A Small Piece of Altadena

Altadena, California. A small city in Los Angeles county. It was 20 minutes from downtown Los Angeles, but felt like a little world moving in its own time. Black people escaping Jim Crow laws had settled there. Japanese Americans escaping internment camps had settled there. People from Mexico escaping economic strife had settled there. Its businesses were family owned. Very few chains existed there. It had its own hardware store and small markets and dairy and restaurants where the chef knew everyone’s name.

2536 Silver St sat next to the Gabrielino trail. It was surrounded by tall trees and dirt and mountains and open sky. There were very few streetlights there and so at night you could see thousands of stars and the bright moon and could look up and around and feel like you were living at the edge of the world.

Sol stood in her living room staring.

In all the rooms of the house she could see 50 years of memories etched into the walls.

She walked toward the room she grew up in.

I remember, she thought.

She remembered herself as a child learning to walk, her father’s arms open, her brother trying to sabotage the moment by sticking his foot in her mouth.

She looked to her left, where her older sister’s room had been. A place of refuge for all three siblings. They would crowd her sister’s room and read illicit books and smoke weed out the window and play music their parents didn’t know they had.

She looked to the kitchen and could smell the matzo ball soup that was made every Hanukkah and Passover and the arroz con pollo that her grandmother would make and the chile con carne her grandfather would make.

She could still hear the important conversations that had happened at the kitchen table. The Sex talk. The Where Are You Going to College talk. The How Dare You Did That Thing, Now You’re Grounded Talk. The Do as I say, Not as I Do, talk. The I Love You talk. The other I Love You talk.

She could see them playing games at the table. Her father teaching her poker at five years old. Teaching her how to bluff and bet and how her mother pretended to disapprove.

She looked outside into the backyard and could still see the whole family on Sundays as they cooked carne asada and drank beer and talked politics as the kids ran around playing tag and falling over and laughing hysterically because someone said the word ‘fart.’

She could see the tree that had been there before they moved in. The tree that had been there before anyone moved in. Before any of the houses were built. The tree that had that one branch where she would sit and read and lay back looking at the sky.

She could see her parents dancing in the living room. Her mom swaying her hips to Tracy Chapman as she dusted the furniture.

She could see her family squeezed together on the couch as they opened presents and watched movies and played Scrabble. 

She could hear the arguments that occurred in every room.

She could hear the secrets that were shared between her and her brother in that corner of the house by the small bookcase. It’s where she told him she was gay. It’s where he told her he didn’t care.

She could see her sister watching Sound of Music for the millionth time, making everyone join in for every single song.

She could hear English and Spanish and Hebrew. 

She could see and hear and remember so many things, and she didn’t know how she was supposed to pack up the walls and the tables and the ceilings that were so full of these moments.

How was she supposed to take it all with her?

Her phone screamed at her that it was time to go.

So, she grabbed her father’s precious books. And her mother’s paintings. She grabbed the photos that she could. She grabbed the Menorah that had been in their family for no one knew how long. She grabbed the small La Virgen made out of wood and the green Buddha her grandfather had owned.

She grabbed.

She grabbed.

She grabbed.

And her phone screamed at her again that it was time to go. That she had to leave NOW.

And she packed up her car.

And she saw her neighbor Rodney standing in his front yard, looking at his house, holding bags and bags of things. She knew what was going through his mind. She thought about how his family had lived in that house for at least four generations. They had just had a conversation last week about how their little city held what was left of the middle class. About the rich Black history it carried and how precious Black generational wealth was. Would his house still be there when he got back? And if it wasn’t. How do you rebuild four generations? How do you rebuild a community like that in an era of real estate and insurance vipers and rising costs of living? People can be incredibly resilient but damn. Damn, damn, damn.

She could see the fire rising blocks away and thought briefly of people around the world who were fleeing their homes every single day. What memories did they take with them, she wondered. Did they even have time.

And as she drove away, she looked into the rearview mirror and could still see the roof of her house through the thick smoke.

And she could remember her family standing there one late summer night years ago, looking at the stars and the moon and the beautiful navy-blue sky and the Gabrielino trail leading up into the mountains making them feel like they were on the edge of the world.