The Californiacs | Page 4

the ex-pugs become statesmen and all the ex-cons
become literateurs; California, the home of the movie, the Spanish
mission, the golden poppy, the militant labor leader, the turkey-trot, the
grizzly-bear, the bunny-hug, progressive politics and most American
slang; California, which can at a moment's notice produce an
earthquake, a volcano, a geyser; California, where the spring comes in
the fall and the fall comes in the summer and the summer comes in the
winter and the winter never comes at all; California, where everybody
is born beautiful and nobody grows old - that California is populated
mainly with Californiacs.
California, I repeat, is populated mainly with Californiacs; but the
Californiacs are by no means confined to California. They have, indeed,
wandered far afield. New York, for instance, has a colony so large that
the average New Yorker is well acquainted with the symptoms of
California. The Californiac is unable to talk about anything but
California, except when he interrupts himself to knock every other
place on the face of the earth. He looks with pity on anybody born
outside of California and he believes that no one who has ever seen
California willingly lives elsewhere. He himself often lives elsewhere,
but he never admits that it is from choice. He refers to California
always as "God's country", and if you permit him to start his God's
country line of talk, it is all up with intelligent conversation for the rest
of the day. He will discourse on California scenery, climate, crops,
athletes, women, art-sense, etc., ad libitum, ad infinitum and ad
nauseum. He is a walking compendium of those Who's Whosers who
were born in California. He can reel off statistics which flatter

California, not by the yard, but by the mile. And although he is proud
enough of the ease and abundance with which things grow in California,
he is even more proud of the size to which they attain. Gibes do not
stop the Californiac, nor jeers give him pause. He believes that he was
appointed to talk about California. And Heaven knows, he does. He has
plenty of sense of humor otherwise, but mention California and it is as
though he were conducting a revival meeting.
Once a party which included a Californiac were taking an evening stroll.
Presently a huge full moon cut loose from the horizon and began a tour
of the sky. Admiring comments were made. "I suppose you have them
bigger in California," a young woman observed slyly to the Californiac.
He did not smile; he only looked serious. Again, a Californiac
mentioned to me that he had married an eastern woman. "Any eastern
woman who marries a Californian," I observed in the spirit of badinage,
"really takes a very great risk. Her husband must always be comparing
her with the beautiful women of his native state." "Yes," he answered,
"I've often said to my wife, 'Lucy, you're a very pretty woman, but you
ought to see some of our San Francisco girls.'" "I hope," I replied, "that
she boxed your ears." He did not smile; he only looked pained. Once
only have I seen the Californiac silenced. A dinner party which
included a globe-trotter, were listening to a victim of an advanced stage
of Californoia. He had just disposed of the East, South and Middle
West with a few caustic phrases and had started on his favorite subject.
"You are certainly a wonderful people," the globe-trotter said, when he
had finished. "Every large city in Europe has a colony of Californians,
all rooting for California as hard as they can, and all living as far away
as they can possibly get."
Myself, Californoia did not bother me for a long time after I first went
to California. I am not only accustomed to an offensive insular
patriotism on the part of my countrymen, but, in addition, all my life I
have had to apologize to them for being a New Englander. The
statement that I was brought up in Boston always produces a sad
silence in my listeners, and a long look of pity. Soft-hearted strangers
do their best to conceal their tears, but they rarely succeed. I have
reached the point now, however, where I no longer apologize for being
a Bostonian; I proffer no explanations. I make the damaging admission
the instant I meet people and leave the matter of further recognition to

them. If they choose to consider that Boston bringing-up a social bar
sinister, so be it. I have discovered recently that the fact that I happened
to be born in Rio Janeiro offers some amelioration. But nothing can
entirely remove the handicap. So, I reiterate, indurated as I am to pity,
the contemptuous attitude of the average Californiac did not at first
annoy me. But after a while even