The Dirt Beneath Us
Frauke Von Der Horst never wanted to leave Germany. But if she stayed, Nazism would’ve been instilled in her.
Before it was considered Poland, Frauke lived in Kreis Dirschau, Germany. After the World War, her hometown ceased to exist as it once did and Poland reemerged as a nation.
In her infant years, Frauke was taken to West Germany by her parents in an attempt to get away from the forefront of the war.
She didn’t know better but as she grew older, she realized her father was taking part in the exact regime they were pretending to get away from. Her Father was a Nazi.
Her once blonde hair is now gray. She talks slowly and with every small remembrance and expressed wisdom built from her past, she takes deep breaths. Her moccasins are worn, her jacket is frayed, and her eyes are droopy. But she ALWAYS has something to say.
When she moved West with her family, she met her now alcoholic ex-husband when she was 23 at a pub where the Merchant Marine Academy and the University she attended intermixed. Where the only thing she remembers of that small pub was the established owner and the giant wooden whale penis mounted on the wall.
After Frauke committed to him, he decided to travel to New York on his private yacht where he would reside, with or without her. Frauke saw this as an escape route away from her Nazi parents despite her lack of enthusiasm towards America, describing herself as a “reluctant immigrant.” But she took the opportunity and swam with it anyway.
“Every immigrant lives with a lack.” Frauke said. “The lack of familiarity of childhood or your young adulthood. It’s like how you remember your first love.”
Once she immigrated to America, she began to appreciate what the country had to offer, more choices for education and from her beliefs, a better place to raise a child, better than the surroundings she had grown up with at least.
But parts of her heart were still in Germany and she debated leaving her husband and child to go back to her homeland many times.
“With a change of space, especially if it includes a change of language, you kind of reconstruct yourself.” Frauke said. “And when you stay in one place, you kind of don’t think of yourself as having been constructed.”
Growing up in Germany, she was exposed to a lot of the same systems her parents participated in. Systems that Frauke didn’t morally agree with and couldn’t fully form that disconnect until after she left.
She knew that living in Germany, under her parent’s roof, would force her to conform to Nazi beliefs.
Germany to her will always be home and tagging alongside her husband to America meant leaving the rest of her life behind and everything she deemed familiar.
“If you live in either place for a long time, something of you is at home there.” Frauke said. “Something from that place becomes part of you, sour or not.”
Now 77 years old, Frauke has lived, studied, and experienced three different places for the majority of her life. Germany, New York, and now Long Beach, California where she plans to stay for her remaining years. In each of these places, Frauke has built herself a reputation, connected with different individuals, and turned houses into homes.
As hesitant as she was to take that initial step to America, she knew she would be worse off staying stagnant in her hometown next to her parents as well as raising potential children around the same ideals she unwillingly grew up with.
Frauke Von Der Horst currently lives across the street from me.
My college apartment window directly faces her aged two story home and from the first day I moved in and saw her smoking a cig on her porch, I knew I needed to befriend this woman.
She intrigued me. I wanted to know who she’s always talking on her house phone with, if she’s read all the books I can see on her shelves from my window, at what age she started smoking.
She’s our neighborhood watch dog.
Every time there’s a crash or bar chaos on our street, she’s the first out there to direct traffic or break up a fight. Mind you again, this woman is 77 years old.
So when my Journalism professor introduced us to our profile project last semester, I knew I had to use this to learn more about Frauke.
What you just read in italics was the project I submitted to my professor and what came of Frauke and I’s 3 hour conversation in her living room engulfed in books and dead roses.
Listening to Frauke’s life story was like having a book read out loud to me. A very well written autobiography about a very exquisite woman.
The more she explained her experiences from Germany to America, the more I resonated with her, even with the wide age gap.
These nostalgic feelings of home she described and the ones that led her to flee were all feelings I felt in regards to my hometown and how it felt to leave it after almost 16 years.
Ramona is a tiny country town in the county of San Diego, California. The place I lived from age two to seventeen.
I recognize it as my hometown, but no longer home.
Two separate terms.
A pill I struggled to swallow.
And while I attempt to cram everything I love and hate about growing up in a small town into one single blog post, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ll need at least two.
So consider this a part one.
Ramona.
The name of my future daughter and the name of the town you drive through and think “Wow, I would hate to live here.”
