Monthly Archives: July 2008

Eatable Patches of Dirt

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I briefly mentioned my distaste for “Edible Estates” in a previous post and I figured I’d expand a bit on why that “project” annoys me. I don’t dislike the concept, quite the contrary: everyone in this city should stop watering their wasteful lawns and plant some food instead, for the good of the environment and for gustatory pleasures. But the amount of press and coverage for what ultimately amounts to just an activist art project is unmerited, especially when the garden proposal Haeg makes is a reality for many working class families in Los Angeles. Since he was living in Mt. Washington when he did this project he should have been aware of the gardening practices right around NELA, he ought to take a stroll down the hill once in awhile just to see how the flatlanders live. I took the following pics of front yard gardens in Lincoln Heights mostly in one day, just riding around randomly on my bike. They’re everywhere.

The LA Times recently did a story on a place called Skyfarm (in Lincoln Heights no less) about a middle class family building a “country escape” in the urban environment, meaning they grow food and have some chickens. Oh wow, how unique. Here’s what I read as the subtext: when poor people grow food and raise chickens in the city, they’re just poor and desperate, and that lack of intent gets them no carbon credits. When middle class (often white) folks do the same thing, it’s an exploration in sustainable living and a return to homesteading. This should be no surprise to Eastsiders, as we’ve learned how things work when you’re outside of the media loop: your shit don’t matter ’til they say it does.

Though (and because) they may be off the radar of those that dictate the social gaze, I present you with pictures of green living done on the cheap! Lack of theory does not negate the practice! Be an urban pioneer and click ahead for the tour! (Warning: lots of pictures ahead. I highly recommend you read this on company time.)

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The 5th sees Boyle Heights Celebrate the 4th

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The north end of Hollenbeck Park became the Boyle Heights Bowl as revelers sat grassy slopes to watch fireworks July 5th. The sounds bounced off the rows of Victorian-era homes, post World War II apartment buildings, and the sound wall next to the freeway ramp–– causing ducks to scatter out of the water into the crowd of people sitting on blankets along the rim of the lake.

Before the fireworks, food booths from local vendors and non-profits made a perimeter around the north lawn, leaving room for those to watch the concerts that scheduled mariachis (Roosevelt High School Mariachi Olympico), funk (Backtraxx), swing (Chico Big Band) and salsa (Angel Lebron y Su Sabor Latino) from 4pm. Around 9pm, CD14’s José Huizar lead a countdown to the fireworks show.

Last year’s inaugural celebration was held at Evergreen Park and outgrew the location in the first year, according to Huizar,  whose office organized the event.  While this year’s crowd was larger, there was a still a very local feel to the day. “The biggest sponsor was Shakey’s Pizza,” said the councilman, who earlier from the stage told the crowd he remember anticipating fireworks each year while growing up as a child in Boyle Heights, and wanted to bring them back to the neighborhood.

The 17 minute display was solid and will be well documented, as many took out cell phone cameras to document light reflecting off the lake and towering Mexican Fan Palm trees appear out the dark and smoke in silhouette. Still, the taped music the fireworks show was set to was generic. With all the music from, and about, East L.A. and Boyle Heights, using some would have made the finale to the day even more local.

It’s worth a survey to see what six songs could be edited into 20 minutes that would reflect the neighborhood.

El mariachi suena de nuevo

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I saw this bit of news over at Curbed L.A. and I had to post it here.

It seems that the streets around la Plaza del Mariachi (First & Boyle) have reopened, thereby allowing for greater traffic in the small streets and mariachis to return to a state of quasi-normalcy. In early March, mariachis moved to side streets because of construction at Mariachi Plaza for the Metro Gold Line. The plaza itself itself is still under construction, but at least the streets are open and the mariachis can now be reached more easily. The plaza itself should reopen by November, when the festival in honor of Santa Cecilia, patron saint of musicians, takes place (one or two weekends before Thanksgiving weekend).

In another bit of mariachi news…

Next Friday, July 11th, Mariachi Los Camperos de Nati Cano is holding a free concert with Son de Madera, one of the leading voices of son jarocho (http://www.myspace.com/sondemadera), as part of the Grand Performances series at California Plaza, at the center of Downtown Los Angeles. For more details, click here.

Image of Mariachi Plaza street sign taken from Francisco Cendejas‘ photostream.

two years.

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Almost two years have passed since I moved to Los Angeles. When I decided to make the move, I’d only been to L.A. once—back in 2002 for a wedding. Before that, my knowledge of the city was based on information from movies, songs, books I’d read in Chicana/o and Asian American Studies classes, and the after-dinner-stories told by my Papá and Grandpa.

