I’ve been crying a lot lately.
I’m on my living room couch, doing laundry between Zoom meetings, the US Open playing in the background, my old hands in front of me, and I’m crying. I’m not crying because Zverev won or because my hands remind me of my grandmother, even though I’m a little waxy and veiny and scarred. It’s something bigger, something deeper, something I can’t quite put my finger on.
I’m on the 405 to pick up my daughter from school, I’m stuck in traffic, and I start crying again. I cry on the way to work and I sit on the warm sand in Malibu looking out to sea. I cry while doing yoga while walking through Temescal Canyon while waiting in line at Erujon for $22. These episodes have been bothering me for months. They slowly invaded my head and nervous system. I’m speechless, I’m crying.
It could be a number of things. My husband and I argued endlessly about emotional labor and my constant efforts to eliminate it from our marriage. It’s exhausting and ineffective. I don’t write anymore. I have another UTI. But these things are very easy and very clear. I’m trying to get out of this. Meditation, sound baths, breathing — nothing helps.
And then, out of the blue, I get a call from the landlord: He’s selling the duplex and we may have to move. The prospect of having to leave a below-market rental apartment in Westwood, a safe neighborhood on the west side in a good school district, should send me over the edge. Tears should be streaming down my face, but they’re not. I feel happier than I have in months. Maybe we should move. We can. have move We can go. we do have Go! I smile from ear to ear and start dreaming of a different life somewhere else. And then it hits me. I fell in love with Los Angeles.
People hate Los Angeles, so falling out of love with it might make sense to you. It’s not a real city, it’s too spread out, there are no stations, the traffic is horrible, they say smugly as the herds depart for cooler places. But I don’t hate Los Angeles, I love it; I always have. I’ve loved Los Angeles since I was a kid growing up in Orange County, a brown kid in a sea of white kids who felt invisible and alone. Los Angeles is my city. It’s people like me who shop in the malls on Melrose. It resonates with energy. It’s dirt and dust against beauty and glory. It’s real—it leaves room for complex things to exist side by side. This is my dad’s family in East Los Angeles, Chiharron, the ice cream truck and the after-church menu on Sundays. It’s my mom’s family in the Alhambra, strawberry jam with fried chicken, the Dodgers, and a Boy George poster on the back door. Los Angeles is everything, it was everything. Los Angeles was once my savior, my only hope.
So what’s changed? A lot.
I’ve been married for 10 years, I have a child, I’ve lost people I love, I’ve been fired by my literary agent, a wildfire is out of control and it’s getting hotter – all things that have definitely affected my relationships with them in this city.
My personality has changed and I feel hopeless. I’m no longer a promising young woman, dreaming of living in the City of Angels. I’m older. Smarter? Maybe. I’ve failed a lot. I’m not who I thought I was. Los Angeles isn’t what I thought it would be either. Can we survive these truths? I want to…
I want to fall in love again. But how?
I light a candle to St. Barbara, my family’s patron saint, and ask her to guide me. I place pink stones on my heart chakra while I sleep. I spend time in the moonlight. I read “Night Watch.” I drive through downtown Los Angeles at night with the windows down and the sunroof open, just like I did when I was a kid with my uncles. The lights are magical; there’s something in the air.
I eat a French toast and a pickled egg that turns my fingertips purple at Philip’s house and feel full. I take my daughter to the lake of self-realization. We feed ducks and turtles. Swan drinks from her outstretched hand. She laughs and runs around the lake. I look at him and see myself as a child. I am writing this short article and I am really enjoying the process. I eat chicken rice and cry because it is from my childhood and reminds me of my grandmother. But this cry is different from the previous one. It feels different. As if I am giving something back.
I decided to mine the city again.
I start avoiding people, places, and things that make me angry. I go analog (for the most part). I stick to my boundaries. I am more present than ever. I wake up a little early every morning to look at the perfect face of my daughter sleeping next to me. I listen to the birds chirping outside my window. I kiss my husband because he buys me cheese and figs. We argue a little less, but we restore and repair faster. I start on the streets and avoid the highways. I vow to find something in the city to be grateful for every day: shade, In-N-Out, free museums, sunshine, ocean, friendly neighbors (thanks, Mary and Paul), walkable neighborhoods, people’s library, reproductive freedom.
In the midst of rebuilding my gratitude, I remember who I am. The city remains. It becomes my companion, giving me a cool breeze, green lights, and a healthy dose of vitamin D. I am lighter, freer, and then, on the day I started crying, I feel hope in the back of my mind and I know I am where I am supposed to be. I love Los Angeles and Los Angeles loves me.
So even though my joints are aching and my body is in perimenopause, even though my marriage is going through a rough patch and my creative experiences are dwindling, I know I’m going to be okay. In the words of Anthony Kiedis of Red Hot Chili Peppers: “At least I have her love, city, she loves me. Like I do. We cry together.”
The author is a teacher and writer. He lives in Westwood with his daughter and husband.
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