I have had the great fortune of being taught and mentored by historians who have shared with me the wonder, insight, and complexities of the past. There is “us,” now, and there is “them,” then. There is also “us,” then and “them,” now. None of these categories are discrete and static; they are ever-shifting, constantly changing as we mine archives, reconstruct and deconstruct narratives, imagine lives, and give more and more attention to those at the margins and in the gaps. History is dynamic and so too should be our understanding. Dominant narratives are displaced every day. 

I have considered not only larger histories this way but also my own. There are many gaps in my familial history, but census records, conversations, graveyard visits, letters, and photographs have slowly filled interstitial spaces and revealed to me more than I previously knew. Before my grandfather died, I knew this—he was born in the Deep South in the 1930s, the child of farmers, and reared under Jim Crow regimes. In his late teens, he moved to Augusta, Georgia to attend Paine College for a year before heading to the Midwestern city of Youngstown, Ohio to seek a job in a steel mill. Passed over by many foremen, he moved West to Los Angeles in the mid 1950s. The rest is more easily traceable. I am the granddaughter of migrants; this is central to my origin story. This is my origin story. 

On the corner of 6th Avenue and Washington Boulevard lies AM Vacuum. Well, at least that’s its abbreviated name in the yellow pages.

The storefront reads ‘AM Vacuum & Home Sewing Machine Sales * Service * Parts * New & Used.’ AM Vacuum has a brownish-red brick exterior that it shares with 6th Ave Liquor, or ‘6th Ave Liquor: Coldest Beer In Town.’ The owner of each has a clear knack for specificity.

Although I’ve just arrived at the corner of 6th and Washington, for a brief moment, I forget where I am. The bricks and boxy shape of the corner stores make me feel as though I am in New York, somewhere in the Bronx, in front of a bodega where I can by a bacon, egg, and cheese. But this building is low to the ground—there are no floors of cramped apartments above it. And the palm trees, which are spread nowhere on this strip of Washington Boulevard but can be seen off in the distance towards the downtown skyline, remind me that I am not in New York where I spent my college years.  I am here, at home, in Los Angeles. And I am standing at a corner, in front of a vacuum cleaner-slash-liquor store, lugging my mom’s Black & Decker Airswivel down the street.   Continue reading “SoLA” →

~Now~

Some Fridays, Amani made plans to meet her work colleagues at one of Downtown L.A.’s overpriced rooftop bars. For a city native like Amani, the words “Downtown” and “nightlife” sat uncomfortably on the tongue. The Downtown L.A. Amani remembered consisted of two extremes: pristine office buildings and makeshift tents inhabited by the city’s overwhelmingly Black and brown homeless. But the transplants at her office didn’t know—or didn’t mind—that so many impoverished people had literally been removed from the cityscape to make way for their favorite bars and clubs. No, the transplants only knew glitzy downtown, a gentrified space full of vibrant lounges, upscale shopping, and fancy lofts.

Even though Amani committed to these Friday meet-ups, she never failed to cancel because Friday evenings were reserved for her grandfather. Always. Continue reading “At King and Western “ →