You never get used to culture shock

“Wow! Isn’t that beautiful!” I exclaimed, with an overdone tone of exuberance, as we left the high-altitude, sun-scorched Mojave Desert and began our long descent toward Los Angeles, with the snow-capped peak of Mount Baldy still to our west. I was trying to speak a positive word to weary spirits that had grown increasingly negative as our journey progressed. We had been traveling through mile after mile of rolling desert, each bend in the road producing what seemed like the same monotonous scene: stark hills, with an occasional Joshua tree or cactus, and vapors rising from the hot pavement.

In front of our home in Stillwater, MN

Our family was moving from the home we had built seven years earlier in Stillwater, Minnesota, a beautiful, historic town on the banks of the St. Croix River separating Minnesota from Wisconsin, to a rental duplex unit we had never seen in Temple City, California, a suburb of Los Angeles. After sensing, together with me, that God was leading us in another direction, my husband James had resigned his position as a marketing communications supervisor at 3M in St. Paul to attend Fuller Theological Seminary in Pasadena. It wasn’t an easy decision. Moving to the West Coast meant leaving security, family members and the Midwest, where we had always lived. In addition, our sons, Kevin and Kyle, soon to begin grades 7 and 5, would need to change schools and leave friends. My first warning of the difficult transition ahead came in a phone conversation about housing with a woman at the seminary.

“What is your address?” she queried. When I said we lived on Hidden Valley Lane in Stillwater, Minnesota, she replied, “Wow! Are you in for culture shock!”

At the time, I dismissed her comment, thinking she was just enamored by the picturesque name of our street. Now, as we got closer to our destination, I wondered if she might be right. We had enjoyed seeing Mount Rushmore, and a few other spots along the way had caught our boys’ interest, but the further west we came, the quieter they became, and I sensed the negative vibes.

“This would be easier if we didn’t have kids,” I told myself.

It did feel good, however, to be out of the desert and see some green trees, even if they were much shorter than trees back home. As we came over a ridge, the great expanse of the Los Angeles Basin lay below, filled with houses that stretched for miles like wall-to-wall carpeting. Except for an occasional palm tree poking up its bushy head, there was little to focus one’s eyes on. A depressing, brownish-colored cloud hung above the trees and extended far to the western horizon, where it ended abruptly and gave way to the sun. As we got closer to Los Angeles, the smog increased. It had a sweet, oily smell that we could taste.

“Welcome to L.A.!” I thought.

“Look at the palm trees!” I said to the boys, hoping to trigger some enthusiasm.

“The ocean is over there,” my husband contributed, as he pointed westward.

We could smell and taste the smog.

Suburban streets took us past row after row of houses that all seemed the same and pedestrians who didn’t look at all like we were used to seeing in the Upper Midwest. This was definitely not home! Finally, we arrived in Pasadena. James went into the seminary’s housing office to retrieve the key for our new residence in nearby Temple City, while the boys and I sat in the hot car, waiting in silence. Upon his return, we continued on to our destination.

A long, concrete drive led to the house, which was set back in the middle of a city block, between several other houses. There was no front lawn, only a large cement pad for parking cars. The house was a nice stucco ranch with two units. Ours, the largest, had a two-car garage, two bedrooms and a spacious kitchen that let out to a patio area, which was the size of a small room and surrounded by a block fence.

The inside of the house was in good condition, although the walls were in need of fresh paint. My husband made a quick phone call to the landlord, who agreed to supply paint, if we did the work. Since our furniture wouldn’t arrive for another two days, there was time to complete the job, but we were tired and depressed. The idea of painting five rooms was like contemplating climbing Mount Everest.

“We have to do it,” James declared, “unless you want to live with it like this.”

Hotel in Arcadia, CA, where we awaited our furniture.

Not wanting to settle for dingy walls, we returned to our hotel and made plans to awake early the next morning and get to work, despite our discouragement. After a good night’s sleep, we picked up paint from a nearby hardware store and headed back to our new home.

On the way, we drove past men who were carrying chickens. A little further down the street, we saw where they were headed. A small crowd, gathered in a driveway, were standing in a circle, presumably in hopes of winning some money in a cockfight.

We proceeded on past the famous Santa Anita Race Track. It was exciting to see the beautiful palm trees, the sprawling green lawn and the carefully groomed dirt track where the horses raced. Despite the visual feast, my stomach was upset and I ached all over, like I had been hit by a semi.

“Must be symptoms of culture shock,” I thought.

It was hard to imagine ever feeling at home in this environment. The trip from Minnesota to California had lasted forever and, after arriving, I had told my husband that I never wanted to take that drive again. Now, I would gladly travel those long, tedious miles, if it meant we could go home.

