The Bounce — Part I: Miami to Bakersfield

By Cliff Potts
Bay Bay City, Leyte, Philippines — September 17, 2026

This is a serialized installment from the autobiography of Cliff Potts.

A Layover, Not a Landing

Chicago was not a destination. It was a pause.

We arrived from Miami and stayed briefly with Helen and Garth. The adults had conversations about plans. Children were not part of them. What I understood came later: when we left Chicago, Geri stayed behind to finish high school. She had friends. She had continuity. My mother allowed it.

Lauren and I did not stay.

We drove west.

Why Bakersfield?

Why we aimed for Bakersfield again remains unanswered. Other cities would have made more practical sense. Instead, we returned to a place we had already left.

My mother relied on AAA TripTik booklets to guide us—spiral-bound slices of highway that reduced the country to manageable increments. You did not need to see the entire map, only the next segment.

That was how we traveled.

St. Louis

The first real strain surfaced in St. Louis. My mother asked Lauren or me to help navigate the interchanges. We were tired children attempting adult tasks. Lauren and I argued at the wrong moment. The exit was missed. My mother reacted sharply.

The detour cost time, not destination. The tension had been building long before the highway split.

“Up, Up and Away”

Somewhere during that return across the country, one song seemed to follow us: “Up, Up and Away” by The Fifth Dimension.

It drifted through 1967 from radios in stores, cars, terminals—everywhere.

The song fit the moment.

Light, airy, detached. It matched the sensation of reentering the United States after Cerro de Pasco. It felt less like stepping into a new life and more like being carried into one.

When the chorus rose, it marked the in-between space—the bounce—between a life that had ended and one not yet formed.

Back Again

We passed through Missouri, Oklahoma, the Texas Panhandle, New Mexico, and Arizona before reentering California.

In Bakersfield, we found a ground-floor apartment that worked for my mother’s knee.

School began immediately.

My teacher introduced me to the class:

“This is our new student, Clifford. He’s from Peru.”

For three weeks, I was the Peruvian kid.

When I corrected a new friend and told him I was from California, he dismissed it.

“No. The teacher said you’re from Peru. So you’re from Peru.”

Authority had spoken.