Growing Up In Humboldt

Wayra A. Klocker Gregori

My heart has been split in two my entire life. Growing up by the beach in Puerto Montt, Chile; and among forests of weed in Humboldt County, California. A Chilean dad, and a "Gringa Chilenisada" mom, (a Chilean-immersed American) who together, birthed me, a "Gringa Chilena" (an American Chilean). As someone who grew up in two different countries at the same time, I can say that when people find out about how I grew up among forests of weed and living in the middle of nowhere, with the nearest neighbor being two miles away, and falling asleep behind music speakers at festivals in Humboldt County, they are either confused or in awe.

The sheer peace and tranquility felt when waking up in the morning, and hearing nothing but the chickadees and blue jays, is not part of the mainstream lifestyle most people lead.

When I close my eyes, I can easily imagine it. Taking the three-minute walk up to the outhouse, the breeze ruffling my hair as I go. Seeing a red-tailed hawk scouting for its next meal, I divert my attention to a dead tree post, on which a peregrine falcon is sunning itself. I can remember the exact feeling of the earth when digging my hands into the soil to help my parents transplant the weed into bigger pots or beds. The exact feel and texture of the water as it gushes into the hole dug for the plant is fresh in my mind. Digging the holes, filling them with water, getting taught how to gently place the plant in, covering it with soil, and once again dousing it in water, was my favorite thing to do in the garden. That, or just simply watering.

A lot of days were hot enough that I'd ask my parents to water me along with the plants. I'd stand next to them so that we could save water and get cooled down at the same time. An activity my mom and aunt used to do as kids when helping my grandpa plant trees. When it got hot enough and enough work had been finished, usually around midday, we'd drive or take the quad down to The Delta to swim in the river. The rough bumpy ride on the quad as we rode over the rocks was always fun, but as soon as we got there I'd rip off my clothes and dive right in. Being sure to stay in the deep area, so as to not get bitten by pincher bugs. I still remember the day I felt the horrible stinging pulse surge through my upper leg as one stung me continuously, stuck, unable to get out of the inside of my bathing suit. I furiously ripped my one piece off to get it to go, as one of the adults flicked it off for me. Since then, I always made sure to swim in a deep enough area. Especially during the summer, when the fuckers are most prevalent.

While swimming I’d surface only for air, before diving back down again. My favorite way to swim was open-eyed, underwater. I’d pretend I was a mermaid, and swim with my legs “glued” together. I absolutely loved it. One day, I found a way to make my own “water goggles”, by cupping my hands tightly around my eyes to not let any air escape and going underwater with air in it. That, or releasing some of the air from my lungs to fill my hands. As long as I didn’t move much, it would look as if I were staring at the bottom of the river from above the water.

The day I got my mermaid tail, I was ecstatic. I'd rarely swim without it! I’d take it nearly everywhere. It consisted of one big flipper in the shape of a tail with space for your feet to go in, with a big swimsuit skin you could pull over you. It was far too loose for me, so I’d tie it tight with a hair tie. I didn’t care about that, though. I could swim like a mermaid, with an actual tail! My dream had come true. I remember there being this rock, a big boulder on the other side of the river that would stick out. I’d call it Mermaid Rock, and lay on it, while flapping my tail on the water playfully, wrapped in my own fantasy. Whenever a friend would come over, or when I’d run into one at the river, I’d be sure to show them that rock. The day I told my mom about it, she laughed out loud, and told me about how she used to have a rock in the same river that she called Mermaid Rock, too. No wonder we’re related!

I spent a year in Chile living with my older sister and going to school there to learn how to read and write in 1st grade, and part of 2d grade, then spent the other half of 2d grade and 3d grade in California at Ettersburg School as one of the 12 students in the K3d grade school, while simultaneously traveling back and fourth between Southern Chile and California. I started homeschooling in 4th grade. When my parents first asked me what I thought about starting homeschool at the local charter school, I was skeptical. It was new to me, and I had no experience with it. However, I figured that if I didn’t like it, I’d tell them, and they’d put me back into normal school the following year, so I gave them my consent.

Being homeschooled meant that I’d ideally have to do a little homework in all the subjects every day, go to the charter school once a week for an hour to see my teacher, who would evaluate the work I had done so far, and let me know what I’d need to do more of for the following week, and see a separate tutor for math once a week for an hour, since that wasn’t my strong point. Other than that, I had complete freedom. And now that I was homeschooled, I had the time. My parents took this opportunity to enroll me in a ton of different extracurricular activities. And together with the help of my grandparents, they’d drive me, and pay for the classes. I was so busy with my classes that even though we lived in the country an hour from the nearest small town, we’d drive there every single day. Piano, guitar, or accordion (mostly accordion), Aikido (a Japanese martial art), horseback riding, band, aerial silks, trapeze, theater with the local youth program Recycled Youth, and art are just a few of the extra curricular classes I’d attend.

I’d also sell my friendship bracelets and handmade jewelry at the Garberville Farmers Market every Friday. I remember how noisy and busy it was every week. Farm-stands selling their fruit and vegetables, jam, tie-dyed clothes, greeting cards, the Lost Frenchman’s wood fired pizza stand who’s scent of food would fill the air, a sun-tent with live music, and laughing screaming children running through the water fountain on hot days. Often, I’d join in, playing with my friends in the grassy area, sliding down a small slide that had been carved out of a rock, smoothed, and placed on the small patch of grass. I still laugh when I remember the sign: “All adults must be accompanied by a child” that’s staked there. When I wasn’t selling macrame, or simply wanted a break, I’d play with my friends in the grassy area. I made up a game for us to play called “Queen of the Rock” which consisted of taking turns being the sole person on the boulder, and trying to defend it from anyone trying to climb on. Anyone who managed to do so would be the next king or queen.

My childhood was quite full and chaotic… but it was very rarely boring. And despite having grown up on a Pot Farm, I never really had any interest in smoking it at all. To anyone worried that having kids grow up among or near weed in such a setting could affect them— My experience, and that of many of my friends, is quite a positive one. We never understood the idea that marijuana was considered a bad thing in many other places, because we never saw any negative effects. Unless getting super hungry counts. To us, Marijuana was simply a green leafy plant with a strong distinct smell that our parents cultivated and sold for a living. Oftentimes we’d see and hear the adults laughing and having deep philosophical conversations with each other while passing around a joint. It wasn’t bad or weird, it was just simply our way of life— We hardly paid any mind— We were too busy running around playing tag, and hiding for hide and seek.