45 minutes from any mall, one main high school, and so many goddamn tractors.
Growing up, my playground was a giant pile of cow manure.
And for this I explain why I was never scared to walk around the dorms barefoot. Thus resulting in the nickname “farm girl” brought to you by the bay area boys that lived on my floor.
You describe the whereabouts of Ramona by mentioning the nearest church.
The wineries keep legos in the back for the kids to play with while their parents drink. Where your only food for that couple of hours is the oyster crackers kept on the counter.
And the only time you see tourists is when they show up in their Gucci shoes and attempt to hike to a rock that looks like a potato chip.
Former turkey capital of the world.
The Valley of the Sun.
Hicksville.
Your reputation depends on whatever your parents are known for in town.
Everyone knows the Newmans, the Bradleys, the Necocheas.
Everyone knows you.
So be very careful with what you say and what you do because word spreads faster than people driving on Dye road.
In kindergarten you’ll be sent home with a backpack filled with a teddy bear, deodorant, a toothbrush, a pencil, and a notepad.
This is your fire safety backpack. The one you grab when the Witch Creek Fire comes through your backyard and you’re forced to evacuate, causing you to be traumatized at a young age every time you see an air tanker in the sky.
In elementary school you’ll learn about the pioneers by pulling a wagon around your neighborhood and visiting your classmate’s staged houses to represent the historical movement west.
In middle school you’ll learn the hierarchy of sitting under the bleachers at lunch versus the blue wall.
In your high school years you’ll learn why there’s random cars parked in the baseball fields with foggy windows late at night.
The tart strawberry flavor from Yogurt Barn is your comfort meal.
Your favorite mug is the one with wiener dogs on it from Kountry Kitchen.
Mi Ranchito, La Cocina, and Mañanas will never fail your carne asada nacho cravings.
And everything else you fancy probably requires a trip “down the hill.”
You either do drugs, get pregnant, or take over your family business.
The hotspots in town are the Denny’s after Friday Night Lights, the Turkey Inn if you’re over the age of 65, and that one destroyed house that’s technically in Fernbrook, former meth capital of the world.
Everyone meets up at the high school parking lot to carpool.
Nobody knows whether that tree off the side of San Vicente is in the shape of a pig, dog, or horse. You’ll debate this many times.
And if it’s your birthday and your name is on a poster pinned to it, you are so popular.
You’ll become a pro at driving windy roads or at least your parents will always pray that you do.
The Panda Express coming to your town was a revolutionary moment.
Thursdays are for Cruise Nights.
Stage stop has the cheapest gas in town.
Ramona Alert! (Uncensored) is for entertainment purposes only.
Growing up in a small town definitely has its pros and cons. And when you move away, you’ll trauma bond with anyone that’s also from a small town.
The diversity and representation is extremely thin, causing you to become quite close-minded, because like Frauke said, “When you stay in one place, you kind of don’t think of yourself as having been constructed.”
And in all honesty, when I moved to Long Beach, I definitely faced that “culture shock” everyone talks about.
I started a notes section on my phone where I wrote down all the new lingo I was learning.
I had never heard of the derogatory term “fob” or the phrase “plot me.”
And when I would accidentally say y’all out loud I got some pretty aggressive stares.
It was weird and took some getting used to but it wasn’t anything to be ashamed of.
We all come from very different walks of life and I think it’s quite beautiful to come together and learn from one another.
I’ll teach them to appreciate the Target less than 10 minutes away and they’ll teach me how to appreciate E-40.
I know moving away from Ramona at 17 years old to attend a college even just 2 hours away was the right thing to do and I know that because I am a lot more developed and understanding now than I would’ve been if I would’ve stayed.
Frauke Von Der Horst never wanted to leave Germany. But if she stayed, Nazism would’ve been instilled in her.
I’m not saying that I would’ve became a Nazi if I stayed in Ramona but I will say there are still systems and opinions of Ramona I’ve come to counter more frequently living elsewhere.
This also isn’t meant to be a diss on anyone that does stay, but merely a little inspiration to see what else the world has to offer you when you’re feeling stagnant where you are.
I realize that my timing and chosen path lead me to where I live now and that some people don’t have the luxury to just get up and move away from the town they’ve lived in their entire lives.
