Riding (and Writing About) the Streets of L.A.

This is supposed to be the City of Angels, but it is also the city of miscreants, dreamers and those halfway between the heavenly and something more pedestrian. From the South Bay to the San Fernando Valley, from the Eastside neighborhoods to the Westside beaches, Los Angeles is a sprawling, ungainly and beautifully diverse metropolis that is home - however temporary, however permanent - to us all.

Following graduation in 2005 from NYU, my move to the west coast provided quite a drastic shift in scenery, ascetically as well as culturally. The stunning views of the Pacific on that long and winding stretch of PCH are definitely a refreshing change from the metal and glass skyscrapers that tower over the concrete jungle of New York.

For the first time in my life I never have to check the weather! So when I'm stuck in traffic on the 405 or coughing up a lung from the horrendous LA air, I remind myself that I'll probably never need an umbrella or scarfs and gloves as long as I remain in southern California.

I'm convinced the sun makes everyone out here so laid-back (sunlight=increase in serotonin levels=bliss :D), a complete 180 from the Type-As that surrounded me in the city. That said, I've also never met so many people who start work at 10 or 11 in the morning and take three-day weekends.

Now this type of easygoing attitude runs counterintuitive to my Northeast upbringing and experience. However, this more relaxed approach to life has afforded me the freedom to balance work and play at a greater ease than that of the rushed and hectic atmosphere of Manhattan. I've enjoyed this carefree environment for the past two years, and I can hope it continues throughout my time at Annenberg!

- Katherine Carroll

Let me preface this entry with one comment: I am an East-coaster for life.

I like L.A., I really do. It's been my home for a little over two years now. The move here was a change of pace, literally. My world slowed down. The lifestyle is significantly more laid-back than I had expected. I think some would describe it as "leisurely" or "relaxed". It's not necessarily a negative, just different. Sometimes the lack of haste tests my patience, but learning to have more never killed anyone, right?

Despite this new atmosphere, one aspect I have thoroughly enjoyed is meeting the people of L.A. Having encountered both locals and transplants, it's been a thrilling and enlightening experience. There's my tattoo artist, whose eight-year old son travels with Ozzfest; the eccentric Canadien who adores her pet rats and horned lizard; and my carpenter friend posing as a PhD student with a proclivity for living out of his VW van.

I can say that my penchant for beaches, lack of humidity, and vegetarian-friendly food has been satisfied. I am still adjusting to Pacific Standard Time when it comes to televised sports. However, I can't argue with a 5 PM MNF start time after a long Monday.

I still haven't completely embraced SoCal. But maybe in another two years, after connecting with a few more quirky characters, the city will have grown on me.

- Shannon Carroll

Being from San Diego, it seems that I grew up in a miniature version of Los Angeles. Both cities are diverse, sprawling, and plagued with traffic.

However, I experienced a true difference between the two places on the very night I moved in to my new apartment near USC. Unable to temper my urge to explore, I drove up to Beverly Hills on La Cienega blvd. It surprised me that in just three miles I could go from an industrial, urban setting to one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the country.

San Diego, conversely, has distinct boarders between suburbs. Whether it is a mountain, freeway, or body of water, the change between socioeconomic areas is at most gradual.

I look forward to exploring all that Los Angeles has to offer, as there is a new discovery to be made around literally every street corner.

- Jonathan Horn

When I close my eyes and think of what La-La land is, I see one of the world's centers of culture, entertainment, technology, international trade, higher education, and traffic. A city of Angels where people come to pursue an array of "dreams." A city where the sun shines almost everyday, and the stars are on the sidewalk instead of in the night sky. The 405 has become a large component of my life, from the billboards that line its perimeter, to the fancy cars that travel on its surface at a mere crawl to mock speed. I have read that LA is the second most populous city in the United States and the largest in California, housing nearly 13 million people from the western beaches to the eastern skyline of the city. A city where anything is possible; a La-La land offering endless opportunities so that anyone can become a shining star.

- Keli Moore

It is a daunting, seemingly uninviting city. It is a city where delineation and diversity co-exist. A city gravely misunderstood by those who do not live here. I've experience the misunderstanding and judgment first hand when traveling with my Bay Area-born family. At some point a waiter inevitably asks us where we are from, and before I have a chance to say “LA” my brother glares at me and shouts “San Francisco.” To him, a simple association with Los Angeles is shameful and repulsive. Yet it's an association with an abstract, undefined place. It is about a misunderstood muddled mess. It is only in interacting with the uniqueness of the neighborhoods and individuals that reside here that a true impression can be formed.

Los Angeles is my home. Well, Santa Monica, really. The ambiguous and expansive nature of the city make it difficult to assess exactly where one does live on the map -- living in West Hollywood means you do indeed live in the city of West Hollywood, while residing in Westwood means a return address of Los Angeles. The lack of definition often causes only those with a strong sense of self to survive. The others are in danger of being swallowed by the stereotypes and victimized by the harsh judgment of the ignorant that do not live here. It is a fight to find one's place here. I have fought hard and found mine.

- Jessica Lewis

When I first arrived in Los Angeles in 1994 as an undergraduate freshman at USC, I was excited to find that my Marks Tower dorm room overlooked the beautiful city skyline. I was awed by the majesty and romanticism of it all. I was 18 years old, away from home for the first time and finally living my childhood dream of becoming a part of "the big city". While I reveled in exploring the campus and surrounding areas, I had no car and would rarely make the necessary arrangements to venture much further. In this first year, I understood L.A. only in terms of this small section of downtown. In turn, my first impression was that Los Angeles was, in fact, the gritty, bustling metropolis that I had come to expect from television and film. I now find this initial understanding of our city to be incomplete, if not naive.

After seven years of living in many different parts of L.A., my impression has changed quite a bit. I now see this place more as a number of different cities connected by freeways. I see Los Angeles as a big city made up of thousands of small communities, and as one arguably lacking an all-encompassing community connecting these various peoples. Another thing that has come to strike me about this city is it's unparalleled cultural and socioeconomic diversity. As I drive down these streets, I often find myself wondering about the many vastly different experiences all taking place at the same time in Los Angeles. The businessman stresses about his luncheon downtown as he walks by the street vendor who is struggles to make rent.

While I still find downtown to be the exciting, urban adventure I once extolled, my impression of Los Angeles has evolved to encompass what I perceive to be a complex mix of people and lifestyles that continues its struggle to find a greater sense of unity.

-Tom Sparks

For me, Los Angeles is a city of contradictions.As most people know, it is home to Hollywood and the entertainment industry which brings it share of actors, performers, writers and artists. The city just drips with creativity. However, on the flip side, the city of Angels has all of the traditional industries represented from law to business to engineering, and it has a very strong economy. In fact, L.A. has some of highest rated medical facitilies in the world. So, LA is more than just "Hollywood" and what some may consider "fluff." In this respect, Los Angeles has a “more than meets the eye” quality.

And if you spend anytime walking around Los Angeles, you will find that it is very diverse. The city is rich with people of all different nationalities, ethnicities, and even languages spoken. However, this diversity is often parceled off into highly segregated neighborhoods, often defined by race, economics and class. Although the city offers an abundance of culture due to its diversity, it is often nestled away in hidden pockets that many are often afraid to venture into due to a lack of understanding or appreciation of those differences.

Even within Los Angeles’ environmental beauty there are contradictions. The city is full of gorgeous people, pristine neighborhoods and beautiful ocean landscapes. It is easy to find palm tree lines streets with beautiful Spanish and Mediterranean style homes. However, if you look on the periphery, you will also see the dirt-ridden faces of the people without homes – the homeless that take refuge on the streets of Los Angeles. Even the weather in Los Angeles can make a person a bit confused. The warm, sunny days of high seventies to low eighties will quickly turn into a chilly night were a sweater is required to brace yourself against the ocean breeze.

My relationship with Los Angeles has been a tricky one since moving here almost 2 years ago. I realize now that I too have inherited its contradictions. I love Los Angeles on the days were the sun is warm and I can see the ocean from a nearby window. However, I often long for the smell of fall, a quick rain shower, familiar faces, historical monuments and the cherry blossom trees of Washington, DC that I used to call home. In truth, Los Angeles is as contradictory as the people that inhabit it, and I now count myself as one of them - rich in diversity, striving to understand and accept difference, and full of contradictions.

Brooke-Sidney

I have often thought to myself that I should shrink and laminate my resume and carry it around like a business card. Indiana is a place where people mean it when they shake your hand and ask you how you have been. Los Angeles is the place where people kiss your check and ask you what you do for a living. Everyone competes with everyone else and no one should dare stay in on a Saturday night. Hollywood is a mentality, one that I have adapted at times and ran away from at others. To battle the vanity that comes with the city I try to stay in touch with my love of the sunshine, outdoors, good friends and everything else LA has brought me over the years. It is a city of a ups and downs, opportunities and heartbreak. I have had a blast so far in this crazy place. I am not sure if I could stay here forever, but until I leave I know I will never lack for adventure.

- Emily Elzer

When i first began to make plans to move out here, i was very excited. I'd be leaving boring Orlando, FL for exciting Los Angeles! However, that definitely wasn't my first impression when I first drove away from the airport. All I could think was how ugly the city was! Hazy mornings, out-of-control traffic, old buildings, and pollution were some of the first things that caught my attention. What were all these people talking about? Even with its minivan-driving tourists and Motel 6's in every corner, Orlando was starting to look nice.

However, after spending a few months here it finally sank in. What makes Los Angeles special is its aura and people. Everyone who lives here just has a particular vibe about them. Real estate prices may be exorbitant, and you need to drive 30 minutes to go to the grocery store, but yet people from LA just love LA. Eventually that vibe spread and now I find myself loving LA as much as them! I'll find myself telling my out-of-town friends that traffic isn't so bad and that paying 300k for a 2 bedroom is not that unreasonable. I guess it just took some time to catch on.

- Patricia Padilla

As long as I have lived just outside Los Angeles, it has remained a vastly mysterious place that is multi-faceted in every aspect. The city is a fragmented landscape with wonderfully distinct geographical areas that range from the posh to the harsh, the pretentious to the desolate, all within reach of a car. It is a place unique in that the ebb and flow of automobiles on the vein-like highways create the pulse of Los Angeles at all times. Everything can be seen from the vantage point of a dashboard, making the vehicle an integral component of the L.A. experience.

The city is really the juxtaposition of the glamorous and the gritty. This dichotomy creates a fascinating environment when two elements co-exist and interact with one another. One can trek through the city and find all the elements of an urban, smog infested metropolitan area, poised next to mountain ranges and serene oceans. And the public that inhabits all of the distinct neighborhoods is as diverse as the structure of the city itself. The collective fragmentation is what defines this unique section of California.

- Claire Webb

In truth, I have always felt a sense of resentment that I was not born in Los Angeles. From the outside looking in, I always soothed my jealous rage with the notion that those who were lucky enough to be born here had done something genuinely altruistic in their previous lives. I naturally assumed there was a merit system based on good deeds and therefore one must have acquired sufficient credentials to earn a place amongst the shade of the palms and the crash of the waves. Possibly teaching a deaf blind puppy to read would warrant such a prize; I don’t know, I consider that a fair trade for paradise.

As I explore the area, my ability to objectively judge- if such a thing exists- is compromised by the prime shopping, delicious eateries and sunshine. These factors tint the lenses of my Dior sunglasses* a distinctive shade of rose as I unconsciously block out the ideas of pending credit card bills, expanding waist lines and melanoma. I believe the scientific terminology of the sensation I am describing is "warm fuzzies". Alas, I am not a science major, so to be certain I will cross-reference it with Wikipedia at a later date.

The L.A. perfection is further personified by the unreal (and also, on occasion, real) hard bodies at the beach; the disproportionate ratio of sunny versus rainy days; and of course the 2007 USC Trojans atop every pre-season poll- Fight on!

Are my casual observations superficial? Perhaps. I guess I will have to ponder it poolside as soon as someone can get my back.

*When in Rome.

- Emily Nerland

When I think of Los Angeles, I think of it as a center for art, culture and entertainment with its popular late-night Hollywood attractions and glamorous club scenes, yet I simultaneously think of its muggy, dirty image with thick-laden smog, worn-down buildings and heavy traffic. I see it as a dichotomy of diversity and division. There are people of so many different cultural backgrounds, yet some areas seem to be severed off from the others because of culture and class niches. I even see these separations in the San Fernando Valley, where I live (a separation from the rest of the county in itself). Even within that subset of Los Angeles (seen as a “nicer” suburban area), the Valley itself has an exhaustive number of subdivisions where sometimes it is not very much distance between unattractive streets with run-down apartments and big, beautiful homes in quiet neighborhoods with property for horses. Sticking mainly to the area of Los Angeles that I grew up in, I have not explored very much of downtown or the south-central region, which makes it all seem more distant and mysterious to me. I do know it is difficult, and probably impossible, to sum up Los Angeles into a single identity, and I am looking forward to finding out the similarities and differences between these regions. It will be interesting to see how the cultures coexist and intermesh in their industrial and artistic urban setting while they also tend to polarize in certain sections of the city and county.

For approximately a year, I gave up my car and forayed back to taking public transportation, a concept almost as foreign as walking in Los Angeles. Taking the 79 from suburbia to the heart of downtown, I was introduced to a Los Angeles that I knew existed but never witnessed. With each stop, there was a new member to our mobile representation of Los Angeles. As the grime and traffic increased, the skyline of Los Angeles became more evident, crystalline skyscrapers rising above the noise and pollution.

Los Angeles has layers. Everyone sees the disjointed communities, the smog, and the traffic. Yet, dig deeper, hidden is a plethora of cultures, cuisines, and communities that somehow meld together. Standing next to the starving artist is the corporate lawyer tied to his blackberry. Yet, it is a mistake to think that LA begins and ends downtown. The county lines reach from the ocean to the valleys. LA is growing and evolving constantly, and I am only beginning to explore it …loving every moment.

Driving the streets of Los Angeles, one cannot help but realize what the term melting pot really means. The inadequate, but popular conception of America as black and white does not even exist here, because the city is undeniably and unapologetically flavored with culture. The antiquated diversity model of antebellum America has been replaced with one that reflects the growing effects of globalization, and one of its epicenters is right here in Los Angeles. There are pockets of it everywhere. Little Armenia, Little China and Little Ethiopia are just a few of the niche neighborhoods in the city that serve as cultural enclaves in the larger community; and throughout the city, one observes cross-cultural interaction that many in this country will never experience. The multitude of languages spoken, wide array of customs and beliefs, and the various amounts of melanin in the skin of the people makes for a cultural experiment with varying results from day to day.

