Los Angeles

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Killing our sense of Community

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Killing our sense of Community

Thousands of miles away, my drowsy wife was none too pleased to be woken up so early by my frantic messages. Sitting in my parent’s home in Mayo, I was shocked by the fiery images of hurricane-fuelled wildfires consuming vast swathes of neighbourhoods in Los Angeles county. My wife, on the other hand, took some persuading to open the curtains to our balcony, but she then was jolted fully awake, as a distant wall of orange flame illuminated the Glendale horizon. Black smoke filled the north-eastern sky as in a Hollywood post-apocalyptic blockbuster. Thankfully, that was as bad as it got for our location, as the winds eased and firefighters heroically battled the several blazes that had broken out over the week. After a day’s evacuation my wife was able to move back into our apartment. Many others were not so lucky, with at least 27 people killed, 12,000 structures and thousands of acres of habitat destroyed, alongside thousands of people displaced to date. When I arrived back to Los Angeles, the main threats facing the areas near the wildfires came from dangerous particulates in the air, as the winds carried all sorts of airborne contaminants from the charred remains of vegetation and buildings.

Becoming more American than the Americans themselves

Becoming more American than the Americans themselves

We'll call him Paul, because that’s not his real name—at least according to his Lyft profile. He picked me up on Main St. and 5th in downtown Los Angeles, just a few blocks from Skid Row. According to Wikipedia, this area hosts one of the largest stable populations of homeless people in the U.S., estimated at over 4,400. According to Paul, it also houses freshly-released prisoners in subsidised accommodation. You can tell the difference, he said—they look clean, unlike their dirt-encrusted neighbours. I had been waiting obliviously outside a shelter where many of them stayed, not very smart according to Paul, but I was okay since it was the start of the month. The ex-cons had just received their government allowance and were busy organising drugs or doing drugs, or both. But come evening, or especially weekends near the end of the month, and I wouldn’t want to be there.

Burning Down the House of Ethiopian Royalty

Burning Down the House of Ethiopian Royalty

"This isn't a Christian thing to do!" he shouted, eyes wide in anger, his dark skin blending into the room's gloom. "You must give me more notice!". Part of my brain was still processing our conversation, which had rapidly escalated since I told my landlord I was moving out, just minutes earlier. However, another part—perhaps the ancient synapses responsible for spotting movement of predators in the undergrowth or the approach of a Fianna Fáil canvasser—was tugging my attention away. Something was wrong, as time seem to slow to a crawl. My landlord continued to harangue me, but his voice was strangely muted. I slowly looked away. Out of the corner of my eye, an orange light flickered into the darkness and the smell hit me. The curtains were on fire.