Just 17 miles from the second most populated city in the country, the artistic mecca of the pacific coast, my hometown has three major freeways running down through it, like arteries on a heart. We exist in a state of constant movement, dubbed the title of “gateway city,” we are only one in a chain-link fence that serves as the waypoint between Orange and Los Angeles County. By a grand stroke of irony, several interchanges and sections of freeway have been in an irreversible state of flux, in which construction hasn’t halted or made any progress in upwards of six years. The poorest citizens come to bear the brunt of these projects as multitudes of homes are seized for freeway expansion projects that are left incomplete in exchange for abysmal compensation and the total loss of memories, safety, and peace of mind. Norwalk’s neighboring city of Downey currently plans to expand a major freeway by seizing more than 200 homes from the Northern side of the community, which is largely made up of working-class, Latino families. The Southern side of town is largely made up of higher value homes and is left untouched by the project. While our town is highly regarded for an unparalleled system of transportation that makes Los Angeles city-life possible, a commendation of questionable claim for our ability to connect multiple communities with ease, the ethics of eminent domain remain questionable at best and inhumane at worst. Not only do these projects impact the local quality of life, it also represents a greater distrust between the people and the town as our needs are held second to the priority of transportation. The cacophony of major highways constantly undergoing construction with lack of a centralizing business or open public area doesn’t suggest interconnectivity or even resemble a community. Instead, Norwalk and the neighboring cities are often left in a confuddled state of disarray and dissolution. Our city, by design, is an in-between that you merely pass through. Thus, we stand still.
As a kid I was often at a loss for stories about the local region. Erected at a crossroads in my town is a silhouette statue of Native Americans, a male figure pointing into the distance with a sign affixed above him, labeled “El Camino Real.” A Native woman holding a child’s hand follows closely behind him, and a wagon is beside them. This was the depth of my knowledge of the Native tribe that was here long ago, a vague outline of an idealized representation. In the fourth grade, we visited the San Juan Capistrano mission as a class and were taught about Catholicism and how it was spread by a very important Father Serra. We then were instructed to build individual church missions with miniature crosses made out of toothpicks, and write creative essays on how the Natives adapted to life on the mission. According to our teachers, the Spaniards were educating the Natives, teaching them the ways of God, and providing them with food and shelter. It even seemed like fun to live on a mission, I thought, and learning how to read. What they did not inform us about was the Shoshone tribe that was exploited for mission labor, and the depth of their loss after populations dwindled due to disease. Once living in built villages along the San Gabriel and Rio Hondo rivers, I imagine the Shoshonean soaking up their bounty of resources and living idyllically, living off of honey, berries, and the rabbits that still roam around the local Wilderness Park. Even this, I have found, is a simplistic view with the bias of history intertwined with it. It is a continual effort to uncover what has been buried, either by the purpose of erasure or under the test of time.
Like many others within the past year, the repetition and endless slog of work and life met me every morning and tucked me in bed at night, and soon became so overwhelming that it seemed to leach into every chore, hobby, and person around me. What was once a month’s break from socializing and life responsibilities became a new reality, in which avoidance of others was now paramount to my bodily health, but destructive in every other manner. Out of desperation for connection and clarity, I did what any other writer or creative would do: I took my dog out for a walk. We opted to take to the streets when the sun is still down, traveling the perimeter of my neighborhood with a pair of airpods and a pepper spray. When we get to the top of the bridge we are both shivering and in a sweat, but eager to see the view. From here I can point out my place of work, my home, and off into the distance I can point out my junior high school. In the morning when I drive across, it is usually bustling with pedestrians on their way to school or work who must dodge the bikers that trail behind them in a similar rush. When I walk here, though, it is always quiet and we are unbothered. Part way on the bridge, there is a cemented staircase leading downward hidden in a grassy slope, at the bottom a fence blocks access to the railroad tracks. You can almost see my house from the top of the bridge here: our flood lights illuminate the dark corner, with a red exterior and succulents adorning the walkway. Looking down into the cul-de-sac, like a fishbowl, you can see the home of my older brother’s best friend, Nico, and his work truck sitting aside a collection of gleaming vintage cars. Across from him there is an older man that sits outside to enjoy the sun, at times with his infant granddaughter in tow. I don’t aim to stare, but their familiar embrace and her gleeful shrieks strike a sense of love into me that is just as forgotten as it is comforting.
From the top of the bridge, a broken street light illuminates the black wires outlining the neighborhood, an electric trough to keep us all safe inside our neat, cookie-cutter homes. In the summer, the power always goes out when it’s the warmest time of the day. I have never seen any workers come out, but me and my little sister still cheer for them when the lights turn back on. On the block ahead of mine lives Mister Gill, the chaperone of several of my elementary school field trips. I don’t think he remembers me, so I never say hello. Just down from him is one of my childhood acquaintances and several more familiar-faced neighbors I haven’t spoken to in several years. While on our walks, my dog and I became experts at dodging obstacles, like it’s one of my video games: 1+ point for sprinkler systems, 2+ points for rogue cats, and 3+ points for people. At times they regard my dog kindly, to which I hardly ever respond. It’s safer like this, I remind myself, at least for the time being. Instead, I make friends with the enormous cactus that is just down the street from my home. I know, just by looking at it, it is the oldest of all other living things nearby. I raise my phone and snap a picture, attempting to immortalize its silhouette on my social media but the creation is far too majestic to be caught on film. Its arms are enormous and spindly, jutting into the air chaotically, but support their own weight as if by magic ropes. It tells me that we might be able to grow, against all odds, in defiance of gravity. Since we always go out in the dark, the cool air fills up the space that the summer heat revels in, but in wildfire season, smog and smoke have started to rob us of moon-lit walks and breaths of fresh air. I nearly want to apologize to the cactus for what conditions it must face, bearing the heavy burden of outliving us on this Earth.
The house across from mine is now vacant, the family moving away to Tennessee or Arkansas or South Dakota. Service vans stopped by daily for weeks: first, there was a hearse, then a demolition team that spent hours pulverizing the wooden cabinets, drawers, and counters in their kitchen with heavy iron mallets. A tree-clearing service was next, and lastly, a trash collection bin. The following weeks were pin-droppingly silent. Their sons' loud, purple truck with painted orange flames across the doors no longer blared violently down the road, and their red-headed daughter no longer could be seen scoring soccer goals in their front yard. There are no new residents yet, and no one has come to look at the house. I kick the rocks layering the dirt around the sidewalk outside their house and recall their grandfather smiling at me, saying “every dog needs to stop at that tree.” I didn’t reply to him, but only laughed shyly at the time.
It was not until my neighbors moved away that I would regret not speaking to them, and not offering my condolences for their loss. It dawned on me that I was ignorant of my surroundings and those existing in it, my knowledge of the Shoshone tribe turning out to be much like my ignorance of my neighbors: a distinct unawareness of their names, their desires, their roles in life, with a distant and shallow appreciation of them as people. While I had resented my hometown for the oppressive landscape built without a hint of creative expression or cultural significance, I had also built a wall between myself and the people living here with me. To advance beyond our current reality, at the bare minimum we must accept what has taken place and empower ourselves to create a new one. Instead of being a mere observer on these walks, I think next time I will try to wave at the neighbors.
C.S.
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