A City of History: Andrew Dupree
When you drive in and out of Humboldt County at night, the natural beauty of the place is just a small fraction of what you see during the day. The view out the window is a black, dark, impenetrable forest, with a token redwood tree lit up by the lights of construction work every now and then. My housemate Matt and I drive out of Humboldt County in the late afternoon headed for Los Angeles, the supposed anti-Christ. As we travel nature seems to change her mood around every turn of the road. The combination of the view and the speeding car has my mind racing. I am thinking of all the people, places and feelings I left behind in Arcata and the dramatic change in atmosphere I am about to experience in Los Angeles.
The trip is a weak and thinly-disguised plot to see my fiancé who lives an hour outside of L.A. in San Bernardino County. But first I need to go home, and home is Los Angeles. Like the majority of L.A.’s residents, I wasn’t born there. I’ve lived in many different places both near and far, but L.A. is where I call home. The corner of 48th Street and 9th Avenue to be exact. If ever I had nowhere to go in this world that corner would be my refuge, my block, my neighborhood, my hood. This trip we are on is a lot less precise than either Matt or I would care to admit, but in the back of my mind I guess I always knew that the corner was my one real destination.
The corner is a couple of blocks off of Crenshaw Boulevard in what’s known as the west side of South-Central L.A. South-Central is dived into two main parts, east and west, divided by the 110 freeway that travels north and south. The west side is a little better off, with cute well-kept houses and sidewalks lined with palm trees. The east side is definitely more grimy, a place saturated with illegal immigrants, crime and senseless racial and gang violence. It’s surrounded by suburbs like Compton and Gardena to the south and Inglewood to the west. While outsiders might have trouble finding any disparities between these cities, they all have their own different vibe, feel and look.
The conversation between Matt and I stays pretty light. Talk of L.A. is limited to stories of Angels and Dodgers games, Raiders games in the Coliseum in the 80’s, frat parties at USC, stuff like that. Matt hints at wanting to know more about South-Central; there’s hesitation in his voice. I assume due to the tough reputation of the city. As a former resident I can say it is in some parts deserved. I begin to attempt an answer which comes out as a disorganized rambling on topics such as gangs, race, police, politics, drugs, economics, and so on. I realize how hard it is to explain South Central to a white guy from Arcata who has never been there. “When we get there I’ll show you around” I say. “Cool, cool” he replies. There is a short unexpected and awkward silence, and then a couple of muffled grunts as if we are trying to speak but physically can’t. Though it’s really two men trying to find a polite, common ground. Finally Matt speaks, “Dude, is it really cool?”
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