Writing About Place

It was a bumpy car ride over the pot hole filled parking lot between the two dusty brown football fields. I walked up the peeling red steps to the pasty yellow main entrance, unease mounting. Inside, the fading painted cement walls peeled, the floors were scuffed and the fluorescent lights made the place look like a grimy, back alley free clinic. Outside, row upon row of dismal, dull yellow, one-story buildings were clustered around the black-top “lunch area.” It was a massive, table-less expanse of gravel and dirt bordered on one side by the fire lane and the other by a steep hill leading up to the small dingy gym. The entire place was surrounded by a tall chain link fence. It was warm at least, 75 degrees and sunny in January. It was a shame the only clothes in my suitcase were turtlenecks, jeans and thermals. This place was a far cry from the snow frosted, three-story, red brick stately buildings of General H.H. Arnold American High School. My mother kept shooting sidelong glances at me as my unease turned to clear dread. Nausea had plagued me almost constantly since I’d seen Barstow again, getting closer as the car made its way through the brown desert covered with the stubble of tiny dry shrubs. This was home now and this was my new high school.

(As an extra treat I've included a little video clip on the wonders of Barstow California. Everything in it is accurate, trust me.)