While at times, the cultures may come together and evolve willingly into a part of the proverbial melting pot, at others, they will resist any form of assimilation – often with detrimental effects on the larger community. A perfect example of the second is exhibited in the tension between Blacks and Mexicans that has increasingly erupted into deadly violence over the past several years. Xenophobia, the threat of competition, and ignorance all contribute to forced isolation and inter-cultural tension that makes Los Angeles a frustrating place to live at times. This frustration, however, is not a product of impatience or insensitivity, but because you see the utopian image of Los Angeles as a model of tolerance and positive cultural fusion, instead of the proof of the inability of everyone to get along that it seems like at times. The multitude of cultures that one can experience here is what makes Los Angeles unique, and its beauty can only be fully observed when there is a larger culture of acceptance, understanding and cooperation.

One thirty in the afternoon. Two hours of sleep. Five days in counting. We were driving cross country, starting from the Capital of the United States and ending in the City of Angels. From sea to shining sea. Career-wise, I was prepared for the transition. Culture-wise, I had no idea what to expect.

On the East Coast, where we wear Ann Taylor and Brooks Brothers, our celebrities are politicians, and we spend more hours in front of a computer than on a beach, LA seems to exist as its own entity, separate from the rest of the world. Those outside of this domain view Los Angeles as pure glitz and glamour. And why wouldn’t we? We’re bombarded with programs like The Hills, Entourage, Laguna Beach, The OC, The Girls Next Door, Dr. 90210, and Sunset Tan, that hyperbolize life in Los Angeles this way. The shows, the tabloids, the infotainment, and the blogs, all paint the same idolized picture. In the belly of the beast, money is superfluous and disposable, perfection isn’t inherent but easily acquired, and rules, laws, and social norms are rarely enforced. Everyone is glitzy. Everyone is glamorous. It’s no wonder that my first impression of Los Angeles was as superficial as the people I believed to live there.

We hit the border of Nevada and California, and in a few hours we were in LA. After close calls with some aggressive drivers, presumed to be worse that any Northeastern driver I’d ever encountered, traffic came to a halt on the “freeway,” not “highway.” For an hour. Welcome to the sprawling metropolis where rush hour is every hour. I pulled onto the street which would soon become my new address. I moved into my apartment. I went shopping at Target and Trader Joe’s. I drove out to Malibu in a rented Uhaul to pick up my bed. I drove through Little Armenia, Thai Town, Korea Town, Compton, Inglewood, Beverly Hills, Hollywood. It didn’t take long to correct my earlier misjudgments.

On a deeper level I knew all along that there were different economic and social classes, communities, and people in Los Angeles. I knew that the beautiful city of sun and palm is the same city of crime and poverty. The city of fame and fortune is the same city of struggling artists and immigrants. I knew that the city of angels might just be the city of demons.

My first impression of LA was the Hollywood version, the cinematic version. Maybe it was more exciting that way. The superficiality, the bottled-blondes, perfect tans, chiseled abs, bling bling, BMWs, Porsches, Mercedes, Prada, Fendi, Gucci, airbrushed makeup, miniature dogs, idiotic catchphrases, lies, deceit and rumors, adopted babies, million dollar contracts, reduced jail sentences, promiscuity, instant fame, Scientologists, liposuctions, Botox injections, and nose jobs— they’re all still there. So is the other 90% of Los Angeles.

Everybody has a story. Some stories are boring. Others are riveting. Some leave you feeling good inside, while some make you depressed. Some stories have an end, others have no end in sight.

Los Angeles is a story with no end in sight. The streets go on for miles, the buildings go up forever and the people come by the thousands. To capture Los Angeles in one blog isn't enough. To even attempt to capture L.A. in a book would only scratch the surface.

Today, I began my new found love affair with L.A.. I grew up an hour northwest of here, but I really don't know all that much about the city itself. I know downtown, and I know Dodger Stadium. That's pretty much it. When I found out I was going to East L.A., I was happy because it was a place that I would probably never go unless I was forced to. Driving down to Boyle Heights, as soon as we got off the freeway, it was just as if we had stepped into Ensenada, Mexico. Shops and restaraunts lined the streets with open doors. Reds, greens and whites jumped out, each color trying to outdo the other in grabbing the attention of the public. Lunch was as authentic as a Mexican meal can be. I was surprised to find the Pico de Gallo sauce to be hotter than the salsa itself. Is this how they do it in East L.A.?

At Homeboy, we were greeted by an ex-gang member named Joey Ray. He has tattoos on his arms and under any other circumstance, would have been a very intimidating figure. In fact, everyone in Homeboy was visually intimidating. Tattoos, Locs, baggy jeans, Adidas Shoes, buzzed heads - all characteristics of a gang member. That's because all of these kids in Homeboy were just that - gang memberrs. But in here, they were just kids looking for a decent job. Homeboy has a slogan - "Jobs, not Jail." They get kids jobs, reduce their criminal record and even remove tattoos. In Homeboy, the kids can get away from life on the streets and focus on bettering their lives.

While it was inspiring to hear the story of Homeboy, I was much more interested in the story of Joey Ray. I wanted to sit down with him and start from the beginning. "When did you start banging?...why did you turn to crime?...what are the meaning of your tattoos?..." I wanted to barrage him with questions. His story of triumph is a story that should be told. But my questions weren't limited to him. I wanted to ask every single person in the room the same questions.

I wanted to run from him, talk to him, hug him and hang out with him - all at the same time.

And that is what left me yearning for more. I want to interview all 100 people in the building. I want to interview all 1000 people on the block. L.A. has millions of people, which translates to billions of stories. Unfortunately, it is impossible to tell them all. As a journalist in L.A., I have the feeling that I will constantly be yearning for more.

Los Angeles is a city of extremes: a fortress of different worlds in one huge, sprawling grid. Consequently, the feeling of displacement is constantly renewed from one block to another. Do not get comfortable; you will inevitably be shaken from your semi-formed roots by cultural, and earthly, quakes. On Hollywood Boulevard the homeless sit above the stars; in Thai Town, a Country and Western themed bar is decorated with U.S. flags and animal skulls, serving Sake and Asian food alongside Corona and Budweiser. During the day, the moon shines sprightly out of a flawless blue sky--while at night, it is a city-dimmed sliver that could be mistaken for a street lamp.

Where is there to call ‘home’ in this mish-mashed complex of alternative perspectives? The people of Hollywood are divided into ‘those who look up to the Hills’ and ‘those who look down from the hills,’ without a comfortable medium. Everything in between is a nameless, disturbing limbo. In Santa Monica, million dollar homes rise out of streets where men shout and spit at invisible demons. Downtown, students working on their hundred-thousand-dollar education are offered fake I.Ds and social security numbers for forty bucks.

And yet, there is something to be found in this land of displacement. Perhaps the freedom of becoming your own alter-ego at will; perhaps the interchangeability of identity; perhaps the renewal and reinvention of four million 'selves'. The five hundred square miles of Los Angeles are enough to entice anyone to be 'reborn' day after day, and the City offers endless options for those with an inclination for change. In L.A, 'change' and 'self re-invention' just takes a little self-imposed bravery and a walk around the block...or forty bucks.

Oscar Wilde once said that "The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple."

Nothing epitomizes this more than a trek down the infamous Skid Row, the largest concentration of homeless people in the United States. Modern skyscrapers in the distance pose a poignant question. With all of the wealth and power in this country, how is it acceptable for our people to be living in such squalor? If the answer was either pure, or simple, the problem would have been solved years ago. In the meantime, we must rely on journalists to pry, politicians to lobby, and advocate groups to fight for those who are unable to stand their ground.

Skid Row was a place I may have heard of in passing , but never before had I actually been exposed to the history and issues surrounding it. In truth, my venture through downtown Los Angeles gave a firsthand look at just one of the many issues facing society. The television documentaries or newspaper clippings that I had seen and read could only portray so much. Nothing sinks in like a first-hand view of thousands of homeless people sleeping in the streets.

They say a Journalist never stops learning. While all the information on this Earth may be more than one person can discover in a lifetime, I take solace in the fact that Los Angeles offers a great arena for someone to begin this exciting craft. I am immensely looking forward to the next two years and beyond, as I begin to uncover the inner workings of our world.

I spent most of my life living in the suburbs of Los Angeles. As a child, I was surrounded by its diversity and unique culture, but never noticed it. Los Angeles was just a place I lived, yet it never felt like home. It was just another large city. Millions flock to the palm tree, star studded “city of angels,” but I never understood why. After moving to northern California I was bombarded with L.A. cynicism. Many of the students form northern California criticized Los Angeles. To them, the city was a dirty clump of people, smog, traffic, and waste. It wasn’t until I starting evaluating these negative assumptions that I began to appreciate the city. Los Angeles is not just a polluted desert with palm trees. The appeal of a sundry metropolis littered with a vast array of personalities, lifestyles, cultures, and ideologies was exciting. I realized that the millions move to L.A. not just for the weather, but for the culture and the pursuit of dreams. As I reentered this city I became one of those millions; I was finally able to see the unique personality of Los Angeles—the city I now call home.

Big cities are like layer cakes. In Los Angeles, the top layer is composed of people. These individuals, whether native or foreign-born, contribute to L.A.’s eclectic mixture of languages, traditions, and, of course, food, all of which make the city unique and vibrant. The middle layer is L.A.’s system of government and public safety. Though not as exciting as the local culinary delights, Los Angeles clearly needs a mayor and police force (and school board and fire trucks) to keep the city running. But then there are the lesser-known layers of this cake. For some it could be the ostentatious women. For others it may be the cockroaches that invade the streets at night. All the way at the bottom, I have discovered the least delicious portion of my L.A.-layer cake: cantankerous drivers. City driving is no place for the meek.

I'm pretty grateful for what I learned today. I learned that there are physical barriers between residential and commercial structures. This may reflect socioeconomic separation. I never knew why those were there as I drove along the freeway. There is a country club on top of a landfill. L.A. is multicultural and diverse--as well as racially segregated. I learned a little bit about the history of the San Fernando Valley--why certain lands were purchased and why one district is still underdeveloped. Certain districts in the Valley required workers with skills not based on education. These skills are currently not needed. Unemployment rates are deceptive. New employment does not mean better wages, nor does it reduce commuting time or increase quality of life. Immigration is a many layered topic as well. There are reasons for naturalization that are quite compelling. Good notes are good.

From the perspective of a recent East Coast transplant, L.A. is where people come to turn their dreams into reality. Because let’s face it, no one ventures here looking for an easy commute to work or pristine air quality.

Having never known anyone from California or lived in the state myself before, I pictured L.A. in my naiveté to be a city saturated with the aspiring -- actors, screenwriters, directors, etc. Just this week, I’ve met 43 other aspiring journalists like myself!

But what I had not counted on during our group’s trip to the city’s Eastside was meeting lifelong, L.A. inhabitants who were also big dreamers in ways perhaps unforeseeable to those blinded by the region’s reputation for glitz and glamour.

At Homeboy Industries in the district of Boyle Heights, we met Gabriel Hinojos -- a former gang member and prison inmate who now aids at-risk members of his community in finding employment. Under the mentorship of Father Greg Boyle and the staff at Homeboy, Gabriel went from spending 12 years behind bars after a drug and crime-ridden youth to being an assistant supervisor at the site. His smile was particularly broad as he spoke of drinking white wine with First Lady Laura Bush at the White House during a conference on Helping America’s Youth. Keeping his own kids’ future in mind, Gabriel now dreams of helping continue Father Boyle’s work in the community for many years to come.

Practically every available chair at Homeboy when we were there was filled with aspiring “Gabriels;” other hopefuls seeking to meet with the center’s mentors for employment and/or domestic advice.

Homeboy in return offers guidance in the form of jobs at the group’s silkscreen shop, bakery, café and other ventures or by fronting the salary for other employers who sign up their referees. Our tour guide and reformed gang member, Joey Ray, detailed how Homeboy even contracts 9- and 10-year-olds who want work as long as they stay in school with the hope of keeping these kids away from at-risk behavior.

The future also served as an inspiration for the printmakers at Self Help Graphics and Art in Eastside L.A. Today, the gallery and studio continues the work Sister Karen Boccalero started in 1972 by supporting Latino artists. We got to witness as Linda Vallejo worked toward her goal of growing her black-and-white tree designs into blossoming, full-color prints.

So, I learned on my first orientation field trip that I was right to believe that L.A. is a city filled with many dreamers. I just hadn’t counted on discovering that its people’s dreams are as sprawling as the streets here.

Eastside, Hollywood, the Valley… all the places our groups traveled today are just branches of the L.A. County family, and no matter how prominent, each has something to offer as well as to teach its relative.

And hopefully as my preconceived notions about my new home are confronted, I want during my time as a journalist here in the city to get to know them all.

Atop a hill, in the middle of the booming Los Angeles city streets sits an oasis of insurmountable beauty. The air is quiet and calm, and the sound of the breeze dominates over the faint hum of car engines and honking horns. In this refuge, the natural elements that surround Los Angeles are amplified as the skyline, and hilltops collide with architecture to form a sanctuary. Frank Lloyd Wright’s architectural wonder, Hollyhock House, has an indescribable brilliance. The house is able to entrance its inhabitants away from the everyday to a transcendental state of harmony.
Although some of these antiquities are still in tack, Los Angeles is on the verge of loosing a culture that has already been forgotten by many. In a city so infatuated with the new, the old, classic elements of L.A. are often neglected or destroyed. The struggle to maintain these relics in a city where the latest trends dominate the mentality of most is becoming an ever growing battle. Hollyhock House has been a unique piece of the L.A. landscape since 1919 when it was first built, yet it did not receive National Historic Landmark status until May of this year. Although curator Jeffrey Herr has been struggling to bring Hollyhock back to its original beauty, the years lost due to neglect can never be replaced. Much of the surrounding land has been sold, including an olive grove that has now become a Kaiser building obstructing much of Wright’s intended layout.
After exploring L.A.’s overlooked culture it became clear that Los Angeles will loose this unique backdrop unless these traditions are rediscovered and recognized by the community. Now that Hollyhock House has been acknowledged by the city, it will be able to finish reconstruction and will eventually be a cultural landmark of Los Angeles.

L.A. is tightly-packed, leaving little elbow room for anyone to do much of anything. Compared to Utah, where parking spaces are usually big enough to accommodate oversize Ford Excursions and all 14 children riding within, L.A. seems cramped. Sometimes it feels like I can't even turn around without accidentally smacking someone in the face.

While studying sociology, I often read about low-income communities where traditional grocery stores were virtually nonexistent, leaving only convenience stores to serve the shopping needs of the community as a whole. Before today, however, I had never seen the situation firsthand. While walking through some of the convenience/liquor stores located astonishingly close to campus, I saw ridiculously low-quality produce being sold for top dollar, a fact that doubtlessly contributes to the poor nutritional habits of many of L.A.'s residents. One store's "health food" section literally consisted of a handful of second-rate produce and one loaf of wheat bread. On the bright side, however, several members of the community were well-aware of said problems and were committed to making a difference.

...a fractured city. It is both everything and nothing; simultaneously what every other city aspires to be and toils to avoid becoming. Los Angeles has all of the cultural diversity of New York or Paris, yet is scattered and often times unaccessible without some sort of planning and forethought. Nothing happens spontaneously outside of the small urban pockets that harbor the varied and diverse residents of the City of Angels.

