Thoughts on South Central LA
Sample of Field Notes:
On sound: There is always music. It is loud and it is, more often than not, utterly fantastic. There are families having parties in their tiny yards. I heard a bad/amazing karaoke version of “Llorar y llorar.” Otherwise, I’ve heard some sweet 90’s R&B, some funk, some soul. People walking on the street are often singing out loud – with or without headphones on. But you have to fill the space up with music here. Why? What other way is there to block out the constant scream of sirens and the thrumming of helicopters? This place is all noise, pure noise, the din of survival.
There’s a lot of more familiar noise. Babies crying. Families fighting. This little Mexican dude who can’t stop saying the word “fuck” outside the window as he describes the day’s debacle. I know its fucked up, but it makes me feel better because it sounds like home.
On people: Every single time I come down these streets, I see men of color pressed up against walls surrounded by an obscene amount of cops. I wonder what they weren’t doing to get accosted this way. Sometimes they aren’t standing up, sometimes they’re seated on the ground, their hands in cuffs in front of them, looking completely defeated and dejected. This is every day here. Maybe its every hour. Im not in Westwood anymore.
On feel: I’d be lying through my teeth if I told you that I felt safe. More often than not, I can feel people staring at me. I know what I look like, and I can feel men gawk in the way that they do. Older men of color have a thing for me, I’ve noticed, and age has made them brave. They don’t even look away when I glance up at them to interrupt their gaze.
On taste: The food is good here. Tacos on the street corner for next to fucking nothing and the taste of the chicken is outrageous. There’s a woman who comes down the street in the morning, selling tamales and the way she hollers it is exquisite. I need to try some. The same goes for the paleta guy, but I rarely hear him anymore. I think maybe he’s locked in a duel for the streets with the ice cream trucks that I hear constantly. Everything is a fight here.
On smell: Body odor. Sweat. Survival. Everything carries with it some kind of heat. The smell of bodies. The smell of food cooking on the street corner. The warm Los Angeles air that mostly smells of stale cardboard. The water here smells like sewage sometimes. Somehow I’m not surprised.
Sample of Field Notes:
On sound: There is always music. It is loud and it is, more often than not, utterly fantastic. There are families having parties in their tiny yards. I heard a bad/amazing karaoke version of “Llorar y llorar.” Otherwise, I’ve heard some sweet 90’s R&B, some funk, some soul. People walking on the street are often singing out loud – with or without headphones on. But you have to fill the space up with music here. Why? What other way is there to block out the constant scream of sirens and the thrumming of helicopters? This place is all noise, pure noise, the din of survival.
There’s a lot of more familiar noise. Babies crying. Families fighting. This little Mexican dude who can’t stop saying the word “fuck” outside the window as he describes the day’s debacle. I know its fucked up, but it makes me feel better because it sounds like home.
On people: Every single time I come down these streets, I see men of color pressed up against walls surrounded by an obscene amount of cops. I wonder what they weren’t doing to get accosted this way. Sometimes they aren’t standing up, sometimes they’re seated on the ground, their hands in cuffs in front of them, looking completely defeated and dejected. This is every day here. Maybe its every hour. Im not in Westwood anymore.
On feel: I’d be lying through my teeth if I told you that I felt safe. More often than not, I can feel people staring at me. I know what I look like, and I can feel men gawk in the way that they do. Older men of color have a thing for me, I’ve noticed, and age has made them brave. They don’t even look away when I glance up at them to interrupt their gaze.
On taste: The food is good here. Tacos on the street corner for next to fucking nothing and the taste of the chicken is outrageous. There’s a woman who comes down the street in the morning, selling tamales and the way she hollers it is exquisite. I need to try some. The same goes for the paleta guy, but I rarely hear him anymore. I think maybe he’s locked in a duel for the streets with the ice cream trucks that I hear constantly. Everything is a fight here.
On smell: Body odor. Sweat. Survival. Everything carries with it some kind of heat. The smell of bodies. The smell of food cooking on the street corner. The warm Los Angeles air that mostly smells of stale cardboard. The water here smells like sewage sometimes. Somehow I’m not surprised.