksy/country acoustic guitar way. In the 2018 documentary Echo in the Canyon, everyone interviewed (The Mamas & the Papas vocalist Michelle Phillips, Jackson Browne, and the film’s guide, Jakob Dylan) tells us how much...
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