The saddest and most disheartening realization I have come to in my six years living out here is that traffic is now officially worse on the weekends than on the weekdays: a phenomenon that defies logic. This vast, sprawling metropolis of 20 million people lay in pieces...the shattered remnants of a modern urban planning experiment gone awry. What was once a bastion of industrialization and a symbol of human interaction via the freedom afforded by the automobile is now bursting at the seams on both highways and surface streets. Whereas the destinations of the working population are varied, those of the recreational variety are more centralized, making certain stretches of freeway virtually impassable (and intolerable) at certain times on a Saturday or Sunday.

For many bright-eyed transplants, Los Angeles represents their own personal Manifest Destiny. It is the inevitable personification of their hopes and dreams, complete with sunshine in January and the bottled up optimism of someone who has just beaten cancer. But once the initial, glitzy allure fades, one is left searching for the slightly less obvious cultural elements any conscientious city-dweller yearns for. Though they are easy to track down, they are consistently and frustratingly out of reach.

I have never been to the San Pedro fish market, the Long Beach aquarium, or the original Getty House. I have only been to the Norton Simon, the new Getty, the Hammer, LACMA, and the downtown MOCA once each. Manhattan, Redondo, and Hermosa are all within reach distance-wise, but oh-so-far-away when piloting a car.

Perhaps my anti-traffic angst has transformed into a lazy, self-fulfilling prophecy at this point. I'm sure many in LA fall victim to the same trap. This is ultimately why I look forward to a career in journalism with the utmost and sincerest eagerness. I am excited at the prospect of exploring this city during the week and as my primary, wage-earning responsibility. I hope - among many other things - that it will unlock all I think I have been missing in LA, plus so much more.

Los Angeles is: eager. It is restless and anxious, bursting with creative energy in a culturally diverse environment. It is hurly-burly and encourages unique personalities. Los Angeles is steeped in history and pushing towards the future. It is embedded with stereotype and I am excited to see how true certain rumors ring. It is far from home, in more ways than one. It is unlike any other city I've ever been to, let alone lived in. To me it is new. It is opportunity. It is a place I can't imagine ever getting bored with.

- Jaclyn Emerick

My life has always been very far removed from Los Angeles. It was never a place I imagined myself going, let alone living. All of my visions of LA floated like a disconnected dream - a pleasant one but not something to be missed when it was over. Words, phrases and broken thoughts passed through my mind on the advice of friends who came and saw god or returned home with the bitter taste of a harsh world on the tips of their tongues. I apologized and gloated in equally taken breaths.

My first impressions of life in LA were of starts and endings - sunburned and hopeful faces among those for whom Hollywood is just a word that means home. Blue skies obscured by pollution that blocks my view of the mountains yet powers the engine behind the world 'go'. LA is a microcosm of selves. New selves and old selves. Chinese men learn to dance while sad mothers struggle to see a life beyond the street corner and children collect bottles in the park. LA is everything to everyone creating an uncomfortable blank line behind the question of 'is the world what you make it?'.

As I peaked out of the van window today I saw something amazing--the place I call home. You'd think that after 10 years of living in Los Angeles I would feel as though I already know what to expect from this city of dreamers, but what the new discoveries I saw today in the Hollywood Hills and surrounding areas made me fall in love with the city I call home.

Driving up to the Hollyhock House, I watched the city in movement. I watched as billboard signs and store signs changed from language to language as well as the people of Los Angeles. When I saw the House my first instinct told me that it was odd for such a house to sit in the middle of this breathing city. In fact, this Hollyhock House designed by Frank Lloyd Wright did not look like a house at all to my eyes.

But just as the dreamers of Los Angeles call this vast city their home, I tried to imagine Hollyhock as the home that highlighted Wright's craft as an architect. With each detail, each representation of the abstract Hollyhock flower and artistic traits embedded within each corner, Wright turned this House into a lasting masterpiece. In fact, Wright was an artist, a storyteller, all of which is portrayed in this home. Hollyhock House is eccentric, but it like any other home equipped with its garage (carriage house), dog house (animal pens), a kitchen (conveniently located next to the servant's entryway), and a living room (complete with a fireplace and pond).

Hollyhock serves as a hidden gem of the city, one which defines Los Angeles as a home of home's such as this one--a home, a city, that I have yet to discover.

Today I felt like a true tourist as I held my digital camera in front of me, focusing in on the iconic Hollywood sign hoisted up in the famous Hills. Having officially resided on the corners of Olympic and Fairfax for only four nights has left me eager with anxiety to explore the seemingly endless city that I currently feel lost in.

The trip to the Hollyhock House gave me the opportunity to gawk at the lanky palm trees and desert terrain exploding from the Hills. The monotonous lines of the midwest cornstalks can't compare to this. As we toured the house, I paid particular attention Frank Lloyd Wright's manipulation of space. I was fascinated by his ability to turn nature into architecture and vice versa. I see how important the landscape was to him as he used it precisely to frame his structures, structures that were constructed to blend seamlessly from man-made to natural. I've never before been exposed to a structure with such a relationship with nature.

Wright's attention to detail is intense as he has put all his effort into manipulating the space all around us to guide our direction. Because of that, as we moved through the house, I couldn't help but note how the space changed. The tour through the Hollyhock house really was more of a journey, a narrative. I just wish that more of it would have been renovated. It would be interesting to go back once the intended renovations take place. I appreciated the tour because in all honesty, it is a place that I probably would not have gotten to on my own.

-Jaclyn Emerick

Driving into the city I knew I would never be the same. Spending any significant amount of time in a city so drastic, daring, and in-your-face could only seep into the very fibers of my being and change me for good. As I closed the distance between my new apartment and my old life in Atlanta (all the while managing to keep a constant speed of 30 mph on the freeway as angry road-ragers whizzed passed me, fingers held high), I felt Los Angeles sucker-punch me. No, really. I swear it did. In a matter of seconds, I felt my lungs lose their air, and the only thing I was left with were my memories of home. This would be my new home. Los Angeles.

In my next two weeks as a citizen of this strange land, visions of contradictions (not to be confused with sugar plums) danced in my head. With every turn of a corner came a new land. Who needs to travel? I thought. Just come to L.A., where you can eat at a Thai restaurant down the street from Korea(town), which is just a few miles from Central America--or so it seems. Los Angeles, to me, represents some of the ultimate conundrums of human existence--almost like the way a person can feel lonely in a crowded room. The rich drive their top-of-the-line sports cars past bums on the street who haven't eaten in days. Ironically, Hollywood is paved with broken dreams, yet everyone in this town wants to be a star. They never learn. And maybe they shouldn't. All of these hopes and dreams give Los Angeles its charm.

In all honesty, I don't know if I will ever look at L.A. as "my" city. But, does anyone? With the come-and-go, hustle-bustle of it all, the underlying theme seems to be "Don't stay for long. Don't get too comfortable. Move along." And along I go, finding my step with the pulsing crowds to a destiny unknown.

- Amanda Rossie

Skid Row is not just a band. Actually, it's so much more than that.

To be hungry, and tired, and struggling, and dirty, and shameful, and despised, and treated like a commodity rather than a human being. Today, for those estimated 12,000 homeless people living on Skid Row in downtown Los Angeles, life feels like this.

With little hope in the government, which seems to oppress rather than enhance, the homeless population of Los Angeles lives from day-to-day. When lucky enough to qualify for General Relief (GR), which is the lowest form of welfare available, one must make the choice: food or shelter? Clothes? No, not this month. The GR only gives its recipients $221/month, a meager sum that barely covers a full month's stay in one of the run-down Single Room Occupancy (SRO) hotels located in the area. In slum-like conditions, those fortunate enough to get a room in an SRO cohabitate with rats and roaches while wading through raw sewage backup, debris from ceilings that have caved in long ago, and mold expansive enough to breed penicillin. To most, these living conditions alone would cause heartbreat; but, for Los Angeles' homeless, this is not the end of their rope.

The LAPD, sent out to enforce a new gentrification plan to revive and restore Skid Row, pose as potential crack buyers and confront their potential client. After an offer to buy half of a crack rock for $5, and with the compliance of the Skid Row resident, the undercover cop places the homeless suspect under arrest. Taken into the station and booked with a sale charge (a felony) rather than a possession charge (a misdemeanor), the city's plan to get the homeless off the street is working out as desired. And, sadly, it doesn't end there. Jaywalkers, litterers, and cigarrette flickers all over Skid Row are being charged with felonies, all part of Los Angeles County's proposal to restore order to a place full of addiction, mental instability, and helplessness. If you thought Hollywood was the place of broken dreams, you should walk Skid Row.

Who knew so much hurt could exist in just 50 square blocks? I didn't--until today.

-Amanda Rossie

Los Angeles is...

...a set of idiosyncrasies and sometimes charming characteristics that lend themselves, like any other city, to enthusiastic metaphors.

It is a city of corners (and we shall not cut them! chuckle.) facing each other across long divides that have felt neither cobblestones nor the feet of Romans but have experienced the steady stream and plodding determination of traffic.

On a given day, such corners could easily find a pupusa vendor standing shoulder to shoulder with Candice Bergen, an overdressed Chihuahua, and a Finnish doctor.

There are those who call Los Angeles a soulless vacuum and a cultural wasteland. They deem it an apologist for the laid back and lazy. After all, I could think of no other city where driving everywhere and wearing flip flops are not only optional but de rigueur. But L.A. encourages neither lethargy nor a foaming at the mouth. Its very size and disposition force only the most committed, interested, willing, and curious to look for, find, and gain access to, "culture" (of the finest, I assure you) because it does not tolerate the giving of gifts on silver platters. It operates on a strict and unforgiving "it's yours for the taking, but I 'ain't giving" policy. And there's nothing wrong with that.

It is a city of pockets. But the pockets belong to the overcoat of a well-fed and often cantankerous giant. But if you ask me, I'd rather be a cursed ugly, ill-humored, grimy-faced troll of a giant living by the sea than the loveliest of pixies landlocked without hope.

C'mon, let's be honest. You know you're in L.A. when it's the guy who orders a salad on the first date.

-Debbie

While my "initial impression of LA" post was laced with the pessimism of someone who has been trapped behind a desk in corporate America - shackled to his car at all the wrong times and staring enviously out the window at anyone breathing un-conditioned air - today gave me hope.

Why?

Because in a mere 6 hours, I saw a side of Los Angeles that I have not seen in the previous 6 years. The usual gloomy statistics that accompany any discussion of health in America were in abundance. And I have ventured east of Western and south of the 10 before today, so the neighborhoods we walked through were not the source of the impact.

Rather, it was the people who, one by one, spoke to us with a level of passion and dedication to their respective purposes that one simply does not see within the confines of corporate office culture.

Rosa spoke to us in broken English about the factors which decide whether or not a low-income family with all the health education in the world even has access to the foods required to maintain a healthy diet. Dr. Ward detailed the science behind diabetes and between biological insights, found time to inject her own personal struggle with weight loss and fear of diabetes into her talk. Jeremiah and Pri outlined their SB120 initiative, designed to hold large fast-food chains accountable for providing nutritional information to their consumers, as well as their grassroots efforts to improve food selection available in the same local markets that Rosa's study identified as culprits in the limited selection of healthy foods available to certain communities. Valerie spoke of her involvement in landmark school board legislation banning soda and reforming public school cafeteria menus in LAUSD schools (which ultimately sparked similar legislation in other counties across the nation). And finally, two of Rosa's Community Health Promoter colleagues told us of their dedication to eliminating the threat of lead paint and establishing affordable housing for members of their community.

In everything we heard on all of these varied topics related to community health, the one common denominator was the passion evident in all of these peoples' devotion to their work. It is not the fact that the places I saw today outside of the sheltered, affluent pockets of white Los Angeles actually exist that gave me hope. What gives me hope is the existence of the people that champion something as seemingly esoteric in the national scope as the availability of fruits and vegetables at local markets in North University Park.

One is taught to think in broad, macro-economic brush strokes in the corporate environment. People outside the company are consumers and those within are simply head-count. Listening to those who spend their lives chiseling away at micro-level portions of community issues in hopes that one day their efforts may coagulate into something grander and lasting...I felt invigorated at the prospect of living in this city for the first time in a long while.

At two o’clock in the afternoon there was a line outside the homeless shelter. This would not have shocked me had the doors been open with people coming and going. But the shelters of Los Angeles are primarily closed during the day, and those outside cannot gain access until about five in the evening. The individuals in line were prepared to stand on a street corner under the hot L.A. sun for three hours, perhaps longer, to ensure that this evening it would be a bed, not the streets, where they would find their night’s rest.

According to the good people at the Inner City Law Center, a non-profit legal team, L.A. is considered the Homeless Capital of the United States, with nearly 12,000 homeless in the city limits. Inner City supports short-term housing for the “transient” homeless, such as the unemployed, and long-term housing for the “chronically” homeless, namely those with mental illness or drug addictions. However, city officials have sought a policing solution to the issue of homelessness, and it is not solving any problems.

The homeless are aggressively citied for an offense (anything form jaywalking to intent to distribute), do not appear in court (they have no home, there is no address where the paper work for their trial date can be sent!), and then have a warrant put out for their arrest because they are no-shows. When that person is finally tracked down, an arrest is made and it’s off to the city jail. This makes the city authorities look like they are taking care of the homeless problem by getting people off the street. But where do the officials expect the homeless to go when they get out?

They simply go back to the street, and soon the cycle starts over.

LA has many secrets; but it’s up to you to discover it. Hollyhock House is definitely one of LA’s better kept secrets. Having lived in this city for more than ten years, I do consider LA home. I have never, however, even heard of this historical landmark. Like most of us who live in a place for a long time, I found my curiosity erodes with my routine lifestyle, I’m no longer looking for new roads to get to work, my “explore mode” is on standby. Today’s trip reawakened my inquisitive mind; reminded me that LA indeed has many secrets. Like early gold miners, I need to look in those nooks and crannies to find my treasure.

Hollyhock House is located in the heart of Los Angeles, aloft on a quiet and serene hilltop, overlooking the Hollywood hills, yet surrounded by modern architecture, bustling city streets and mega-sized theaters. Hollyhock House is originally designed to be an artisan compound. Now after almost a hundred years, and recent restoration, its original purpose has come closer than ever before: a sanctuary for pilgrims-the imaginative and dream-filled aspiring artists and actors. Overlooking the iconic Hollywood sign, I can only imagine what aspiring actors and artists would do: they would probably meditate, reexamine the world around them, perhaps reexamine their own life’s direction, or even take a nap on the hillside lawn.

The architect Frank Lloyd Wright designed this house with the intention to be a part of the natural landscape, unique, stylistic, expansive and exotic. He is extremely conscious to spatial awareness. The most interesting design was his treatment to atriums. Although personally not my favorite (I even felt somehow claustrophobic), I found it quite interesting. He employed “vertical compression” and “horizontal compression” techniques, which naturally lowered and shrank the entry hall as one gets the feeling that he/she is getting bigger as he/she enters the house. If one only takes a moment to snap a picture, he would be perfectly framed in the doorframe. Could it be Mr. Wright’s psychological treatment for Barnsdall and her entourage was to help them become a piece of art?

