Today, I am fortunate to have a place that I call home. On the border of Montebello and East L.A., in the middle of a street with a frustratingly high car-to-parking space ratio, nestled between an empty house that has been foreclosed and another that is filled with the activity of three generations of family, behind a rococo black gate with signs of rust on its edges- that is the place I call home, mi casita.
We, mi familia and I, moved into the casita the summer before I began second grade. Before I continue, I should present to you the members of mi familia. You know those nuclear families that inhabit suburbia America- the "Jones" families of the world? Yeah. Well, we're not one of those. Up until sophomore year of high school, my family included not only my biological mother, Juana, father, Fidencio, y dos little traviesos, George and Fidencio Jr. (every family has at least one Jr.- right?) BUT also my tia Tere, tio Chava, and their three children, Leonard, Jose, and Salvador Jr. (of course). My family of 10 was more than double the size of most families on TV, four people. And you know what? We had more than twice the love, support, and respect for one another that any family I had seen on a TV screen.
However, for all the great things that came with having such large and loving family there were also some not-so-great things. A big one: housing. A family of 10 with four adults and six children had difficulty finding affordable housing. As a result, my family and I shifted from apartment to apartment. A few months here, a few months there. But all the time, we remained within the city of Los Angeles. Why we didn't move to a more affordable place is beyond me. But, I'm glad we didn't. Now that I'm older, I love driving around the city because the whole thing feels like home- wherever I go, I feel welcomed: no fear of exploring previously ignored nooks, no hesitancy to rest in the shadows of its sparsely distributed palm trees.
This feeling of comfort is new. Before moving into my little casista, I felt like a foreigner to the whole city of Los Angeles. Right when I began to feel comfortable in a new space, I would be uprooted and planted in a new one. These memories have called to mind the anthem to my years of teenage angst: "The District Sleeps Alone Tonight" by The Postal Service. (If you have time, listen to the song- the lyrics are great and their relevance is fairly straightforward.) But I digress.
The song in the cancionera that came to mind was "Arrieros Somos" by Cuco Sanchez. It is the song I dedicate to my once fickle, but now loyal love for Los Angeles.
Tu me pediste
amor... y yo te quise.
Tu me pediste
la vide... y te la di.
My project this week consists of three part:
1. A sketch of Whittier Boulevard mounted on top black construction paper;
2. A black plastic ladder laid across the bottom of the sketch; and
3. Two flowers: one facing up, the other down.
The sketch is draw from the perspective of someone driving in a car. It was done hastily and with minimal detail to mimic the development of my relationship with the city of Los Angeles. Given that I moved frequently, I became vaguely familiar with everything I encountered- nothing evoked a sense of serious appreciation. However, by the time I moved into mi casita, there was one image that had undeniably marked me: Whittier Boulevard. The massive sign was imposing: it dared you to look away as you passed under it.
The downward facing flower represents the process of being uprooted, and the one facing up represents the process of being replanted.
I mounted the sketch on top of the black construction paper to make it seem like it had been placed in a photo frame. The black ladder looked like photo film to me so, like film is used by cameras to carry pictures worth a thousand words, I used it to carry the two flowers that hold a message worth a lifetime's words.
UPDATE: Between the time I wrote this post and took this photo, the aforementioned flowers died and I lost the black ladder. Oops.
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