Marin - Cheech Is Not My Real Name ? But Dont Call Me Chong

I had never seen a sky so blue in my whole life. Of course, I had never been to Canada before, either. It was mid-September 1968, and I was hitchhiking on a country road outside of Calgary, Alberta. Way off in the distance, the Canadian Rockies rose up like the picture in my mind of what the Rocky Mountains were supposed to look like: tall, majestic, snow-capped, big-assed mountains.

And damn, the sky was blue! It went on and on without a single cloud to give contrast to infinity and beyond.

What was I doing here?

Good question.

How does a South Central Los Angelesborn, San Fernando Valleyraised Chicano end up walking down a country road like hes in a James Taylor song?

Well, why not?

After all, I had on the youth uniform of the time: blue chambray shirt, faded Levis, cowboy boots, and a peace sign necklace. I was filled with all the contemporary counterculture ideals and slogans. I was on the leading edge of the baby boom, the picture of American youth. I was young, dumb, and full of come. So what the hell was I doing here?

I was on the lam.

Well, sort of.

No, actually, I was on the lam; I just hadnt realized all the complications yet. I was in Canada because I had made a decision that totally changed my life. I had made it quickly but without fear. I had made it without consulting my family or friends. It was the kind of decision that I have made several times in my life. A door of opportunity opens, and you either go through it or you dont. I trusted my instincts most of the time, but that didnt mean it always worked out.

I had turned in my draft card, philosophically denying the governments authority over me and at the same time choosing to go to Canada to pursue my artistic calling as a potter. It was a philosophical twofer.

That decision placed me in the perfect Chicano existential quandary. Was I running away from something or was I running toward something? Was I an artist or was I a draft resister? Was I a Chicano or a Mexican or a Mexican-American or just an American? Or was I just hungry?

I dont know. I dont know. I dont know. Leave me alone.

So, with fifty dollars in my pocket I rode the Dog (Greyhound bus) up to Calgary. As soon as I crossed the border I felt like a giant weight had been lifted off my shoulders. There was nobody after me here. I wasnt going to be shot or imprisoned. Everybody I saw looked happy. How weirddont they know whats going on? That was maybe because there was nothing going on here in Canada, the Land of the Polite. At least there was nothing going on that was politically horrendous. Maybe I was the one who was weird.

Calgary was nothing like Id pictured it in my imagination. I thought I was going to be met by Sergeant Preston of the Yukon with a dogsled and smiling Eskimos.

But Calgary looked like Bakersfield.

It was actually a cattle and oil town, and many people wore cowboy hats. It was Northern Montana. It was the home of the Calgary Stampede, the worlds biggest rodeo. The Stampede was actually happening when I arrived.

I called Jerry Kaufman (a fellow potter Id hoped to work with) when I arrived at the bus station. He was very surprised to hear from me. As a matter of fact, he didnt even know that I was really coming. He just remembered that a mutual friend of ours had said that I might be coming someday maybe. Whatever. He said hed be down in a half hour to pick me up. I really miss those innocent days when strangers would take you in and treat you like family. They didnt know any better.

Jerry picked me up, and on the way home he mentioned that since he didnt know I was coming, he and his wife and young son had planned a trip. They were leaving for Seattle in the morning for two weeks, but I was welcome to stay.

When we all got up in the morning, I met the family. They seemed like nice hippies. Not Charles Manson types or anything. Jerry showed me how to work the water pump and the intricacies of the outhouse and which way town was, and then they split.

So there I was, an inner-city Chicano from Hollywood and Vine standing in the middle of miles and miles of farmland with not a single person or building in sight.

A man out standing in his field. Cool!

I loved it. It was a brand-new start in a brand-new country. A country that wasnt at war. A country that didnt care where you came from. A country that would give an honest fella an honest break. I could be a brand-new person here judged only by the content of my character.

Before all that would happen, though, I figured Id check out this big rodeo. So I started walking with my thumb out. After a while, a truck approached. A big trail of honest Canadian dust swirled behind it. It slowed down as it approached me and then pulled to a stop. The passenger door flew open and a cowboy that looked like Kenny Chesneys inbred third cousin smiled and shouted out Hop in, chief!

Hop in, chief? What the fuck? This cracker thinks Im an Indian.

Where you headed?

To the Stampede.

Well this is your lucky day. Thats where Im going.

We rode along for another minute in silence and then he gave me a long appraising look and said, Youre not Indian, are you?