By Sara Chisolm
Los Angeles residents have always been stereotyped as Hollywood physically fit with a green juice in hand while driving down Rodeo Drive. I do occasionally enjoy a green juice but I don’t make a habit out of frequenting tourists’ traps. I pass the Disney concert hall while on my way to Chinatown, East L.A., Little Tokyo, or mid-city. Away from the glitz of Tinseltown, the heart beat of the city exists. Some Angelenos leave to seek more affordable pastures while others linger in the only place that they will ever call home. Some come from areas torn by war or in search of the American dream. This is a place where dreams are made and broken. Perhaps that is why I write and listen to stories about Angelenos. We thrive in a paradigm of contradictions.
I always remember to pack a pair of shades, water, sunscreen, notepad and pen while canvassing Los Angeles on the public transportation. They’ve extended the train lines, which suits me just fine. I can lumber around Sawtelle taking in the savory aroma of bone broth, dip out and be in Mariachi Plaza to hear a serenade while the glare of the afternoon sun beams down on all of those poor souls stuck on one of the freeways, which resemble parking lots during rush hours. I watch people as they walk down the street, bus tables in restaurants, attend to their children, or sit at the local coffee shop typing away on their computers while sipping on their coffee. I usually choose to write at home but the city and its inhabitants inspire me to step away from my desk and home library.
I yearn for the smell of incense, buttery Salvadoran quesadillas, jasmine, and marinated meats. I can smell all of these things from the crowded streets when I walk down just the right one. I sometimes wonder about the people that I encounter in those brief moments. What is their life like? What do we have in common? What are our differences?
In a place as diverse as Los Angeles, differences are easy to pick out, but it’s the similarities that can make people bond and feel empathy for others. Stories can be a powerful bridge to understanding one another. On occasion, I find myself imagining that the woman in front of the temple with the incense sticks is praying for forgiveness. The man in front of me at the panadoria is buying breakfast for his family. The basketball players whose movements blow the scent of fresh jasmine onto the street might be worried about their upcoming finals. The cook in the taco truck is wondering how he’s going to make ends meet this month. I don’t know their stories, but I know that we are alike in some ways, and that thought alone makes me take out my notepad.
I sometimes jot down a few notes and ask a few questions here and there. Occasionally, the answers yield more questions that will go without a response. I try to understand people who may have vast differences from me by researching certain topics related to their experiences.
Spending hours in a library conducting research on history, culture, and language is helpful to my writing. I‘d be a liar if I didn’t admit that the mildew smell of used books is a comfort for me. Going to a library is like coming home. My research doesn’t address all of the questions that I have from talking to people. There are times when emotions and the past guide reactions. Feelings can be difficult to explain or even comprehend. Who knows why one motorist will roll down their window and cuss at another person for cutting them off on the freeway while another one won’t even bother. Emotions about situations are a reflection of the past.
I’ve drawn the conclusion that to live here, one has to admit how much and how very little they know about the city’s residents. Although the differences between us can be numerous, we can always offer empathy. I listen with compassion and gain an insight that I would never have acquired had I not spoken to my fellow Angelenos. These life lessons help me in my day-to-day tasks as well as in my writing.
I ran into someone carrying a power tool on the bus. His eyes lit up when he saw the name of the school that I work for emblazoned across my chest in huge white letters on a fire hydrant red t-shirt. He asked if I was a teacher and what subject I taught. When I told him I work with small children, he told me stories about his daughters that ended with him instructing me on how to use a power drill. I sometimes think of him when I write stories about families. That twinkle in his eyes reflects the same starry gaze that I have when I reminisce about my own little “knuckleheads.” Our astronomically different lifestyles bear resemblance as we connect over children and unfinished projects in my apartment. I learn a fair amount about myself while talking to others. Their experiences guide me.
The most prolific life lessons that I have had through stories comes from the families that I work with as a preschool teacher. I used to work for non-profit organizations in areas that experienced frequent gang activity, poverty, and violent crime. The parents told me stories about being refugees, being harassed by cops, not having enough resources for their children. I had to take notes as I devised a way to best help with their children’s needs.