No time to wallow in pity, however, if we were to be ready when our belongings arrived. Working through the morning, we found ways for the boys to help whenever possible. Unfortunately, kid-appropriate tasks were few and the boys hung around like sticky flies. With no friends and without their bikes to entertain them, they were, obviously, bored.

At noon, we took a break and drove around the neighborhood, searching for a place to buy lunch. Three blocks down, on the other side of a large, dry, concrete-lined channel called the Los Angeles River—it sure didn’t compare to the St. Croix—we found a Weinerschnitzel fast-food restaurant, where we bought hot dogs and sodas.

“Sodas?” Kevin questioned. “We call it pop in Minnesota.”

At Zody’s, a department store similar to Wal-Mart, we picked up some cleaning supplies and headed toward the checkout.

Surrounded by people who spoke to each other and the cashier in Spanish, it was obvious we were in a predominantly Hispanic community. In Minnesota and Wisconsin, in the early 1980s, one rarely heard people speaking a language other than English.

Mulling over what we had just seen of our new world, we went back to the duplex, finished painting and cleaning, and then returned to the hotel, exhausted. The next day, the truck arrived with our furniture, and we helped the movers unload. The boys met some neighbor kids and began showing signs of feeling more content with their surroundings. This would be our first night in our new home, and our own beds were appealing after several nights of sleeping in hotels.

It seemed like we had been asleep for only a short time when we heard, “Caw! Caw! Caw!” Startled, I catapulted out of bed into the early-morning light.

“What’s that?” I questioned.

“I don’t know,” responded my husband, as he jumped into his pants and headed to the bedroom door. The boys were running down the hall toward the back door and the source of the horrific sound. Looking over the patio wall into the sky above our neighbor’s house, we saw a large flock of green parrots landing in a eucalyptus tree.

Parrots! Maybe this place isn't so bad, after all.

“Cool! There must be at least 30 birds!” exclaimed Kyle. “It’s like living in the tropics. Maybe this place isn’t so bad, after all.”

His words were encouraging to parents who felt guilty for asking two kids to make unwelcome adjustments. It was the first indication that things would be OK and, as the days and weeks progressed, they were. We gradually adapted to our surroundings. Trips to the beach, Disney World and Knott’s Berry Farm, and drives up to Mount Wilson and Big Bear were enjoyable and, at least temporarily, distracted us from our loneliness. My husband was enjoying his classes, I liked my job and the children had friends who were of other races and from different cultures, an invaluable experience that would benefit them greatly later in life. Even so, we missed the seasons, particularly the fall leaves and the winter snow. We all wanted to go home!

Two years after moving to California, we returned to Minnesota. Back in our own environment, however, we were surprised to find that we were no longer the same people. We had seen and experienced things that our friends had not experienced and did not understand, and we longed to return to California.

That never happened but, three years later, my husband accepted a new job and we moved our family cross-country again, this time to the East Coast, to Long Island, New York. Once again, we moved to a house we had not previously seen and, once again, our sons became quieter and quieter as we neared our destination. I thought this move would be easier. We had done a major move before and knew what to expect. I was wrong.

New England-type scenery normally would impress me.

Reminiscent of three years earlier, we found ourselves again standing in an empty house with our furniture in transit and no food in the cupboards. This time, as we headed out to find a place to eat, we drove through beautiful residential streets in quaint New England-type communities that normally would have impressed me, but I took little notice. The rock in the pit of my stomach made me feel like vomiting. “If only we could turn around and go back to our real home in Minnesota!” I complained. That, of course, was not possible. We would have to live with our decision and stick it out. We did, things got better and we became New Yorkers.

I eventually adapted and became a New Yorker.

Six years later, we returned to Minnesota, this time to a little cabin in the woods, where my husband wrote a book and where I assisted my brother in his business. Again, as much as we wanted to come back to our home area, we experienced culture shock. People in Minnesota’s north woods do not think or act like East Coast city folk, and living in the woods is much quieter than living in a city, so we had to re-adapt to Midwestern ways.

One lesson I have learned from our moves is that a person experiences culture shock not only when transitioning to a new culture, but also when returning to his or her home environment. Each move we made was extremely difficult. Looking back, however, I would not have wanted to miss any of them. Even though I am keenly aware of the challenges in making such moves, given the opportunity, I would do it again. My mind has been opened to new ways of viewing and doing things, and I will never be the same. More than other life experiences, these major transitions have greatly impacted my openness to change and to God's leading. In fact, just this morning, I told my husband, "If an opportunity comes along and we sense God's prompting, I'd move anywhere."

Update: At the writing of this article, I did not know that, just three months later, we would be ordering a house to be built for us in Arizona. Years earlier, shortly after moving to California, we received a letter from our pastor's wife back in Minnesota. She wrote, "Isn't this following God exciting?" I agree!

Copyright © 2007

Portion preceding the update was written as an assignment for an English class, Regent University, Virginia Beach, VA.