Santa Cruz Gloom

Hippie. 

A word I've heard a lot over the last few years. In fact, the moment I let people know that I would be heading to Santa Cruz for school, that was my new label.

Brandon the Mountain Man. 

Tree Hugger. 

Hippie. 

By no means do I take this in any negative connotation. In fact, at this point, most of it is true. But when I left the quiet suburbs of Thousand Oaks, CA so many years ago, I was not these things. 

I find it interesting how we as humans create these labels and perspectives of the people that we know and meet simply by the location that they come from. On a broader scale, I suppose the word I'm looking for is stereotypes, but without getting too much into that discussion, I would like to focus on the smaller scale. 

I was not raised in Santa Cruz. My parents did not raise me loving nature and focusing on my chakra or sun salutations (I realize i am stereotyping myself, but it is to make a point). I had never done these things nor thought them a part of my life. Yet as soon as Santa Cruz was a part of my life...so became I a hippie. 

Now, we could spend all day arguing whether or not those ideals were dormant in me from the start, waiting to be expressed or rather that this town has rubbed off on me. I think both are true, and much more, but in the end it doesn't matter.

What does matter is that I am me, and no location has any hold of that (trust me, not everyone in Santa Cruz shares my ideals)

And it has taken me a long time to find that. For so many years I tried to fit in. To be the popular kid or the cool football player. I wore a mask, painted with the societal norms so that I would be accepted in the LA-esque culture of Westlake Village. Beneath this mask: a frown. A teenager lost and confused and unaware of what true happiness could really mean. Wandering the halls with fake smiles and laughs to please those around me.  I wonder how many of them were hiding too. 

But I hide no more. 

As I left class today, I found myself walking through the redwood forests in my wool poncho. A light rain falling through the trees. A succulent in hand, housed in an old oregano spice jar that I had just purchased from a girl in the quarry. And a smile on my face, despite the strange looks from those who passed. 

This is Santa Cruz. 

This is hippie. 

This is happy.

This is me.