Driving up the winding hill to Hollyhock House, it looked like Frank Lloyd Wright’s sandy replica of a Mayan Pyramid. Abstract hollyhocks carved into the earthy plaster reaching to meet the clear blue sky. The carefully manicured trees and gardens that frame the landscape of Los Angeles are an introduction to what visitors are about experience. Both inside and outside the house is a careful combination of architecture and nature. The floor plan directs you from the entrance. Embracing the horizontal plan, the house opens up in the living room. A center point for the house, the room is expansive but furniture placement and a large fireplace makes the room intimate. Each room in the house is proportional to its use. Framing and blocking, each window is placed giving the visitor the perfect panorama.

Hollyhock was one of Frank Lloyd Wright’s first Los Angeles homes. Aside from the architectural majesty, it stands as a testament to the accepting nature of Los Angeles. Created for Aline Barnsdall, an old money woman, single mom who supported an anarchist, neither she nor her house fit into the world of 1919. Yet, now Hollyhock joins the Walt Disney Center, the Los Angeles Cathedral, and even its neighbor the Kaiser office building in a hodgepodge of structures in Los Angeles. Hidden in the Hollywood Hills, Hollyhock is a unique and historic part of Los Angeles.

As our air conditioned van crawled towards the rim of the San Fernando Valley there wasn't much excitement building for the great map of suburbia that was about to come to life before us. The majority of the tour was spent looking through the windows of the van, trying to catch gimpses of the landmarks and history that flew by at top speeds of 15mph. Our suburban safari took us from the bastion of the white middle class to a neighborhood peppered with street vendors and fliers and is home to the Valley's only public housing project, the aptly named 'Gardens'.

The valley was full of non-surprises with neighborhoods segregated by spanish billboards and public transportation. Though it wasn't new, I think there are few people that haven't at least driven through this category of suburbia, there was something different about this cluster of neighborhoods all fighting to hold onto their identities during the rapidly changing face of the LA suburbs. It's easy to pass through 'less desirable' parts of town without really giving a second thought as to why the neighborhood is on the lower end of the economic rope. Has it always been this way? The city commissioners offices we visited gave me a lot more insight into the individual struggles of each particular region. It was extremely eye opening and saddening to learn that this particular section of town was actually once a thriving middle class neighborhood where residents held secure jobs in the industry that flooded the Valley after WWII. Pensions, healthcare and stable wages left when companies such as GM closed up shop and moved out. The city has had a difficult time handling this instant economic devastation and many of the residents now find themselves without jobs or, as we learned, with jobs that take them off of the unemployment list but are less lucrative, stable and satisfying than the industry positions they once held. This new information made my view back through the Valley onto the awaiting clogged artery of the 110 freeway a little different. The daytime streets packed with people seemed stronger, prouder and more eager for a new change to sweep through and help repair their broken economy.

Long before I moved here, I saw Los Angeles as pretense. To an extent, I still do. Everyone projects a false image; this one hides behind Gucci shades and sips her nonfat soy latte; he wears an Armani and drives a BMW (and racks up the debt); this other guy wears jeans like a big sack hanging from below his ass, waddles like a penguin, and thumps his chest like a silverback gorilla. Each of us is isolated from the other. We spend our days in cars, give conversational priority to the person farthest away by answering our cell phones at dinner, and watch movies and reality shows to keep up on the only news that seems relevant—entertainment news. To top it off, the multiculturalism we exalt in Southern California appears to be more of a self-imposed segregation. I never really need to go beyond my neighborhood, nor would I want to during traffic, and I can easily limit my interaction with other ethnicities to a few point-of-sale transactions. Maybe it is the grand melting pot some say it is, but I think even the city’s self-image is a false projection. The real L.A. is hiding behind the curtain.

Los Angeles is smoggy... was my first thought after a week of moving in sans the sun. Thus began the ripple of revelations crashing the generalizations I had heard about sunshine, all the time, California.
I’m not blaming the weatherman; it seems like this smog is thickened by the marine layer along with media coverage, politicians’ lies and the buzz of never-ending Hollywood gossip. Ah, yes there was plenty of “Malibu Barbies” and “Venice Beach freakshows” but there is so much left to be clarified, if not the sole excursion of finding the third side to the story… you know: yours, mine and the truth.

L.A. is just as smoggy as my perception of it, but the forecast shows many clear skies in the future.

I have been an Angeleno for about 3 years now, but since I grew up an hour outside of the city, I have been coming to L.A. for years. When I was a kid, L.A. was the largest, most amazing city in the world. Of course, this was before I would visit other countries and cities within the U.S., but back then I always knew I would end up living here. Even to this day, I still see L.A. as an exciting, romantic city full of possibilities and opportunities for anyone, no matter what their interests, passions or backgrounds may be.

However, I know now that there is also extreme poverty and hardship in may areas of the city, hidden from sight unless you go looking for it. For example, the Skid Row area of L.A. is one of the most horrendous areas I have discovered. People living in tents on the street, heroin addicts shooting up in plain sight, alcoholism and many other hardships plague the people that have found themselves here. While my original romanticized version of L.A. has changed, I still find the city beautiful, not so much physically, but more so in that there are so many different people living here together, sometimes fighting or having conflicts on a certain issue, but in the end I feel that we are all Angelenos and all came here in search of essentially the same thing: Opportunity.

Wow. I had no idea. My vision of L.A., along with many other peoples' visions, is of a health conscious, aesthetically-obsessed city full of people who would do anything to look good and be fit. So why would we have such a high incidence of obesity? There are many reasons, but a major issue, in the L.A. area, is a lack of availability of healthy food in low income areas. Prof. Michelle Levander took my group and I to a Mexican market called Mercado la Paloma, the surrounding neighborhood and an elementary school. The experience opened my eyes to how blind I had been to these parts of L.A. that look much different than my comfy, Santa Monica bungalow.

Next time you're driving into the USC area, or walking around the streets surrounding campus, take a look around at the types of businesses that populate the vicinity. Mostly fast food or convenience stores are probably what you will see. Around the neighborhood, there is only one supermarket, that for some is not practical to use due to financial hardship and lack of transportation. These people are forced to shop at the corner markets, that often lack an acceptable produce section because they do not own cars and it is too dangerous to walk the streets at night.

Luckily, there are people like Pri de Silva and Jeremiah Garza of the Healthy Eating Active Communities nonprofit organization. What they have been working on is a project that promotes healthier food in these small corner stores. They are trying to get the independent stores to bond together to form a kind of union in order to be able to buy healthier food in bulk to save money. We also met Dr. Andriette Ward and Valerie Ruelas of the Los Angeles Children's Hospital, both which specialize in studying how to treat and reduce the occurrence of diabetes in L.A. I had no idea diabetes was such an epidemic in this city, and was shocked to find out that some kids as young as 9 or 10 are getting the disease because of poor nutrition.

Tuesday opened my eyes to the realities that had been hidden behind my idealized vision of Los Angeles the last 3 years. Even though I have driven through these neighborhoods in the past, actually being there on foot, talking to the locals was an amazing experience. Everyone should get the chance to visit this area with a tour guide to fully understand the community around USC.

Picture this: Chief Bratton sits with us at the conference table in his office, a fat gold ring on his right ring finger and a gold watch peeking out from beneath his cuff. He offers us LAPD teddy bears and a Chief of Police coffee mug and talks of diagnosing the city like a doctor diagnoses a patient. His uniform is pressed, his black tie is clipped in place, and four silver stars are pinned to either side of his collar. Now, picture this: former gang member Bow-Wow leans against the wall in a conference room at Jordan Downs Housing Complex in Watts. He wears dirty gray athletic shorts that hang to his calves, a huge blue T-shirt and a blue baseball cap. His wiry arms and thin frame are simply hangers for his clothes. Blue tattoos snake out from beneath his sleeves and cover his forearms like veins. His face is pockmarked and he looks shy; he looks at no one. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft and his lingo and rhythm are hard to follow. But his message is clear. With two sergeants standing in the room, one with the look and stature of Ving Rhames, Bow-Wow says he gets no respect from the police. The two men, Chief Bratton and Bow-Wow, could hardly be more different, yet they are on the same team.

Bow-Wow is the high-risk intervention worker for the Watts Gang Task Force. It is his job to go to a crime scene or visit all parties involved in a murder to talk some sense into them. He deals with the hardest of the gangsters, guys who are itching to shoot someone because they were disrespected, because of a dispute over a girl, or because one of their gang or even a family member was shot and killed. He tries to calm everyone down and prevent retaliation. He tells them there will be repercussions for their actions. And his word carries weight; in his late twenties, he is already something of an elder and he carries his violent past like a badge. His brother is dead and everyone from his old gang is dead. He says he was twice on the verge of a life sentence. One of those times, “someone pissed off the judge and they threw out the whole case,” he says. His street credibility rests on his bad deeds, and every day he has to explain himself to those gang members that see him associating with guys in suits, like the two sergeants. The gangsters know there are undercover cops out there, some even dressed like gangsters, and they become suspicious. “Movies train these people,” he says. So he has to constantly reestablish his credibility with the gangs.

The big sergeant says this new collaborative approach to policing is already successful. To illustrate the shift in philosophy at the LAPD, he has Bow-Wow and another task force member stand in front of him. Then he switches places with them so he is in front. They disappear behind his massive frame. He says the police used to be the first ones the youth came into contact with but now they want community members like Bow-Wow and the other task force members to be first. The police should be the last ones they see, the sergeant says. He claims that Watts is the most successful example of this new approach to date. In the past year and a half, only one murder has been reported in the area and it happened last week, according to the task force and the two sergeants.

Still, the strain on Bow-Wow is apparent as we walk back to our van, ready to be escorted back to the freeway. I overhear him speaking with the younger sergeant, complaining about the lack of respect from both sides, saying that he wants to move on to something else soon. The sergeant tells him to “hang in there.” He says, “Anything new people are going to hate at first.”

While Bow-Wow is on the street putting out fires, Bratton seems to be looking at the big picture. We got to speak with him before we went to Jordan Downs. He struck me as an effective communicator. He was clear and he offered simple analogies when talking about big issues. The Broken Windows approach, for instance, is like weeding, he said. Police and community members have to strive to make the community look better so people feel safer first. Then they have to maintain the situation by going after the petty thefts and the vandalism. The approach is supposed to help control the behavior of those who might otherwise graduate on to more serious crimes. Bratton insisted several times that policing is about controlling behavior. When a person loses his job, he does not automatically go out and start committing crimes, he said. It was not the economic factor that caused him to commit the crime. Some of the changes we saw at MacArthur Park during our trip seemed to fall under this philosophy. More lighting, more open spaces, and cameras mounted high atop buildings on the perimeter were put in place to deter criminal behavior. These changes, coupled with non-criminal activities to keep people busy, such as the chess games going on in one corner of the park, helped to create a safer environment in an otherwise tough neighborhood.

But don’t think Bratton spends all his time at the office thinking about reform. About eight months ago, there was a shooting in Watts. One of the task force members called a captain at the police department, who immediately called Bratton at home. Bratton got out of bed and called the sheriff’s department. The supervising officer there went to the scene and so did Bratton. Bratton ran the crime scene himself. It was one of the few times, apparently, that the LAPD took charge over a joint-effort with the sheriff’s department. And it does show a police chief who is willing to get directly involved in the action.

After a day spent talking with police and Watts community members, Los Angeles looks a bit more complicated. The city has some real problems and a lot of ordinary people, sometimes underequipped or unskilled, are charged with solving them. In a project that looks like an army barracks (or a prison camp), the board members near begged for donations of backpacks for schoolchildren. Can police alone address such poverty? Can they give community members all the skills they need to fix their communities democratically? Is that even the police’s role? While everyone may have an opinion on how to prevent crime, they won’t always agree. After all, it’s not a simple problem. But at least for today, we got to see a chief of police and a guy named Bow-Wow working toward the same goal.

If first impressions meant anything to me, the malnourished mut trotting through the garden would have sent me straight back to the van to further prod Joseph about his exploits as a celebrity escort (no, not that kind of escort). But alas, the hound—which would incidentally go on to nearly maul a terrified four-year-old girl before our very eyes—turned out to be no emblem for the breathtaking experience that is Frank Lloyd Wright's Jazz Age architectural masterpiece.

And it truly is an experience. From the meticulous lines of pines that frame the structure to the dining room's hills-facing letterbox windows, the Hollyhock House is a theater. Wright's unconventional spatial and angular designs direct the production, moving visitors—the audience—through a calculated cinematic plot; from introduction (a shrinking hallway leading to the front door) to resolution (the massive, celestial living room). He wants you to feel the house as you float from room to room.

And then he wants you to feel sorry for him for putting so much thought toward a building that would go virtually uninhabited. Though constructed as a residence for Aline Barnsdall, the oil-rich socialite spent not one night in her Hollyhock House, and would eventually donate the structure to the city of Los Angeles in 1927, just six years after its completion.

But that may have turned out to be a good thing for the house itself. Today, thanks to years of meticulous preservation and a stern curator (I was reprimanded for opening a cabinet), the humble beauty of the Mayan- and European-influenced dwelling remains ostensibly intact.

So what is a Hollyhock? Turns out it's a flower; a flower which exists nowhere on or near the Hollywood property (though its design does appear in an abundance of ornate, hand-etched woodwork throughout the house). Yep, it’s a Hollyhock-less property was never really anyone’s “House.”

Incongruencies aside, the Hollyhock House is a marvel suited for architecture snobs, film buffs and first-year Annenberg simpletons alike. Just beware of dog.

Los Angeles has been my home for 23 years now. Granted it may be filled with a bit too much traffic and extremely over populated, I still adore my city. It is my city of Angels. In a place full of tourists and new comers it is nice to be a native, especially when it comes to avoiding those pesky freeways. The best kept secret of LA... side streets! Los Angeles is full of beautiful areas with hidden parks and photo op's, as well as the slums of the ghetto where the 110 meets the 91. Both of those extremes, though, make up the most fascinating aspects of my city: diversity. The diversity in cultures and attitudes of every individual you meet taught me to appreciate people for the uniqueness and originality they portray.

Currently, 70% of homicides in Los Angeles are gang-related. For most of the public, another murder in South Central in the local paper is just another sad story Yet, below the gritty exterior of vindictive thugs, punitive city cops, and grim statistics are the citizens helping to put a stop to the violence.

Some of the public may be looking to the LAPD to “fix” the current and dire situation, while others are simply blaming the department for failing to do so. But it’s not as simple as arresting and sending the convicted gang members to prison. Chief William Bratton and his police force are learning to maximize their limited resources: a mere 9,500 officers to cover the city’s vast 465 square miles populated by thousands of gangs.