“There’s a lot of Taos people in Los Angeles,” my grandpa still reminds me, whenever L.A. comes up, which is often. “A lot of our people over there, New Mexico people.” During WWII, my grandpa had been in Los Angeles briefly before his troop was shipped to Burma. According to his story, he was among the troops ordered to beat Mexican youth who wore zoot suits. It was during one of the raids that he was walking down the street when someone called his name. “Hey, primo! What say?” “Nothing, primo. Let’s have a beer!” I guess he decided to have a beer with his cousin and some other folks he knew from home, instead of joining the riots. He told me later that he knew he was caught in a strange position, one that he didn’t agree with—a Chicano soldier. I still wonder what it must have been like for him in that moment.

Over 25 years later, my 22-year-old father came to Los Angeles, wanting to experience new places. He lived in Lincoln Heights and drove an ambulance at night. His favorite memory was of walking from Union Station after work in the morning and grabbing breakfast at a taquería near the placita. He only stayed in L.A. for a year or so before moving back home to New Mexico. That was in the late ‘60s. Even though he hasn’t been to Los Angeles since, I think he imagines it as if it hasn’t changed.

When I last suggested that I should take a train back from Albuquerque, my papá protested. “That area around Union Station is not safe for young ladies,” he’d said…or something like that. Actually, it’s not just Union Station that he thinks is “unsafe for young ladies,” it’s all of Los Angeles. He thought the same thing when I’d moved to NYC several years ago. If he could have his way, I’d live in Albuquerque, which is actually just as (un)safe as Los Angeles, only more familiar. This is clearly a gender issue–obviously, he wouldn’t be concerned if it were one of mis manitos living out here. He forgets that Union Station and the surrounding area (100 years ago)–the site of my dissertation research—is what brought me to Los Angeles in the first place. And I wanted to get to know and become a part of the communities that live in the legacies of the people whose lives I study.

I knew four people in L.A when mi manito and I moved my stuff into my new apartment. Friends told me it was a “brave” move—maybe it was just crazy. I remember thinking, “if I hate it here, I can always pack up and go home.” I can’t front, those first few months really sucked. L.A. is a difficult place to be a newcomer. Now, after two years spent meeting new folks and exploring in the city—in person and amid dusty papers in multiple libraries—it has become more and more familiar. And I like it here.

Someone recently asked me whether I could finally call L.A. my “home.” And I surprised myself when I thought, there’s nowhere else I’d rather live right now…. But on the real, though? I’m not sure I can really call it “home” until I find some of the New Mexico gente my grandpa keeps talking about, who know how to make a great bowl of green chile. If you know some, hook this nuevomexicana up!

PC Slavery. One of the many reasons I celebrate my independence on Juneteenth.

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I can see how slavery lasted so long in the United States. Most people in the US didn’t own slaves, though most everyone benefited indirectly, so is the case of the migrant worker.

I like to call migrant workers PC slaves, since people can pretend as if they aren’t doing anything wrong by casually buying clothes, food and other products that people produce who are paid virtually nothing.

I know many people will whine and bitch about how it’s migrant workers choice, but I don’t think you have a choice if you’re a human being in regards to whether you live or die.

And in order to buy food and shelter you need money and that’s not a fact that is up for debate, correct?

So why would anyone say you have a choice in regards to working? Do migrant workers have trust funds? Are they slumming? They have to work to live.

I was reading one of my most favorite rags, the Economist. That’s pretty much the only way I can find out what kind of nastiness the US economy is actually in, since over here in the states people are insistent that there are signs of a recession, but refuse to say the “R” word. It is as if they think it’s a racial slur or something.

“A CAMPAIGN to improve the low wages and awful labour conditions of tomato pickers in Florida has notched up a substantial victory over farm owners and their biggest clients, the fast-food chains. After one embarrassment on top of another, Burger King backed down last month and reached a ground-breaking agreement with the Coalition of Immokalee Workers, representing mostly seasonal farmworkers from Mexico, Central America and Haiti. The Miami-based company agreed to pay them one cent more for every pound (450g) of tomatoes they pick, and to improve their working conditions.” From the Economist, The Price of a tomato. June 26, 2008.

This is the kind of country that we live in, where assholes will fight so that they won’t have to pay a person one penny extra, not a dollar, not a quarter, but one bloody penny. But it’s not just that the guy will fight to not pay that one penny, but the fact that in America that’s all we will fight for. That’s all we’ll help someone fight for.

We will fight for one penny (or half of one percent )  and get slapped down and keep working, because we don’t want to seem unreasonable.

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Neglected hispanic vietnam veterans memorial site

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It’s been there for as long as I can remember right on the corner of Brooklyn (Cesar Chavez) and Soto. I notice it every time I pass by it and shortly reflect on its decrepit conditions. However today being the Fourth of July I couldn’t help noticing some irony.

 

On a day when the families are celebrating by going to the beach or having a bbq, it’s easy to forget those who came before us. Passing by it so often, I’ve gotten use to it being the way it is, but one days like today I realize that I walked passed it with a blind eye for the last time. This post may be the first step into one day getting this memorial site up to the standards and condition it needs to be in. The more people that know about it the better. 

