Life on the dark side of the street

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Welcome to a nomad's world. We live with exquisite freedom.  But we also live in the shadows, where an irate neighbor can pick up the phone and use the police like his or her own ethnic cleansing squad. The mission is to build a bridge for settled people to enter our world (albeit temporarily) and for we, the nomadic, to be able to pass through the world at large, without fear for our possessions, our children and our liberty.

 

There is no false sense of security in numbers, no "I Have a Dream" speech.  We just want to be free.  To not be persecuted because of it.  After a few years of deep scholarly research, I have come to the conclusion that not so many people even know that there is a problem, much less how widespread the xenophobia actually is.  So that's where we begin the bridge-building at: describing what hell both groups put each through, collectively, by denying us the right to exist.   That story will be told here.

 

For example, the following video out of a townhall meeting in Sarasota, Florida July 14, 2015 shows the state of consciousness we are dealing with: "We need to find a legal way to arrest these people for overtaking our neighborhoods."

 

Everyone thinks you have an automatic right to travel in America. Why, sure you do, but what you DON'T have is the right to stop and park in any village you want to spend the night in.

 

 

My name is Ramona Elizabeth Mayon.  My maiden name is Robertson.  I am an American-born Scottish Traveller.  I have always been nomadic.  And since my father was in the oil business, we spent a lot of my childhood in Scotland.  That's where I began to realize I was different.  Wanderlust is a serious matter to  those with nomadic DNA.  Imagine being an African-American or a Mexican-American, and being told,"Try as hard as you can to be like the rest of us.  Otherwise, we will charge you with a crime."

All I ever wanted to was to live true to my heritage, that is to say, actually on wheels full-time. So naturally when a crisis came along, without any further ado, I started out on the road in Texas, in 1992, as a single mother of four in an old purple Cadillac with two white wolves for protection. Nine months later, Greg and I met. Love at first sight, but we married on the condition he would join my lifestyle. We continued to live a truly alternative lifestyle: primitive camping in tents, two or three weeks at a time in the National Forests from Florida to the Ozarks. Followed by a weekend in a motel, with pool and cable TV, then we would be off to explore the next National Forest region. We could have filmed a National Geographic documentary if we'd have had the time or inclination.

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In 1996, for the birth of our son, Merlin, my birthing gift was a 1979 Bluebird school bus. Which is how we came from a tiny bayou in Louisiana, to be travelling up Highway 1, Malibu to Seattle, planning our quiet wedding in Golden Gate Park ... ... ... a wedding that the police stopped at the altar (which was just a tree at Hippie Hill) because we lived in the schoolbus and the "homeless" weren't allowed to congregate in the park after dark. It was just past dusk. That night, November 14, 1997, under a full moon, in my hand-sewn black tulle wedding dress, I hysterically put a gypsy curse on this place ~ and that damn thing has trapped me here ever since.

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In truth, that decade-and-a-half on San Francisco's Ocean Beach, although a prime piece of real estate in America's most costly city, and yes, beautiful in a lush, over-done way, but compared to the adventure we were on? Oh, it's been a sad, bitter little existence compared to the life we had before we arrived May 31, 1997, our anniversary co-incidentally.

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