And the LAPD is not alone in their battle. Police are receiving help from the very neighborhoods plagued by these gangs. With a new community-based strategy, both officers and community leaders are taking action against the epidemic, together.

Having grown up on the streets of South Central, veteran officer, Sergeant Lloyd Scott, knows the dangers all too well. Now, after 20 years on the force, he and the LAPD hope to instill change by cooperating with gang-intervention programs, like the Watts Gang Task Force. He says it’s critical to bridge the gap between these individual programs and the police. Get to know the people, gain the respect of the community and help prevent crimes.

Leaders of the Watts Gang Task Force, like gang-interventionist, Reggie, and former gang member Bow Wow, are active in this movement for change. Actually, they are paramount in the process. Without their life experiences, they could never begin to connect with the young and at-risk who senselessly kill over signs of disrespect and disputes over girls.

Low-risk interventionist, Reggie, believes the best solution is keeping the kids busy. Outlets like recreational sports and after-school programs would prevent the kids, especially young males, from returning to the streets. When the situation escalates, Bow Wow is there to step in, before the police get involved. He warns the kids of the calamitous repercussions that result from impulsive decisions, lessons he’s learned the hard way. The work is difficult, frustrating and sometimes, futile. But he’s not scared. It’s something he wants to do.

Police, community leaders, and gang members alike agree that the solution is rooted in the community. With the mutual respect and cooperation between law enforcement and community leaders, we can hope that current the gang-related homicide rate won’t escalate.

Fieldtrip. The word is like music to a child’s ears. It means a full day of no classes and a ride in the back of a big, yellow bus; two equally exciting adventures. Understandably, when the word was dropped during our first day of orientation I was elated. Not only was I going to get to check out the city that I was about to be forcibly thrust into by my wise and, might I add, terribly attractive professors*, I also could do so without having to forge the consent of my parents a la grade school. (The three-step process of taking the form home, getting the form signed, and then returning the form can be difficult for a child preoccupied with thoughts of candy and, well, mostly candy.) This fieldtrip came with promises of exposing a different side of L.A., one that the average tourist would not see-- man, they weren’t kidding.

Promptly after our lecture we were whisked away to various destinations. Our first stop: MacArthur Park. We found solace from the baking sun in the shade of a palm and gathered for a quick debriefing of the day’s events. As I nestled in the grass carefully maneuvering in my dress, (not wanting to be the next Britney,) I looked around; this place doesn’t seem all that bad. Ah, the ignorance. What I didn’t know was the tales of the gangs, crime and, most recently, a riot.

On May 1st, one of the many pro-immigration rallies that took place in the nation erupted into a scene of riot officers baring guns, bats and forceful blows. With people dispersed between the streets, sidewalks and into the park, the groups of immigration demonstrators (some being undocumented individuals themselves) and journalists were attacked by police officers in efforts to control a situation that had gotten out of hand. At what point did it get out of control? Perhaps it was when the city’s revoked the permit to march the streets at the last minute or the understaffed police force; both could be good starting points. Seeing as how I am an immigrant and an aspiring journalist I found myself counting my blessings that I was not present; batting two-for-two in this situation could have resulted in less than favorable outcomes.

We met with a Sergeant on the LAPD Rampart division- a poised, confident and strikingly intelligent officer- who spoke candidly with us about the area and the issues that confound it. We also briefly discussed the situation at the park and the measures taken by the officers at the protest. Furthermore, we met with two young immigrants from CHIRLA who had marched in the rally on May 1st. One quote stuck with me after hearing the young girl explain the chaos of the situation. She spoke in detail about the inability of the crowd to hear the orders-- made only in English-- to “disperse the area” over the roar of guns, screams and helicopters. She made it clear that her immediate reaction of pure terror to the sounds of the riot officers’ guns was justified when she plainly stated, “We didn’t know if they were real guns or rubber guns, you know? We live in L.A.” Her reality humbled me.

Hearing the same story from two different perspectives constructed a captivating narrative; I wanted to know more. What about the journalists? What were the repercussions? How could this have been avoided? What steps are going to be taken in the future?

It was a lot for a group of eager yet, (at least speaking for myself,) naïve journalism students to take in for one day. If there is anything I learned from this experience it is that there are more stories in L.A. than there are reporters to tell them; I can’t wait to be one of them.

*brownie points?

Yesterday, my group toured Boyle Heights and East Los Angeles. Initially, I wasn't that intrigued to visit these areas. I've lived in Los Angeles for about a year and a half and have ventured into Boyle Heights before. However, I saw a side of this neighborhood that I didn't know existed nor thought about.

We made two stops. Our first stop was to the "Homeboys: Jobs Not Jails" center which is a gang intervention program. Then, we made another stop at Self-Help Graphics, a community art center. Although both places were interesting, I was really moved by the honesty, sincerity and hope that I felt when I visited the Homeboys center. Former gangbangers were turning the lives around, moment by moment and step by step. And they didn't always move forward without a few steps backward like run-ins with the law, hanging out with the homeboys or smoking weed. Yet, the point is that they keep moving forward.

We also took a brief "drive by" Garfield High School which is supposedly gang-ridden and has struggled with low academic performance. However, as we drove through the neighborhood by the school, I was surprised to see a teenager sitting on his front porch with his laptop. And in my mind, I assume that he is studying to beat the odds, exceed expectations, and be an East Los Angeles contradiction - a success despite the circumstances and the environment.

Brooke-Sidney

These are four words that have ricocheted inside my brain for the better part of the seven years I’ve been acquainted with this city. I lived here, in the northeasterly neighborhood of Eagle Rock, for a solid twenty-four months before my relationship with Los Angeles began to mature into the love-hate state in which it exists today. But by the hour, by the moment, even, I bear witness to the continuous evolution of a soft-hearted inclination toward the City of Angels.

I’m not going to go singing any Randy Newman songs, but suffice it to say: I might just love L.A.

Detailing a former profound distaste for the city would be an epic conversation, one falling squarely beside the point. Pealing back the layers of just one experience that provides an insight into my consistently morphing feelings seems much more appropriate.

As already conveyed by my colleagues, the east side of Los Angeles – the neighborhood of Boyle Heights, to be exact – was our destination Tuesday afternoon. A satisfying meal at La Parilla on Cesar Chavez Blvd. set the tone as I devoured a course consisting of shrimp-stuffed cactus pads (nopales) accompanied by the classic combination of refried beans and Mexican rice. The musical accompaniment was a plus, and I’d highly recommend the bathtub-sized portion of guacamole to compliment the customary tortilla chips at the beginning of the meal: delicious.

Full and perhaps preferring a siesta, we ventured a few blocks over to Homeboy Industries. As you’ve read, Homeboy is an east L.A. intervention center conceived and spearheaded by Father Greg Boyle. A desk nameplate announces his in-house moniker: “G-Dog.” Boyle has earned a lot of respect amongst the nearly 40 gangs claiming some form of turf around the neighborhood, and his work-based rehabilitation center is, for many, a light at the end of a turbulent tunnel.

Joey Ray, a former San Diego gang-banger, showed us around the soon-to-be-vacated premises. (Homeboy will be moving to larger, more accommodating quarters at month’s end.) The tattoos might have told the external story, but what was truly arresting about Joey Ray was the spirit and life his eyes reflected as he spoke clearly and excitedly about what Homeboy can offer those willing to meet them halfway. He has a clear passion for Boyle’s work, a passion that surpasses even the boiler-plate rhetoric that is par for the course at an organization like Homeboy. (Phrases like “Nothing stops a bullet like a job,” and “Jobs Not Jail” are the apparent norm and declare Boyle’s vision in the simplest of terms.)

Later we were introduced to Gabriel, a Florence-born former banger who is in the process of intense tattoo removal (a service provided by Homeboy). Once upon a time, Gabriel’s face was “blasted,” as he put it, covered in ink, a certifiable thug life billboard. After undergoing over forty treatment sessions, however, Gabriel’s charming smile and handsome face have poked through once again. He lights up when talking about his wife, his children, even his visit to the Bush White House and, if anyone was to be a testament to Homeboy’s potential effect on gangland Los Angeles, Gabriel would be that example.

But not every story is one of success. Gabriel spoke briefly about a troubled 14 year old youth who was arrested Tuesday morning for carrying a firearm. He had been working at Homeboy for some time, but as it seems to be, the organization has not reached him quite yet. Rest assured, Joey Ray, Gabriel and of course “G-Dog” will be there with arms stretched wide should he seek their help once again.

As we left Homeboy Industries, I noticed an interesting dose of symbolism. There was Joey Ray, decked out in bright red, standing side by side with Gabriel, sporting royal blue. Of course neither is or ever was affiliated with the Bloods and the Crypts of south L.A., gangs which have come to be defined by these two respective colors. But it seemed to represent a whole other notion of the “melting pot” phenomenon of Los Angeles, itself a microcosm for America in that respect. The obvious suddenly occurred to me: progress is in synthesis, not separation.

Learn More:

Homeboy Industries
Dreamers to the East
Taking a New Look at East L.A. & Boyle Heights
Yearning for More

Visions of spacey blondes with pom-poms in tow and hard-core shopping addictions have become synonymous with “The Valley”. However, after a day of journeying through this land of 1.74 million people, this stereotype fails to capture an accurate representation of the demographics.

Officially known as the San Fernando Valley, this area of greater Los Angeles is home to a mélange of cultures and neighborhoods, geographically scattered amongst each other like patchwork. Within a few miles, our surroundings metamorphosed from gated communities and shopping centers dominated by big-chain stores and restaurants to street corners occupied by fruit-vendors and billboards written in any number of foreign languages.

To a certain extent, the above description of the so-called “Valley Girl” rings true, and may be typical of such areas as Northridge, location of our first stop to the office of Los Angeles City Councilmen Greig Smith.

Occupying farthest reaches of LA County, District 12 is considered one of the last strongholds of the middle-class. Predominantly Caucasian, it is an affluent region where voter turnout is strong, income levels are high, and million-dollar plus houses are widespread. Even in Chatsworth, an equestrian commuity in the northwest corner of the district, it’s not unusual to find a trail ride that ends at one of the local watering holes.

According to John Bwarie, the fresh-faced deputy district director who served as informant during our brief visit, Councilman Smith’s primary goal was to create a livable environment for his constituents, including earthquake preparations and maintenance of infrastructure, basic public services, and economic development.

However, this oft-perceived and assumed portrait of the Valley is hardly representative of the other sections, such as District 7, where we came upon a stark contrast to this white-washed world only just next door.

The single-family homes were replaced with multi-level apartment buildings, and a plethora of fast-food joints littered the many strip-malls, along with Western Unions and lavaderias. We also happened to catch a glimpse of the Valley’s only public housing project, a collection of 3 blocks worth of colorful, retro (built in the ‘60s), multi-family structures.

Upon visiting Los Angeles City Councilman Richard Alarcon’s, we discovered his office squeezed between a Chinese take-out and buffet and a Mexican restaurant in a tiny strip-mall in Pacoima. District director Ackley Padilla and field deputy Ruben Zaragoza related the history of the district and its evolving constituency, from primarily Caucasian to black to mostly Hispanic and southeast Asian.

While issues such as infrastructure and the local economy also dominate the councilman’s agenda, this area is much further behind in terms of development and resources. Immigration reform, and knowing the exact outcome for thousands of residents, is probably the most pressing matter.

Another challenge seems to be a charge to maintain identity in this multi-cultural area. A sense of pride, family, and history, especially amongst Latinos, seems to drive the resurgence in this particular area of the Valley. Active participation amongst constituents, including neighborhood watches and campaign involvement keeps everyone connected and educated about the topics that matter most.

For the past two years, treks to the Valley were far and few between. This exploration into the areas located beyond the other side of the mountains has undoubtedly opened up a world that contradicts and challenges many outsiders’ assumptions. Considered by some as merely an expansive suburbia, it is in fact a place that houses a multitude of ethnicities and races whose communities continue to flourish in the face of continual and rising political and cultural challenges.

During our tour of L.A.’s Eastside, we were told that the Boyle Heights area used to have a large Jewish population early in the last century. This discovery really hit home for me as I just moved to one of the city’s current big Jewish areas in Pico-Robertson. And since this blog is about first impressions of L.A. and Pico-Robertson was the first place I saw when I got here, I grabbed a few pictures of my own neighborhood to juxtapose some of the shots I took of the remnants of Eastside’s old Jewish heritage.

Before being renamed Ceasar Chavez Ave., this central road in Boyle Heights was named Brooklyn Avenue. Many of the Jewish residents in Boyle Heights circa 1920 had come from the NYC area.

A bakery on Pico Blvd.

Inside a grocery store in Boyle Heights.
Cactus leaves, anyone?

Inside Bibi's. Under traditional Jewish dietary laws, diary and meat items can't be mixed together. If a product is labeled parve though, it can be served with either kind of food.

Customers dining inside La Parilla, where our group ate lunch in Boyle Heights.	Diners outside Bibi's. The sign in the distance says it all.
A closed synagogue in Boyle Heights, which may be turned into a historical site.	A synagogue on Pico Blvd.

Ironically, the experiences taking photos in both L.A.'s Eastside and Pico-Robertson regions were kind of similar for me. Because I don't speak Spanish or Hebrew, I couldn't understand what anyone in the vicinity was saying at either place!

On Cesar E. Chavez Avenue, the main drag of Eastside LA, stands a building proudly blanketed in shards of colorful, broken pottery. A large painted banner just above the wall of pottery declares its contents to be Self Help Graphics & Art, a community art center and a long-standing institution of the country's Chicano arts movement.

On Tuesday, our "Riding the Streets of LA" guide and a Mexican-American himself, Frank Sotomayor, brought us to Self Help Graphics for a tour of the facilities by its current chairman, Armando Duron.

Armando, a lawyer "by noon", flipped on the lights to the sizable and un-air-conditioned gallery space to reveal an ongoing exhibition honoring Self Help's founder and matriarch, Sister Karen Boccalero. "Sister Karen", as she was affectionately known, was a misfit of sorts amongst her clan of nuns. "She was a chain smoker," Armando recalled with glee, as he shepherded us to an impressive altar by the artist Ofelia Esparza, adorned with old photos of Sister Karen.

But Sister Karen was also an a printmaker, and, in 1972, along with a group of local artists, established Self Help Graphics to promote and empower local Mexican-American artists, who were creating art laced with political messages.

We saw a print of a Mayan wall tagged with the names of its "conquistadores" and a room full of prints depicting "Día de los Muertos", the "Day of the Dead", an annual ritual in which Mexican families traditionally swept the graves of its loved ones.

But as I made my way through Self Help's historical spaces, I found myself wondering what the future holds for the beloved institution. The Chicano movement of the 1960s and 70s, in which Boyle Heights residents held lock downs to protest the unfair conditions of their public schools and prominent news reporter Ruben Salazar was killed by the police while covering the local march against the Vietnam War, feels like all but a bygone era.