We are people of color, dark skinned and historically marginalized. I saw a bit of myself reflected in their appearance. We shared the same spaces. I visited the same grocery stores, restaurants, and walked down the same streets. In those instances, I become a part of a community story. We would vibe about the store clerk who always picked their nose when they thought that no one is looking. Complain about the higher prices at our favorite heladeria.
I grew up in an all-American suburban town in the San Gabriel valley. Just another pissed off teen in A.P. English writing poetry and journaling. My parents were able to provide a decent living for me and my little brother. While growing up, I didn’t have the same barriers to resources as my students’ families. Learning about life experiences that differ from mine expands my understanding and awareness of the human condition. This fact makes their stories resonate with me. I don’t focus on writing stories that reflect life experiences that are solely my own. A good book makes the reader relate to the characters in some way. A great book will make you emotionally invested in the characters. I am a speculative fiction writer. My aim is to intrigue readers by creating relatable characters in imaginative moments that no one on this good green earth has experienced.
My favorite books growing up were fairy tales or what I would dub as “whimsical flights of fantasy.” My writing reflects my earlier reading choices, but with a sprinkle of darkness and culture. My plot lines used to rack up body counts as if I was playing a video game. I’ve slightly amended my ways and began to focus more on relationships between characters without the climactic death scenes. Some life situations are just as stressful as being torn limb from limb by zombies. Maybe I’ve changed. Motherhood has become a prominent theme in my stories. Exploring folklore from around the world has taken root in my fiction. Fairy tales where Angelenos reside in conflict. Not every story has to have a happy ending, but it always has to end.
The stories that my past students’ families told me were also full of hope. In a city brimming with dreams, hope is contagious. There’s always a chance for a better tomorrow. At the end of the year, the center that I used to work for hosts a pre-kindergarten graduation. Folks filled up the auditorium while clutching balloons, bouquets, and stuffed animals. Some people have to stand because there aren’t enough chairs. The children perform a few songs, dawn graduation caps, and eat over frosted pieces of white sheet cake. The families shifted together. The metal folding chairs were scattered against the wall to make room for the adults’ latest gossip. An older cousin just graduated high school or college. A father just opened his own small business. A mother is expecting a new addition to the family. We share sorrow and rejoice in triumphs.
The last graduation that I attended at the center was a type of farewell ceremony for me as well. By the end of the week, I’d be starting at a new center. The preschool that I was starting at had raised beds for gardening, several fenced in play yards, and a beautiful interconnecting bike path. Outdoor play would be very different from the scenes of police brutality reenacted by my past students. When I told the families that I was close with that I was switching schools and that the new school would serve wealthy families, they rolled their eyes or gave me menacing looks. They were pissed off that I could leave them to serve families that had their pick of great teachers. I politely sympathized and took their outrage and disgust as a complement to my care of their children and teaching abilities.
Everyone faces challenges in life, although the challenges of the new families that I would be serving might be different, they were still plagued with their own obstacles in life. I couldn’t help but question my decision to leave the center for a more privileged population though. The choice to leave the center was not made light-heartedly. I wanted to stay because I had fostered relationships with the families, but ultimately my desire for new challenges and experiences had won out.
I occasionally run into my old students and people in the community that I once served. Our paths intersect when I stop by my favorite restaurants or bakeries in the area. We embrace, talk, and laugh about the old times. Tears come to the corners of our eyes while remnants of our bond bring back once forgotten feelings. Sometimes when I say goodbye, I can feel their resentments in their hugs or handshakes. Other times, I feel their affection and sorrow. As Angelenos, we bring meaning to each other’s lives in our everyday encounters. Stories told and untold about our differences and similarities. Tall tales that seem like legends among the temples, taco trucks, coffee shops, skyscrapers, and congested freeways.
In a city as crowded and spread out as L.A. you can marvel in her diversity. Draw strength from it. The promise of a better future draws people from different walks of life to this city. No matter what, there is always a tomorrow and another story to write.
Sara Chisolm is a speculative fiction writer based in the Los Angeles area. Her urban fantasy short stories “Serenade of the Gangsta,” “The Fortune of the Three and the Kabuki Mask,” and “We Found Love as the Undead,” were featured in the second and third volumes of the Made in L.A. fiction anthology series. Sara has co-edited for the third, fourth, and fifth books for the annual Made In L.A. anthology.
