I’ve lived in Los Angeles for over 15 years. I moved here in fall 2008 to follow my dreams and attend journalism school, and like so many Angelenos, my goal has always been to turn my passions into reality (and pay the rent while doing it). Doing all this against a backdrop of breathtaking blue skies and picturesque palm trees didn’t hurt either.
After spending my adolescence in the San Francisco Bay Area, it feels almost heretic to call Los Angeles home, but I’m not ashamed. I loudly proclaim that LA is my home. It’s where my friends and I lounged on LACMA’s lawn (the affectionate shorthand for Los Angeles County Museum of Art) to watch jazz in the summertime; where I learned that no matter how badly they want you to call it Crypto.com Arena, it will forever and always be the Staples Center; it’s where you can guarantee that no matter how your night is going, the tantalizing, comfortingly familiar scents wafting from the nearest taco stand are never too far away. It’s where I internalized that you better gun it at the Beverly and La Cienega intersection’s unprotected left turn before the light turns red, lest your fellow road ragers erupt in a perfectly timed symphony of bleating car horns and brightly colored language.
This vibrant hum was abruptly disrupted when multiple fires broke out across the Los Angeles metro area on January 7. I’m now grappling with an unmistakable sense of loss, alongside so many others who haven’t lost everything, but are teetering on the edge of a new reality where so much has been lost all the same.
After the Palisades Fire erupted, I sat in my apartment in Hollywood glued to my phone, shuffling between Instagram, various live news streams, messages with friends and family and an app called Watch Duty that has helped me stay in the know about the developing fire situation.
Watch Duty is a California-based 501(c)(3) nonprofit, nonpartisan organization that relies completely on volunteer dispatchers, first responders, reporters, scientists, and climate experts. It’s a scrappy team, but the app was critical for me — it ended up being the only place I felt I could get accurate by-the-minute fire alerts. I had never heard of the app before the fires, and neither had most of my friends and family, but it’s now an essential fixture on my phone.
LA is prone to fire and wildfire has always existed on this landscape, but I was caught by surprise by a January wildfire that ignited outside of what we typically would consider California’s fire season. But thanks to climate change, fire seasons and the geographical distribution of fires are shifting, and in California, these changes are exacerbating the variables that feed fires: A wet winter allowed for a bumper crop of grasses and shrubs to thrive, but then an astonishingly long dry period desiccated the landscape, providing ample fuel for wildfire. And then, this year’s Santa Ana winds were especially fierce, driven by unprecedented heat in the Pacific Ocean.
I watched with growing horror as the Watch Duty alerts poured in, each more urgent and damning than the last. The Palisades Fire’s acreage continued to climb steadily. Messages from my mom and brother pinged across my phone’s screen. Are you okay? What are you doing? Did you pack a bag just in case?
Then the Eaton Fire came.
The Eaton Fire’s devastation hits on a particularly personal level, partly because I have a number of friends and connections whose families have lost everything there, and partly because the Eaton Fire has consumed Altadena, a neighborhood east of downtown LA and one of the oldest historically Black neighborhoods in Los Angeles.
Altadena is a bastion for financial mobility and generational longevity for middle-class Black and brown Angelenos, which became one of the most integrated neighborhoods in Los Angeles County after years of white flight during the 1950s. In a region where homeownership continues to be one of the most challenging yet effective methods for generating and maintaining financial security for individuals and families of color, and when you consider the fact that the homeownership gap between Black and white homeowners remains the largest it has been in over a decade, the Eaton Fire’s impact is staggering, to say the least.
A few days later, the Sunset Fire arrived. This fire, burning just north of Sunset Boulevard in the Hollywood Hills, had begun to rapidly spread thanks to high-intensity winds that were already battering the Palisades and northeast LA. I scanned the Watch Duty map in shock as the level 2 and 3 evacuation warnings, demarcated by yellow- and red-colored zones indicating county-issued evacuation mandates, spread to my neighborhood.
The colors inched closer and closer to my block. A mandatory evacuation zone was now three blocks away from my apartment. My anxiety climbed, heart racing and head pounding as my jaw clenched tightly. On Wednesday evening, I called my brother in Culver City. I think I need to leave my place, I told him. Can I come stay with you?
I had thrown together clothes, electronics, toiletries and my passport in a suitcase the night before. I checked the contents of the bag before getting in my car and driving across town, stopping at a gas station on the way. A sense of panic and terror there was palpable. The air, heavy with haze and cast with a dim yet unmistakably orange tint, caused my eyes and throat to itch and burn. Fellow drivers urgently filled their gas tanks, their faces protected by n95 masks as flimsy ash particles fell across our shoulders like poisonous snowflakes.
If this is the apocalypse, I thought, at least my brother is safe (for now). At least my parents are safe (for now). I’ll find a way to replace my stuff if I have to.
I arrived in Culver City, spent. The evening was a blur. I fell asleep on my brother’s couch in a heap of exhaustion and desperation, wondering when — or even if — I’d be able to go back home.
The next morning, I again turned to the Watch App, where I tuned into a press conference featuring LA Fire Department Chief Kristin Crowley and Los Angeles Mayor Karen Bass. Crowley reported significant losses in the Palisades and Eaton fires, but also said that the Sunset fire was getting under control.
I felt encouraged. Relieved. Grateful. But also: angry. Devastated. Skeptical. Optimistic. Pessimistic. Confused. Terrified. Utterly exhausted.
By Thursday night, I was back in my place. It was one of the most surreal moments of my life. I fervently scrolled social media, where I encountered a disorienting expanse of different realities. Some friends were posting tearful, aching videos detailing what they had lost — their home, vehicle, or family heirlooms. Some had lost everything. Others had evacuated but were back at home safely, sharing resources for evacuees from local mutual aid organizations. Some had fled farther south or east to Long Beach, San Diego or Palm Springs and were still there, unsure what their next steps may be.
I was safe on my couch, but I didn’t feel very safe at all.
These catastrophic fires have raised questions for me about the true meaning of home. What does it actually mean to call a place home? How can we reconcile home’s ability to encompass both a physical structure where we house our most precious things, as well as the grander, intangible, more esoteric essences that invariably connect us within a place regardless of its physical boundaries?
I’m extremely grateful to have a roof over my head and to know that my home was not lost. But thousands have not been as fortunate. I have the luxury of being unable to fully wrap my mind around what LA’s homeless and housing insecure populations have had to contend with, let alone those who have lost everything but have or will have the means to rebuild.
What I realized over the past week is that we — all Angelenos — are collectively in the process of grieving and rebuilding.
Over the last week, I’ve been brought to tears by the generosity, humility, and ingenuity of the community here. I’ve seen people across all demographics take care of themselves and each other in stunningly kindhearted, tender ways. This has showed my a glimpse of an alternate future here: Where home is a place where mutual aid flows freely, where people work alongside each other using their strengths and talents in harmony, and where both our sorrows and triumphs are held in compassionate, gentle regard — north-south and east-west rivalries be damned.
I don’t know what the future of Los Angeles will look like. Civic leaders, community groups, and everyday Angelenos are actively exploring these paths, right now. I’m encouraged. And I’ll be there too, with a street taco in hand.