Frank and Armando, curators of these memories so strongly bound with Self Help Graphics, both mused at the end of our tour that "Chicano", the politicized term for Mexican American, may no longer be applicable today.

So as Self Help gears up for its next show depicting contemporary issues, "H2O", I wonder who, other than wealthy collectors, will carry on Sister Karen's legacy for this arts center.

Since procrastinating is one of my favorite hobbies, I've decided to postpone learning grammar, punctuation and spelling in favor of boasting about the things I now do know, thanks to our group’s second orientation trip to Hawthorne and San Pedro:

1) Not every airport you see is LAX: Being still geographically challenged after two weeks in the L.A.-area, I was promptly laughed at by the natives in my group when our van passed Hawthorne’s airport, and I asked if I was looking at LAX.

2) Hawthorne government officials are not required to live in the city: Discovering this tidbit during our group’s outing to Hawthorne City Hall really pushed my buttons. How can government officials truly be in touch with the needs of the citizens they represent if they are not regularly shopping, studying and sleeping in the same area their constituents do? Officials apparently attend homeowners meetings, invite citizens to come to council meetings and have set up a Web site, but there is something certainly to be said for firsthand experience. After the meeting, I now felt that all in local government should be required to reside in the communities they serve.

3) Nothing is possibly more putrid the perfume of raw fish: I don’t think I have ever been so immediately overwhelmed by a stench than when I walked into the seafood market along the wharf at San Pedro and was barraged by the smell of fresh shrimp, red snapper, octopus and the rest of the Pacific Ocean floor.

Sorry to use a cliché here, but a picture really is worth a thousand words in this case:

A rock cod fish

Showing off my blue parrot buddy

King crabs...

... and their legs

A seagull stands guard over the cargo at the wharf.

This is a story about my first L.A. love.

And no, the man of my dreams is not some talk, dark, and handsome body builder I stumbled across on Muscle Beach, nor is he a blonde surfer with muscles chiseled out of granite and skin the color of a shiny new penny. In fact, he is quite the opposite--hairy, kind of lazy, and barely attentive to me at all. But, he didn't have to say a word for me instantly become drawn to him, his wide amber eyes screaming for some love and affection. What is his name, you ask?

Joey.

This newfound love seems quite out of place considering that I have never liked cats. Not even a little bit. Beside the fact that I am extremely allergic to them, I find cats to be impersonable, lazy, non-responsive, and (based on a few experiences of my own) stuck-up. I don't even find kittens cute, that's how extreme my dislike is. Little did I know that I would walk into the West Los Angeles Animal Shelter a cat-hater and come out Joey's biggest fan.

However, I do not think that I am an anomaly. When it comes to animal shelters, especially in the L.A. area, there are hundreds of friendly, personable, and ready-to-love animals that are just waiting for people (like you and I) to give them a chance. Sure, many of them are not products of top breeders or fresh out of the womb (everyone wants a puppy or a kitten, it seems), but they deserve a chance just like the rest of the pet population. In fact, if my nervous system would not have shut down after touching Joey for ten seconds, I probably would have adopted that fluffy, Garfield-like cat on the spot.

Animal shelters, like the one in West L.A., provide an underrecongnized, immeasurable service to the communities that emcompass them--they match people with friends and homes for the homeless. This, my friends, is quite an admirable thing.

**For those of you who are interested in adopting a lovable cat, I recommend Joey.

The Watts towers were finished in 1954. Nine years later, Watts was burning. Sabato Rodia might as well have been predicting the future.

The structure is about ten stories high (or 30 meters). Rodia was a day laborer, working on mansions in Malibu. He would dedicate off-the-clock hours to his project. The concrete and steel supports are embedded with pieces of porcelain, tile, and glass. The floor, also concrete, is decorated with seemingly random objects such as bed frames, bottles, ceramic scrap metal and seashells. The walls are really just a series of headboards covered in concrete and other shattered objects. Just under five feet and with hands the size of cannons, Sabato "wanted to do something big." We call them Watts towers; he called it Nuestro Pueblo, meaning "our town."

It is unlikely that Rodia intended the towers to serve as any kind of political or cultural point. Completely alone on the horizon, the towers sit, bake, and crack. Yet when considering 21st Century Watts, can a correlation be made? His work is raw. It is fragmented. It is scrappy and is held together by consistency, love, and identity. It is the architectural equivalent of American race relations.

Riots ripped Watts apart in August 1965. And then San Francisco and Cleveland in 1966, Detroit and Newark in 1967, Baltimore, New York, Washington and Chicago in 1968. Our town, insofar as race is concerned, is beyond lonely. We're shattered.

When our van made its first stop, we were in the midst of Little Central America. On Alvarado and Seventh, the streets were filled with vendors, Spanish signs, ethnic restaurants and sidewalk vendors. We visited McArthur Park and learned about its history as a site for drug dealing, gang activity and political conflict. We learned about the story of last May’s immigration reform march that ended in an outbreak of police violence against protesters and journalists. The park was beautiful with its trees, grassy areas and walkways surrounding a lake in the center. However, we found out that it was still dangerous at night, despite the long way the local police have come in driving out crime.
We then ate a deli called Langer’s across the street with an LAPD officer who told us about the dangers and difficulties of keeping the streets of Los Angeles safe. Next, took a drive to a different area of the city. After passing some of the nicer buildings of downtown, it was almost immediately that we hit Skid Row, which wasn’t difficult to tell at the sight of homeless people lined up in front of missions, sleeping on the ground at Gladys Park and crossing streets with shopping carts full of plastic bags and bottles. We ended up speaking to some district attorneys who work on behalf of this population. They said that there are about 10,000 to 12,000 homeless living on Skid Row each night.
Finally, we visited Coalition for Human Immigrant Rights of Los Angeles (CHIRLA), an organization that serves the undocumented community, particularly students. Our hosts, Horacio and Burnice, recalled the McArthur riot from a different point of view—the perspective of the organizers and protesters who were the targets of the police violence. It was interesting to hear them describe the event from a different perspective than the police officer. They described the fear, confusion and frustration of the scene.
Overall, it was an enlightening experience to see how different groups interpret events. It was also good to see the reality of poverty and how it is juxtaposed against the corporate world.

Upon arriving at King-Drew/King-Harbor hospital, this was my vision: An abandoned hospital with graffiti stricken signs across the entrance ways that read “King-Harbor Now Closed…” However, today I saw the opposite.

King-Drew hospital is not closed—in fact the hospital is open and very successful, as there were many cars in its parking lot and there were patients in the waiting room. The hospital is open for urgent care but, it is not open for emergency care. King-Drew is a clean, large and impressive hospital, just across the street from Charles R Drew University of Medicine and Science, and a little further down from the King Drew Medical Magnet High School. Clearly this hospital was a dream for the city of Watts. As youth entered the Magnet High School, before them they could see the path to success.

However, with the closing of the emergency room, King-Drew will not be able to live up to its potential for this city. Students from Charles R. Drew will have to find another hospital with an emergency room where they can practice their studies, and youth at the High School will see an obstacle in the path set before them and possibly hindering them from attempting to complete the path at all.

What I saw today was not an echoing ghetto, granted Watts did have its areas that fit this description. What I saw today was a quiet neighborhood with character, a neighborhood with community. The residents of Watts were not afraid to address our group and were not intimidating at all. One tried to join in our group conversation briefly, another rode past on his bike and greeted us with a “hello.” As I walked down the neighborhood street, I saw security fences, but I also saw homes and I saw comfort in those homes.

At the end of the day the question must be asked if Journalism did its job in having a hand at closing this emergency room, if Los Angeles Times did some good in this aspect. My answer is that the Los Angeles Times had good intentions, but in the end more damage was done than good. Now a community stands without an emergency room, and more importantly with an incomplete dream.

There are plenty of whiskered and puppy-dog-faced creatures in need of homes in Venice, but owners are in short supply, a problem that leads to fatal ends for the lives of many cats and dogs in this beach town. Animal Shelters on the West Side takes in strays, animals left behind by deceased or incarcerated owners and “surrender” animals (or those given up by their owners). The woman who gave us a tour of the shelter today said they do their best to avoid euthanization (a.k.a. putting them to sleep), whether it means putting animals together when there is limited space or whether it means finding people willing to adopt the animals as a last resort and alternative to killing them. Sometimes the shelter holds animals for years before putting animals to sleep if they can help it. However, when the shelter gets too crowded, they have no other option.

What is the problem? Why can’t these fluffy and furry companions find homes? The problem, our host explained, is that many people are only interested in adopting kittens and puppies, as well as healthy animals. This leaves behind those that are “too old,” “too sick” or “not cute enough.” Among dogs, pitt bulls often receive the short end of the leash. Because of their “bad reps” (as referred to in one of the shelter’s pamphlets), people are hesitant to adopt them because of their reputation of being overly aggressive and dangerous. However, our host explained that these dogs only become this way when their owners mistreat them or use them for hostile purposes (such as using them solely as guard dogs).

It was unfortunate to see these animals left behind and forgotten. While many of them will be adopted, probably within a week or two of entrance into the shelter, many will be overlooked and eventually put to sleep. One can only hope there are people out there willing to choose the animals that need them most, even if it means they will not be leaving with brand new kittens or puppies.

It was only a few weeks ago when I saw a picture of Paris Hilton and her 7 Tiffany-collared puppies in Malibu. In a city where animals are no longer pets but well coordinated fashion accessories, it is not rare to see your occasional 20-something year-old girl shopping with her little Chihuahua... probably named "Twinkles" or "Fluffers." Some are even busy doing appearances on Hollywood Blvd! (check out Paris' pup!)

However, only a few miles from the glamour of puppy and kitty fashion, there are many animals that aren't as lucky as little Tinkerbell. If you take the time to visit one of the animal shelters in LA county, you will find a plethora of animals who just want to be adopted. As you can see in that face below, these animals don't want to parade around the mall wearing couture, but just want a friend to love them every once in a while. How is it that society has gotten so jaded that we condone spending hundreds of dollars on pet accessories but cannot find a way to find these animals a home? If these celebrities care about having pets so much, maybe they should take a little time to see that there are better ways to love a pet than to buy them diamond collars.

I learned so much yesterday about local government and city planning. We received great information about the city of Hawthorne including budgets, demographics, problems and accomplishments. Everything I learned and the interest it sparked will be greatly beneficial to my career as a journalist. However, my favorite part of the day would still have to be simply sitting on the dock at the fish market. I love watching people enjoy themselves. The atmosphere there was relaxing and exciting at the same time. It is fun seeing the people that are obviously having a special day out and about. Sometimes I had to overlook the somewhat disgusting volume of food people were consuming, but it was obvious everyone loved what they eating. The sunshine, the mariachi band, the loud seagulls all made the experience unforgettable.

When I first got to Los Angeles I was completely overwhelmed by what I saw as a solid mass of people and noise. Boyle Heights was fascinating because our fearless leader explained so much about the history of the area and the waves of immigration that have led to what it is today--a mostly Latino area with a rich history of Jewish, Italian, Chinese and Japanese immigration following different periods of strife in their respective homelands. I think it was summed up best in a Santa Cruz flower shop sign (in Spanish) with a Star of David on it. It was important for me because it allowed me to look past the confusing crowds of people and see the history behind them, to get an idea as to how all these people came here, with different cultures and languages and ideas. I got to see citizens of LA as as individual artists, musicians, ex-gang members, priests, and social workers; and as members of concerned and rallying communities with strong cultural identities,

This year, like every year, a rookie ballplayer will walk down a series of corridors to the player’s entrance to the field at Dodger Stadium. On his way, he will pass a wall sporting the name of every man to play for the Dodgers between 1883 and 2003. Next, he will pass a series of photo murals displaying some of the great moments of Dodger history, from Gibson’s home run limp (he had injured himself without anyone knowing, but he went to bat anyway, took a lame swing at the ball, and blasted it into the bleachers, the ball never to be found) to Steve Garvey nearly colliding with three of his teammates in a victory celebration at the pitcher’s mound. Next, the rookie will pass the retired jerseys of nine of the team’s greatest players, each framed on a blue background and hanging one after another along the walls. Just before he steps out onto the field, he will pass one more blue-background picture frame, this one curiously empty. He will ask if the jersey was stolen. No, they will tell him. This one is waiting for the jersey of the next great Dodger. And he could be you.

Team Historian Mark Langill was leading us on a tour through Dodger Stadium and Dodger history. I am neither passionate nor knowledgeable when it comes to baseball, but entering as we did through the player’s entrance, I felt the tug of sentimentality. The whole trip evoked a sense of the history, the culture, and the future of the Dodgers all at once. It was like standing in someone’s home and viewing the family photos in his hallway. It was personal. I can only imagine the chills that rookie will feel when he goes out on the field for his first game.

To speak with Langill, Director of Public Relations Josh Rawitch, and Senior Vice President of Public Affairs Howard Sunkin, and to spend time with them, it is hard not to get caught up in their enthusiasm. From the looks of it, they simply love their jobs.

“This is like a kid gone to Heaven,” says Sunkin.

Langill talks with simple pleasure about going to work every day.

“It’s not, ‘Hey, I’m going to the DMV or the grocery store.’ I’m going to the ballpark,” he says.

These guys seem to prove that “Dodger family” is not just corporate-speak. Rawitch is the son of both a journalist and a journalism instructor. He took journalism courses from his mother, and, at one point, so did Langill. They have that tie, that history.

Langill jokes about the experience. On his first day of class, he was scared to death of his new instructor. She stood at the front of the class, taking a pull on her cigarette, just staring at her new students, not uttering a word.

“It was like Clint Eastwood in a dress,” Langill says.

All this positive energy and play makes the franchise seem too good to be true. Even the owner, Frank McCourt, seems like a dream-maker.

“He really believes the reason to own the Dodgers is to do good,” says Sunkin.

But some still say Dodger Stadium is founded upon the crushed dreams of 300 immigrant families who once lived in a shantytown called Chavez Ravine. In a political and bureaucratic bungle in the early ’50s, the city broke a promise to the people to build a new housing project and make them the very first residents. The full story is complex and worth reading about, but for those who lost their homes, it is a story of betrayal. As it turns out, the Dodgers franchise did not oust the people, but it now takes the brunt of the complaints, because, after all, it sits squarely on the land those people once owned (a few of the residents are still alive today).

Listening to Langill speak, I see a similar story played out over and over again, but with the players, not the immigrants. Take Roy Gleason, for instance. Gleason got his World Series ring shortly before being shipped off to Vietnam in the ’60s. One day he was injured by some shrapnel and they pulled him out before he had time to clear his locker. He had left his ring in the locker, and he never saw it again. When Gleason returned to the United States, he did not return to the Dodgers, not even to watch a game. Here was a man who had battled to entertain baseball fans and then battled in service to his country, a man who later was too humble to return to Dodger Stadium to ask if the team remembered him. He thought he had been forgotten.