But just like Frauke left Germany, her comfort country, her friends, her family, all reluctantly, she feels she is better off in America now, similarly to my appreciation towards Long Beach.
To an extent, I actively see myself becoming a much different person than I was.
But I’ll never hesitate to bring up the hick ass town I’m from that has occasional midget wrestling events.
“Something from that place becomes part of you, sour or not.”
Honor where you come from, where you’ve lived and where you’ve loved.
Because these places ultimately build you.
It’s the dirt beneath us.
I remember visiting my junior year boyfriend who lived in Point Loma and seeing girls wearing Birkenstocks and platform sandals. And then not seeing even a sliver of those same trends until about six months later in Ramona.
Even just 45 minutes away, I felt so disconnected to relevancy and progression.
But then I moved to Long Beach and couldn’t stay on top of the trends because they were so fast paced. I now honor being slow to trends in Ramona because now I’m broke trying to keep up with the ones here.
My passion for art didn’t skyrocket until after I moved away. Nothing in Ramona inspired me anymore. I had stared at the same antique shops on Main street for 16 years.
I couldn’t fully form that disconnect until after (I) left.
And although the tone of this blog seems rather brackish, I will say that growing up in Ramona taught me morals and skills I will carry everywhere I go.
I’ll never be scared of a little mud on my clothes.
I’m a little less scared of finding a tarantula in my driveway.
And I’ll always appreciate night skies without pollution and watching shooting stars in the back of a pickup truck with my besties or a cute boy.
Ramona taught me the importance of community.
How you can watch an entire town come together after the death of a father, a husband.
Someone you worked alongside and looked up to, to bring reform and better resources to your high school.
You’ll watch him pick out the perfect zucchini while you’re working your shift at the local family owned grocery store you’ve been employed at since you were 15 and then later that day see an ambulance on the way to find out about his passing.
It’ll keep you up at night for weeks but you’ll find beauty in togetherness.
Ramona taught me to cherish simplicity.
Never having to deal with left-turn yields.
Picking the oranges on the bottom of the 78.
Reading the name tags on horse stalls at the equestrian center and feeding them extra pieces of hay as a form of young rebelliousness.
It taught me to be rowdy, respectfully.
Jump off the tallest rock at Black Canyon, do donuts around the school library in your mini cooper, swim in Devils Punch Bowl but bring enough water for the atrocious hike back up.
Go find the abandoned pirate ship in the estates and color with the crayons left behind in it.
Drive around town with your best friends and watch out for donkeys in the crosswalks when you do.
Learn Spanish from Georgina in the RFN kitchen.
Go to Julian when it snows even the smallest amount.
Trick-or-treat on Del Amo.
A little over a year ago I got my first tattoo 20 minutes out from Ramona.
Contrary to popular belief, I don’t think tattoos must have some deep meaning behind them in order to get them. And at the time I got a giant shark jaw on my elbow, I didn’t really have one other than I thought it would look dope.
A couple months later I created a meaning to it.
Fish could only grow to their tank size.
I knew this because my brother, Cameron, once had a Plecostomus in our home tank that only grew so big until he decided to toss it in the Dos Picos pond to let it grow bigger in the “wild.” (Shhh I’m pretty sure that’s illegal but it was out of the goodness of his big fish obsessed heart)
Living in Ramona, I only grew so big, I was the Plecostomus in our front entrance tank.
And when I moved to Long Beach, I grew so much bigger because I was in a much larger tank, and now I’m swimming in what feels like an ocean.
Sharks, especially great whites, can grow to be as large as they are because of the size of the bodies of water they live in.
The ocean seems endless and at times, so does Los Angeles County.
So I guess that’s the meaning behind the painful tattoo surrounding my elbow that I love so much.
I left to grow.
And now, when I visit Ramona, it no longer feels like home.
It feels so foreign to me.
I don’t personally know anyone that currently attends the high school, Kmart is gone, and no one in my family lives there anymore.
I can drive past the house I had my first kiss in and the street where I accidentally ran over a cat, but for the sake of my sanity, I can’t live in this town ever again.
Extremely bittersweet but I guess that’s a subcategory to growing up and taking that leap.
Because if we don’t leave this town, we might not ever make it out.
An ode to the dirt that was once beneath me.
To be continued…