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All your schools are belong to Villaraigosa

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Not all of them, but some, yes.

This past Tuesday, July 1st, Los Angeles Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa and his Partnership for L.A. Schools took control of ten LAUSD schools: Ritter Elementary and Markham Middle School in Watts, 99th St. Elementary, Figueroa Elementary, Gompers Middle, and Santee Educational Complex in South L.A., and Sunrise Elementary, Hollenbeck Middle, Stevenson Middle, and Roosevelt High in Boyle Heights.

This Partnership is a result of his failed attempt at taking control of a larger number of LAUSD schools via Assembly Bill 1381, which was eventually ruled unconstitutional. These schools are under the Partnership’s control for the next five years, and if this Partnership shows results, it will most likely be instituted in a wider basis. Continue reading →

“Summer ’08, List to Accomplish”

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“Summer ’08, List to Accomplish” a short novel by Fulana DeTal

It was already July, and I could tell that this summer could suck like all the rest unless I put my mind to some serious changes in my life. I rolled out of bed despite my ass begging to stay put, and threw what I could grab into my purse. I had two bus tokens left and two minutes left on my cell phone. 2+2=4. 4 means the #4 bus westbound bus. I was going to the beach! Continue reading →

The Fifth of July

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When I was a little kid, we were too poor to afford fireworks. I suppose I can’t blame my pyrotechnic poverty just on being poor, but more on the fact that my mother didn’t think any part of the welfare check should be spent on frivolity. If we got fireworks, we didn’t get clothes, or we didn’t get food. Sure, it was a practical choice, but as a kid, you just want to rip into the hundred dollar “Independence Day” box of fireworks.

Our fireworkslessness meant that in the days leading up to the Fourth of July every year, we’d visit our more affluent friends and watch them light fireworks. Back then this annual ritual led me to conclude that socio-economic status could be identified by the characteristics of your fireworks.

If you had no color, just sound, you weren’t poor, but you weren’t living in a mansion. You lived in an apartment and shared a bedroom with a couple of siblings. The same went for fireworks with no sound, and just smoke.

If you had fireworks that were colorful, but just rolled around on the ground, you lived in one of the houses in a duplex.

If your fireworks shot color into the air, and did so while crackling, at least one of your parents had a full-time job and probably owned a house with a yard and a driveway (or at least they’d found a way to live in one).

In my family, we didn’t have any fireworks before and up to the Fourth of July. We didn’t get to light something and have sound, or color. Maybe, if we got lucky, someone handed us a sparkler. In the bad years, they handed us the punk used to light the fireworks. Yep, there’s the poor kid, the one with the smoldering ember.

Occasionally, when the sounds of Fourth of July were so muddled that you couldn’t tell the fireworks from the gunshots fired into the air, we pretended to be fireworks. I mean, if you’re a nine-year-old and you scream from a low tone to a very high one, you sound kind of like a Piccolo Pete. And besides, by nightfall, no one even knows what’s going on in neighboring yards, driveways, or streets. Everyone is just staring into the sky, looking for something to make the darkness light. That means there is no risk of being seen joining the cacophony of Independence Day sound, while in your pajamas, from just inside your apartment’s living room window. Continue reading →

This Is Wacked—Take the Farm Back! South Central Farmers Continue to Dream in Green

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This morning the South Central Farmers held a press conference and informational picket downtown at Los Angeles City Hall to object to the building of an industrial warehouse.  Most disturbing is that the City Planning Department has announced plans to allow this warehouse to be built where the South Central Farm once flourished.   Even more worrisome is that a required standard guideline for an Environmental Impact Report has not even been made for this warehouse project.  Farm representatives and area residents believe that a warehouse of this nature will create more pollution in the area, watershed damage, traffic congestion, poor air quality, increase health hazards, and contribute further to greenhouse emissions.

I was born and grew up in San Diego, then moved to Los Angeles in my early 20’s.   It was quite a shock visiting a friend in Maywood one night and witnessing the factory lights illuminating the skies as if it were daytime!   Later, I found out that there is never darkness in Maywood and that the immigrant families that comprise the majority of residents there live with it.   Isn’t darkness deprivation some sort of heinous torture tactic?

About two years ago I bought a home in Boyle Heights.  The first time I smelled the pollution emitted from the slaughter houses in Vernon, I thought something had died and was decaying in my yard.  I looked everywhere, even under the house for the cause of that odor.  It took me two months to figure out what that repugnant permeating smell was.

Maywood and Vernon are blocks from where the South Central Farm once stood.  Isn’t there enough pollution and stagnant space there already?  We don’t have to accept the special interest groups and their politicians dumping on our neighborhoods while they boost their personal careers and fill their pockets.  Such city planning would not be acceptable in Malibu or Beverly Hills—we don’t have to accept it either.

Please check in on the South Central Farmers’ website for up coming actions on working together to restore our communities into healthier environments.    www.southcentralfarmers.com