Fortunately, this story has a happy ending. When an author called up Langill looking for some archival photos of Roy Gleason and the Dodgers, Langill went digging. Eventually, Langill heard Gleason’s story and decided to plan a secret celebration in honor of Roy Gleason. They invited him back to the park for a game in 2003 and asked him to throw the first pitch. It would be the fortieth anniversary of his rookie season. Gleason agreed, and immediately after the pitch, Vin Scully’s booming voice sounded over the P.A., saying that there was one thing missing, and that was his World Series ring. The team manager at the time, Jim Tracy, met Gleason at the third base line, the whole team trailing behind, and gave Gleason his ring (it hardly fit his pinky, but that was beside the point). Every guy on the team shook Gleason’s hand.

Gleason hadn’t called to ask for tickets in about 20 years. But after his return, after seeing his name on that wall of Dodgers (“after two long tense minutes of searching,” says Langill, who was afraid that Gleason’s name might actually have been overlooked), Gleason occasionally calls to ask if he can come see a game. He uses one or two of the six home game tickets allotted to each former Dodger for each season. He is not forgotten; players and umpires with whom he had associated 40 years ago still recognize him.

Langill says he is more interested in these kinds of stories than in the stats.

“It’s not the books, not the numbers, just the fact that former players can come back and feel welcome,” he says.

And he says the story he loved reporting most when he was a journalist wasn’t really about a Dodger breaking any record. It wasn’t even about a Dodger. He had reported on a father and son facing off in an exhibition match at a local field. The son was grown up and the father looked like “he had just come from ‘Leave It to Beaver.’” The son pitched a few and suddenly Dad hit a home run. The son was mortified. He couldn’t believe he had just thrown his father a home run pitch. But it was all in good fun. Here’s the catch: that father is now a groundskeeper at Dodger Stadium. That is why Langill loves his job. It is for the stories that pass through that stadium.

So is it worth displacing 300 families to improve the entertainment of hundreds of thousands of baseball fans, create a home for old ballplayers, and provide a place where boys can be boys in a baseball Neverland? It goes to the very heart of the American sports tradition. Dreams are made and broken in that bowl, just as they are made and broken on the streets of Los Angeles. The people of Chavez Ravine found new homes. So did the Dodgers. So whose story is more important?

This fish is never going to be famous. He's never going to have a beer. He's never going to watch a Lakers game. In the scheme of life, he is pretty much completely insignificant. He doesn't even have a name. But this fish, who I will call Mr. Limpet, is going to make someone, or even an entire family, very happy. Soon, he will be picked by an eager customer and thrown on the stove to be eaten. The eager customer will devour the majority of Mr. Limpet's body without even thinking about story of Mr. Limpet's life.

That is tragic. The fact that Mr. Limpet died in the first place is not significant at all. But it's tragic that his story will never be told. While it seems totally irrelevant to tell the story of a fish, it would none-the-less be interesting. Who wouldn't want to learn about the birth of Mr. Limpet, his migration patterns, his sexual encounters and the details of his untimely death? Even something as trivial as the life of a fish can be made interesting.

That is the role of a journalist. If a journalist can tell the story of a fish in an interesting way, imagine what a journalist can do telling the story about a human being. But let's not limit it to a human being. Journalists tell stories about issues, locations, events...pretty much anything.

When I was thinking about the fish, I started thinking about the location we were at. The San Pedro Fish Market. How long had it been there? Had it once been booming? What kind of people frequent a place like this? I was interested in knowing more. And that's exactly what happened at our first stop of the day in Hawthorne in our meeting with the city manager.

When we walked into his office, I had no questions. I didn't care at all who he was. I wasn't interested at all in city politics. But as I walked out of his office, I realized that I probably asked more questions than anyone else.

No matter how unintersting something may be, it can be a story. It can be reported.

Unfortunately for Mr. Limpet, his story will go untold.

After watching a brief documentary on the Chavez Ravine, I thought the day was headed for something rather depressing. Dodger Stadium was built upon land that had been the home to poor Latino communities in the 1940s. Though unfamiliar with this interesting history lesson of L.A., I was looking forward to learning more. But we got sidetracked, and though we hit upon the subject briefly, our group was exposed to much more than any of us had anticipated

Our day commenced with lunch at the Los Angeles Police Academy. The retro Los Angeles Police Revolver and Athletic Club Café offered the standard deli-fare, with a side of gruff waitress. Sergeant Steve Williams led us on a tour of the facilities that made up the academy. One of three academy locations in L.A., the landmark boasted a shooting range, swimming pool, gymnasium (where a time-capsule is supposedly buried), track, a picturesque rock garden (several movies have been filmed in front of the remarkable man-made waterfalls), and the “last” gun-shop in L.A. It was in this last place where I thought I would get the opportunity to hold a gun. Unfortunately, we ran out of time and had to move onto other things. Fortunately, those other things included a Force Options Simulator!

The Tactics Training Center is a well-hidden room tucked behind the shooting range. Sergeant Eric Quan informed us that the Force Options Simulator (FOS machine) is used to test judgment and decision-making among the officers-in-training. The FOS machine is a large screen displaying a video of various situations officers may find themselves in while on-duty. Now, these were no computer-generated animations. Someone had filmed actors for the scenes depicting grave school shootings and insane knife-wielding men (more on that in a little bit). Both sergeants demonstrated how to assess a situation, communicate with all involved parties, and of course, handle the Glocks.

Then it was our turn! Brian and I were up against two shady characters: a lady who left her vehicle during a routine traffic stop (in front of us) and a crazy S.O.B. dressed in fatigues and swinging a machete (to our direct left). We were encouraged to vocalize commands, though our efforts were in vain as the offenders proved hard-of-hearing. The lady continued to step toward us and reach for her license after repeatedly telling her to stop. Before we had the chance to deal with her, we were soon distracted by the maniac randomly romping around a field with what appeared to be a large knife. Initially, he failed to see us. But within a matter of seconds, he made eye contact and came directly toward us, raised machete and all. We yelled at him to stop and then BAM BAM BAM! Our shots hit leg and chest, but Sergeant Quan told us we were too late. We should have shot him as soon as he came bounding in our direction. So, we would have been sushi, but what a fantastic way to end our tour at the academy.

After such an exhilarating experience, it was difficult to believe the day could get even better. We entered Dodger Stadium at the club level, a.k.a. the best level ever! We were shown sweet suites ($5000 a game) and stunning views of the diamond (worth every penny). Our group sat down with three employees essential to the Dodger experience: Howard Sunkin, Senior VP of Public Affairs, Director of PR Josh Rawitch, and team historian Mark Langill. Though all were very gracious in taking time to speak with us, the most intriguing was Mark Langill. He proved to be more than just a walking encyclopedia of Dodger baseball. He supplied us with touching anecdotes, rich team history, and some journalistic advice. The most crucial lesson he learned while a beat writer at the L.A. Times is that journalism is all about possessing people skills. Treat those you are interviewing like people and not stories, and you will gain much more than the same, insipid answers.

Then came the ultimate tour. Mark showed us around the Vin Scully Press Box (the organist and modern music DJ are press box neighbors) and the inspiring hallways walked by players on their way to the field (spot lit jerseys inscribed with the team’s retired numbers line the walls). Last, but certainly not least, we walked out onto the FIELD. We climbed the same steps as Manager Tommy LaSorda had in the past and savored the feel of the perfectly-trimmed, emerald green grass under our bare feet. I swear, the air even smelled different. I can see why grown men have gone giddy after a trip down here. I left the park a little lightheaded.

Ok, so I realize that I failed to mention anything about Chavez Ravine. It is a significant story and one that every L.A. resident should know. So if you would like to know more, you can borrow my DVD or do some research on your own. I apologize, but I think you can understand my lack of focus.

I’ve lived in Los Angeles for about two years, and I am embarrassed to admit that I had absolutely no clue where Watts was located in the city. So our Thursday field trip to Watts Towers in South Central was a rendezvous to a part of LA I have NEVER frequented.

Upon arriving at 107th and Graham, I was awe-struck to discover what is considered some of the world’s most astounding artwork amongst the bungalows of an impoverished neighborhood. Credit to such a magnificent project goes to Simon Rodia, an Italian immigrant who spent 33 years tirelessly assembling what is indeed nothing short of spectacular.

Beginning in 1921, Rodia began his solo routine on a triangular plot of land. He gathered broken glass, porcelain, seashells, tiles, anything he could get his hands on (he had a particular fondness for 7-Up bottles, due to either volume or preference or both), from the beaches to the mansions of Malibu to the railroad tracks near his house (which was located adjacent to the masterpiece).

Using only simple tools, a window washer’s belt and bucket, the artist imbedded these useless and discarded items in the cement, steel, and wire structures to create what he called “Nuestro Pueblo” (“Our Town”), the largest single work of art created by one man.

These mosaics lie within a legion of structures, including a gazebo, three birdbaths, a fireplace, three towers, the tallest of which stands 991/2 feet, and a rendition of the “Ship of Marco Polo” (Rodia had a deep respect for the explorers and inventors of his motherland). Hand-drawn designs decorate the floors within and the walls surrounding the compound, including his initials, “S R” etched near the entrance.

While his goal to “make something big” was duly accomplished, questions of what drove the artist to construct such a spectacle still remain. According to Virginia Kaser, Los Angeles City Cultural Affairs Historic Site Curator, she believes Rodia, like many artists before and after him, possessed the need for expression, unable to communicate such feelings through conventional avenues. He was able to maintain a fantasy world so to speak, that was his alone, undistracted by society and the outside community.

After completing the monument in 1954, Rodia left for Martinez and entrusted the Towers and the property to his neighbor, never returning to the site again. Avoiding demolition in 1959 due to a group of concerned citizens, conservation efforts continue to this day. The cement parts, which are especially prone to cracks due to stress and time, go through a specialized process to repair the damage, while preserving the original intricacies of the structures.

Never would I have imagined happening upon this oasis tucked away in quite a derelict part of town. Such a chance encounter only serves as encouragement to explore those unfamiliar areas of Los Angeles in hopes of stumbling upon even more hidden gems.

Aha! I found them. I shall now attempt to sum them up. The Watts Towers were built by a man named Simon Rodia. The towers themselves are made up of pieces of what we would today call "garbage." I hope I quoted that correctly. As I was saying, "garbage" consists primarily of, in this case, broken glass, tiles, sea shells, tires, and corn cob rhines--to name a few. The towers are in some ways like the human condition, where something in our lives is made beautiful by a whole the whole lot of garbage life throws at us. Steel, reinforced by cement enables the Towers' structure to stand.

As for Simon, it is said that he was largely unknown, even by his neighbors. He was obviously a very handy man, who used simple tools quite impressively. There are unique features to each tower--for instance, one is decorated with the bottom of glass bottles. I noticed some of the 'Canada Dry' variety. Fire and rain threatens these Towers. The rain threatens the interior, and I assume the fire threatens the exterior and vice versa. The ethnic demographic has changed since Simon's time. Once primarily black, the area is now majority Latino. An interesting story about Simon is that he gave a nickel for each piece of glass, tile, or even corn cob rhind to the community's children. So he gave small, and he gave huge.

I'm glad I know Watts for more than the Watts riots and its comparisons to the LA riots of 1992. I don't know anything about the Watts riots, so it's good we didn't have to write about that. Some say Simon was a poor communicator and even obsessed--maybe even a troubled man. I've never met him, so I can't tell you.

For lunch we ate at a Watts restaurant. I like the fried chicken. I would go to Watts to eat fried chicken any day of the week. And if someone knows the name of the restaurant we ate at, please let me know. For some reason, in the presumptuousness (I hope that's a word) of my mind, I thought Watts was scary and dangerous. It really isn't.

After Watts we learned about vegetation. My notes aren't so good on that one. My groups was cool--Kaitlyn, Jessica, Max, Evan Almighty, Emily, Michelle, and Kate.

Tuesday morning I awoke without an inkling of the trip that was mapped out for my classmates and me. I understood that we might see some things we were ignorant of, but what I envisioned as a middle school field trip quickly (and pleasantly) surprised me, turning into a personal inside meeting with the Police Chief and inner community of Watts. As soon as we realized the significance of our meetings that day, we were on it. One huge city spread out into depths and heights, made up of gangsters and police superpowers, was about to be tackled by my new pen-perched pals.
We began our day with lunch in the office of Gerald Chaleff, Police Administrator and former criminal defense attorney. I could hardly finish my lunch with all of the questions floating around the room and my head for that matter. I could not believe I had the opportunity to ask him anything I desired to know about this city’s crime, police department or advice, when just moments before it terrified me to even think about walking into a police department. Next, it was on to meet the head honcho himself.
For the first few minutes I had to focus just to convince myself I wasn’t dreaming. This man worked under Giuliani to clean up New York City and is now working to successfully implement his methods here. But what many people don’t realize is the severe lack of police officers in this huge city… a whopping 9,500 officers compared to N.Y.C.’s 36,000. Consider the fact that L.A.’s population of approximately 10 million stifles N.Y.C’s 8 million, but we have less than one third of the police power...that kind of information doesn’t leave much to ponder when reporting the gang problem. This explains why Bratton considers himself a “doctor” diagnosing our city differently, because like patients every city is unique.

MacArthur Park was a breath of fresh air… literally, it was hard to believe that only months before it was being trampled by riots and months before that the dope capitol of Los Angeles. Captain Beck gave us extensive history and toured the park with us to demonstrate the new safety measures that were taken, such as hidden cameras, undercover cops selling crushed macadamia nuts as substitution for cocaine and more police patrolling. He seemed to sincerely have a respect for the changes that Bratton is making in the force to affect the city, where police can make a difference. His biggest boast was that Bratton only ordered him to change the system, but never said how to do it.

Places like the Park Plaza Hotel were once celebrity hot spots before MacArthur Park became unsafe. Now Beck hopes that restaurants and hotels in the area will attract crowds again to re-populate the area as a recreational place.

Our last stop was in Watts to serve as witnesses to a community center meeting and meet key players in the intervention of gang members and mentors to the youth in the community. Truthfully, I had no idea that people are working to volunteer their time and practically risk their lives. But no no words can describe the mix of emotion that runs through you when you are sitting next to someone who should be serving a life sentence, but has now devoted at least part of his life to preventing the retaliation of gang members. I was scared, excited, nervous and felt the urge to cry and hug these people all at the same time. I had seen gang related news on television and who hasn’t read a death count after drive-by shootings…but to actually speak with someone that has kissed death and then lived to prevent it, is another story. It was that moment, my fellow classmates, when I realized I am studying to work in the right profession.
Bratton’s prescription to us as journalists was to go into every situation and interview with an open mind, although I think it will take a bit more practice to make an unbiased account after meeting these graceful men… after all Chaleff said it best, we are their P.R... So we shall heed their advice and go into our new assignments by thoroughly checking all sides for evidence, much like detectives with newfound confidence, thanks to Joe Domanick for throwing us right in there.

LAPD Chief Bratton and his "P.R." our guide, Joe Domanick

On our bumpy ride to South Central LA, Rev. Madison attempted to pick my brain about the rumors I have heard regarding this supposedly sketchy area of California. I told him I was a blank slate; that I really had not heard much of anything about South Central LA and if I had I obviously didn't pay much attention to it. While he had a tough time believing that I appreciated the idea of going into an area with an open mind. What I enjoyed most about the experience was listening to Rev. Madison. He encouraged us to engage all of our senses which enabled us to take in everything
around us. The trip to the controversial hospital turned into much more than learning about the marvelous symbol, but realizing the effects of stereotypes versus reality. The LA Times bombarded their reading public with a deceiving headline implying that the entire hospital was shutting down. In reality, the hospital currently functions for sixteen hours of the day. The focus on success rather than supposed failure is minimal. The hospital and surrounding area was simply normal. But,
obviously, normal doesn't make the news and that is what distorts reality.

- Jaclyn Emerick

An urban garden is not something of the ordinary, especially in Los Angeles. A few miles from the hustle of downtown, this community garden represents a unique sense of cultural pride and serves as a reminder that local pride can exist in most unexpected places.

This garden with its individualized plots represent the integrated cultures Los Angeles. Mexican herbs, Hawaiian fruits, and Guatemalan seeds found on these acres, serve as a reminder that this city is not of one race or culture, but a melting pot of many backgrounds and traditions.

In this crowded metropolis, you can expect to find traffic, smog, high-rises, and business men and women rushing around with their Starbucks Coffee while reading emails from their cell phones. The last thing I expected to see on our tour of the city was a small garden within city boundaries. While interacting with the individuals whose plots sat on these grounds, I began to realize that this garden's purpose was not just to grow herbs and small plants, but to give the local residents something to be proud of. A refreshing break from the crime surrounding area, these plots give the locals a chance to practice something that they are skilled at and are proud to display.

The men who gave our tour came from many different backgrounds but all shared a common trait- all were confident in their work and proudly shared a part of their culture. This experience has shown that no matter where you live or where you come from, people thrive on having the opportunity to contribute a part their culture and be proud of what they can generate.

Michelle Phalen

Increasingly, it seems as if the onus to maintain an ethnic group's cultural identity through its language is, by default, resting on the aging shoulders of the elder generations amongst the Korean and Russian communities in Los Angeles. That this is happening by default is a direct result of the effect globalization is having on the youth of these communities. Whereas the melting pot was at a slow simmer before the internet boom, it is now at a full-on rolling boil - a state at which tradition is usually the first to get scalded beyond recognition.

We visited both The Korea Times and Panorama Media Group as part of our Thursday afternoon excursion. Both are all-encompassing media organizations that deliver content through the three main avenues of print, broadcast, and online to their constituents. But despite a combined 84 years on the market between the two organizations and a steady subscriber-base, both representatives we talked to cited the Westernization of their youth as one of the biggest challenges to their longevity. As the young Koreans and Russians successfully assimilate into American culture, they have less dependency on their own people, culture, and language as a means for survival and comfort. The dichotomy here is that every immigration to the US is at least partly motivated by the notion of a better future and more open doors for one's family, yet the further realized this dream becomes with each successive generation, the more cultural ties are severed. Perhaps the most telling similarity between each organization's business practices is the partnership each shares with the Los Angeles Times; no content is shared, only subscribers.

Generational issues aside, however, The Korea Times is thriving. Whereas the death knoll of newspapers is sounding in every English language corner of the US, The Korea Times is seeing a 1-2% growth in subscriptions with a healthy ad revenue stream contributing to an overall annual revenue of around $70 million. Of the 11 North American cities they have a presence in, LA holds the largest Korean population outisde of Korea, with 1.5 million 2nd generation Koreans alone and approximately 30,000 entering Southern California every year. This number is expected to increase dramatically once South Korea gains admittance to the US Visa Waiver Program (click here for more details).

Accompanying this influx is an inevitable exchange of power among those in control of US-based Korean media once the current power-brokers (mostly of the older generations) reach retirement age. That Korea itself as a country is very progressive yet The Korea Times still leans towards the conservative side of the fence is an interesting contradiction derived from who is calling the shots and may be a contributing factor to the waning influence over younger generations. The Korea Times is the largest sponsor of Korean cultural events in LA and as long as they continue to foster relationships with organizations such as the Dodgers, the Galaxy, the LA Philharmonic, the Hollywood Bowl, Samsung, Helio, etc, they should (at the very least) have a consistent channel for reaching the younger Korean immigrants.

Though Panorama Media Group faces a similar plight with their youth turning more towards English, US-based media for their news, the organization also faces other issues unique to the political landscape of Russia. While the population of Russian speaking inhabitants of Southern California is significantly less (600,000) when compared to the over 1.5 million Koreans living in Los Angeles alone, the Panorama Media Group is still the largest Russian-language newspaper outside of Russia itself. They have correspondents all over the world and have been right in the thick of some international headlines surrounding Russia, most notably the polonium poisoning of ex-KGB agent Alexander V. Litvinenko and the murder of reporter Anna Politkovskaya, a PMG employee.

The interesting conundrum here is that as the Russian speaking youth in the US drift away from their own ethnic media, those in the mainland itself would likely prove a rabid audience for PMG's journalistic content as it operates outside the power-sphere of Putin's thinly veiled totalitarianism. As of now, their website is purely informational and designed for potential advertisers, but because the cost of international postage puts a paper-based subscription out of reach for most in Russia, a full-fledged website that could garner subscription revenue while providing Russians with an unfiltered viewpoint on their homeland's politics may be a worthwhile safety net to safeguard against the decline in print revenue. Subversive oppression like that of Putin's government is the exact type that mobilizes a generation to take an active interest in where their country is headed so they can enact change where change is badly needed.

In both instances, we heard facts supporting both the current prosperity of these two ethnic media organizations as well as their concerns for continuing that prosperity for years to come. Assimilation into American mainstream culture is inevitable and ultimately desirable for those attempting to make a home out of this country. The advantage these organizations will always hold over their American counterparts is the ability to authentically report on issues back at home as well the local ones untouched by US mainstream outlets because they are too esoteric. From what I gathered, the difficultly lies in balancing integration with nationalism so that the Americanized youths maintain enough pride and interest in the affairs of their native lands. As long as the dense Korean and Russian communities stay in tact and manage to retain their own identities, though, it's my personal opinion that youth strays towards pop-culture in the teens and early twenties but always re-discovers roots and national identity soon thereafter. The organizations we saw on our trips are entrenched and vital to their respective communities; globalization erases boundaries, not a person's heritage.

As a British expatriate – raised in a series of small, countrified villages – I am unaccustomed to sights that truly astound and move me into silence. In the Hamlets of England, late buses and stolen buckets are considered newsworthy. Los Angeles, however, is an entirely different cup of tea. This huge, sprawling city – bigger than what I had imagined the entire earth to be – succeeds in keeping me on my toes and never ceases to amaze me. Amid the diversity and chaotic nests of culture, exceptional things happen—in today’s case, an alien-like artefact rising out of the depths, transcending stereotypes and shaking up the stasis of a community. The Watts Towers are the perfect symbol of Los Angeles; a fragmented, diverse, throw-away culture that comes together to form a massive skeleton across a dry, ecological waste-land.

Imagine living in Watts in the 1950’s. The landscape is composed of low-rise, dilapidated “housing” (for want of a better word), an ominous train track that splits the streets in half to serve passers-through, and housing projects whose occupancy consists almost solely of one race. The neighbourhood is rife with tension; the area is going through the motions of being quickly forgotten and swept under the carpet by the Suburbia-bound white community, leaving the growing Immigrant and Black population to “fight it out.” Things on the ground are ugly – so one man looks to the sky to find beauty. That man was Sobato (“Simon”) Rodia, an Italian construction worker.

Low-rise housing

For those who assume that Simon was suffering from a kind of psychosis, or an obsessive compulsive disorder concerning trash and Lego-like construction, the part of the story that doesn’t make sense is its conclusion. Simon didn’t die with a piece of broken crockery in his hand; he just up and left. He was finished. He and his towers were completed and there was no more to be done. Simon bequeathed his towers to the City and moved to Sacramento to be with his family. Is this the typical behaviour of someone suffering from a life-long psychotic disorder? No, indeed it is not. Psychological obsessions do not wither up or fade away; they hold their victims in a tight and life-long grip. Simon wasn’t yielding to a symptomatic condition of the mind; he was following a calling.

“I knew I was going to do something, so I did something,” Simon said.

This ambiguous justification seems almost prophetic. Simon seemed called to his purpose without fully understanding it; he was a simple man who simply followed an instinct to “do something”. And he did.

The Watts Towers

A glorious climbing frame, or a piece of art?

A multi-colored playground of trash and stash

Waste not, want not...crockery

It might be a story of spiritual realization; it might be a story of psychotic fascination; it might not even be a “story” at all but more of a “hobby,” born of boredom and without reason. But I believe that Sabato Rodia had a vision that he pursued in blind faith, without answers or reasons—like an Italian Noah for the modern age. I imagine that Simon’s diligent and almost inhuman perseverance was an “if you build it, they will come” type of situation. Who will come? That is the question. Perhaps aliens; perhaps God; perhaps just “other people.” Rodia was an isolated, brilliant man who suffered – as we all do – from the anxiety of human sociability. Man’s predicament is that he both craves and despises interaction with his own people. “Other” people are rude, awkward, scary, aggressive, intimidating and vexing to the spirit of the individual. And yet, as John Donne said, “no man is an island.” So, Rodia tried to find a way to express this predicament and placate its tensions.

Towers

In his version of the Tower of Babel, Simon seems to have succeeded in reaching the God he was searching for. From the top of his tower, Simon was afforded the most splendid view of the quaint Church that sat peacefully amid the noise and haste of Watts. Having found his peace, Simon’s towers were left as an instruction to all those yet to find theirs. They encourage a low-rise community to cast their eyes heaven-ward, to inspire them and soothe them with a promise – like the rainbow that sealed the contract between God and humanity after Noah’s Great Flood. It is an old and universal tale of hope, where upward glances mean second chances.

Church

Rodia's signature

Here's what I thought of it all, in a succinct doodle...

Journalism as a whole is undergoing major transitions at the moment, and ethnic media outlets face many of the same challenges as more mainstream publications. In addition to decreased circulation, however, both the Korea Times and Panorama are saddled with the difficult task of capturing the attention of third and fourth generation immigrants, many of whom prefer English language publications over those printed in Korean or Russian. Our visits to both media outlets provided us with yet another example of publications that are scrambling to reestablish their niche in the unholy mess that is 21st century journalism.

As we approached King- Harbor Hospital, it did not stand as a relic of government oversight. The boarded up ER signs as seen on TV and in newspapers were there, but walking past, the sign seemed negligible. Instead of a rundown ghost town, we stood in the shadow of a symbol of the Watts/Willowbrook community. An enormous facility struggling to survive an ER and inpatient shut down. A reminder of reconstruction after the Watt’s Riots, the hospital temporarily functions as an urgent care facility open from 8am – midnight seven days a week. The hospital along with its neighboring medical school and magnet high school stand as a testament to the community’s fight to encourage their youth to thrive and help their community. Imparting the idea that success and achievement are accessible. Yet, going to King – Harbor was more than just clinical. Rev. Madison encouraged us to challenge the stereotypes we had revealed on the drive to the hospital. Engaging the senses as we walked around the surrounding neighborhood suburban silence welcomed us. The steady hum of traffic and dogs barking served as the soundtrack to our visit not police sirens and gunshots. The entire visit served as a reminder that all too often perceptions not city lines serve as dividers.

It takes only a five minute drive off USC’s campus, outside the gates that protect our prestigious university, to get a different view of Los Angeles. The locals refer to this area of crime, poverty, and urban deterioration as South Central. It is a neighborhood that houses low-income families and lacks basic conveniences, such as limited fresh produce and healthy eating options. Locals shop at corner stores, where food quality is poor, perishable items are kept longer than the expiration date, and the meat is green. While these stores sell fruits and vegetables, these items are scant, overpriced, and located in the back.

We met with Rosa, a community health promoter looking to better the community and create public awareness on the health issues associated with poor nutrition. Rosa discussed an increasing issue in the community regarding children’s afternoon snacking preferences. Unhealthy snacks come from vendors, corner stores, and quick getaway vans and typical snacks include pork rinds with mayonnaise, soda, and flaming hot Cheetos. Health officials have noticed a distinct correlation between poor nutrition and type 2 diabetes. Type 2 diabetes, insulin resistance, is associated with obesity. According to Dr. Andriette Ward, one in five kids will develop diabetes; 50% will develop type 2. To prevent diabetes, one must be physically active, maintain a healthy weight, and start early! Unfortunately, some of the families in South Central don’t have the means to sustain a healthy lifestyle.

A few of the individuals we talked with believed that community involvement can make a huge difference. The staff members at Healthy Eating Active Communities (HEAC) started two projects to empower people to make better eating choices. The first program, SB120, lobbies for chain restaurants to list nutritional facts on all their menu items. The second one petitions to revamp the corner stores to increase shelf space, and move fresh produce and other healthy snacks to the front of the store. Additionally, Valerie Ruelas, a licensed clinical social worker, is involved in a two-year diabetes prevention initiative that includes grocery store assessments, studies on food insecurity, and most importantly, a revised school meal plan.

This field trip, for lack of a better word, was designed to accomplish three things: remove us from our comfort zone, find a story in everyday life, and prove that we have an obligation to our community. Perhaps the most important lesson I gleaned from this exercise was the last. After all, as journalists our number one responsibility is to the citizens.

I kept expecting to see a stubbly-faced private-eye, a Mike Hammer or Philip Marlowe, clad in trench coat and fedora, awash in black and white, sitting at the corner of the 70-odd year old counter, smoking a cigarette and preparing himself for a quintessential Noir voice-over…

“There she was. And boy was she a looker. A better broad I never seen. She could woo a man with lips to make Helen of Troy look like a sea cow who’s had her day. I knew she was trouble. I knew it from the moment I first saw her. But I was helpless. I was helpless, and she knew it. She came over to me like a pirate wantin' to bamboozle its next ship, like a kitty getting ready to play with a meal. I was a soggy rat, a nothing and a nobody just waiting, waiting, and I didn’t move an inch. She could smell my fear…I could see it in the way the nostrils flared on that perfect nose of hers…”
(Or something like that.)

It’s nice to see that places like this are not only around to be admired and gawped at, but that they are used daily by those for whom they were intended. L.A.’s a young city. But it’s a place like this, that has changed little if at all since its opening, that reminds visitor and resident alike that the city has a history. Often a murky history, but a history nonetheless. Besides, which city can lay claim to a lily-white past?

And while New York, San Francisco, and Chicago could give it a slight run for its money, only Los Angeles is the true and full center of Film Noir, with its hardboiled cred evident in cafés such as these. And if having a clean past would rob L.A. of such relics, maybe good civic memories aren't worth it.

Of course, it's always easy to say such things form this side of history.
-Deborah Stokol