Professional Documents
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The essay speaks for itself (and should be required reading so far as
I am concerned), but I will add one note about Mr. Waldie that the
audience hearing him would have known but which may not be
known to all Lookout readers, namely that Mr. Waldie is a lifelong
resident (and municipal employee) of Lakewood, which, like Santa
Monica, is a small, independent city in the County of Los Angeles.
Therefore, he and we Santa Monicans share the same relationship
to the words "Los Angeles" and "Angeleño.")
At the end of the movie Chinatown – at the end of all the false leads
that Jake has doggedly run down – at the end of our patience with
Jake’s mistaken convictions about himself and his city – when
Jake’s partner pulls him back from the sight of Evelyn Mulwray’s
shattered face, and the Asian faces of the gawking bystanders crowd
the frame – when the clueless private eye is told, "Forget it, Jake.
It’s Chinatown." . . . in the end, the story of Los Angeles has
dwindled to a conclusion we are powerless to affect, like a
landscape watched in the rear view mirror of a car fleeing a crime
scene.
As Joan Didion has said, "We tell ourselves stories in order to live .
. ." In Los Angeles, we tell ourselves that an elderly John Huston
stole the water of the Owens Valley in 1934 (just as Chinatown
proved, although that isn’t the way it happened). We tell ourselves
that a cartoon Dr. Doom and General Motors shut down the beloved
Red Cars to make way for the freeways (just as Who Framed Roger
Rabbit? showed, although that is isn’t exactly true, either).
You and I can recite the city’s defeated beliefs about itself like a
catechism lesson for the regretful. "What is Los Angeles?" Los
Angeles, for those lucky enough to get out, is a rite of passage and a
fable of broken dreams.
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We made our narratives for the freeway’s fluidity, but that’s mostly
gone now anyway, and our stories get lost in brown neighborhoods
on the city’s flatlands and break down in cul-de-sacs and among
mini-malls that all look alike, with signs written in characters that
are meaningful only to someone else.
Perhaps, as historian Dana Cuff has suggested, the city’s hyper self-
definition has made it difficult to see the texture beneath the
ephemeral surfaces. Those surfaces are, in Cuff’s apt metaphor,
"convulsive," a landscape twitching with big ideas about building
the next utopia here on the demolished premises of the last one.
The lead floats in the 1895 edition of the parade illustrated "Aztec"
daily life, followed by imported Native Americans enacting an
Indian raiding party, then a float of mission padres bringing Western
civilization, and then – in further slow procession – floats showing
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And the dashing caballeros on parade day – didn’t they become just
Mexicans the day after?
Perhaps most troubling was the burden of having any history at all.
Because of the region’s Catholic past, its capture in war and fears of
Mexican irredentism, its dread of race mixing, its speculative cycles
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of boom and bust, and the seductive power of its extravagant sales
pitch, the white city turned away from living memory and cast the
shadow that remains the city’s "noir" double: the city of unmet
desires – the city of willful amnesia – the disillusioned city that
naïvely buys its own illusions – the city embodied in Phyllis
Dietrichson’s house in Double Indemnity; sunny and phony on the
outside and dark inside, a house for plotting a murder masked as
seduction.
That’s our daydream of all our cities of the future, leaving the
"now" of Los Angeles stranded as the locale of everything that is
unsatisfying and incomplete.
Pity them. And pity the city they think is unnecessary. Cities are not
mere conveyances of public services. They have a moral purpose.
The moral purpose of a great city is to shelter a maximal diversity
of public settings in which citizens might acquire the ability to
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A hundred years ago, Anglo residents of the city asked how they
could become the inheritors of their unearned place, and they
figured a story that satisfied no one.
This is a "golden age" of great writing about the city and its region,
mostly in the form of critical studies but also, if that seems too
academic, in the form of memoir and new fiction and literary
nonfiction.
His question can only be answered by those who have acquired "a
sense of place."
The banks of the Los Angeles River are getting crowded. The Santa
Monica Mountains Conservancy, the Mountains Recreation and
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The 52-mile Los Angeles River greenway project, linking the river,
new state parks, and the Arroyo Seco with bike and walking trails is
moving forward. A project for a Los Angeles heritage trail,
connecting all these sites and more than a dozen other "places of
memory" in downtown and East Los Angeles, is being vigorously
advocated, as is a Confluence Park at the juncture of the river and
the Arroyo Seco. The green dots are being connected.
Two miles upstream, a 30-acre state park that could grow to 100
acres of trails, playing fields, and a wetlands restoration project.
In the prophetic words of the old hymn, we shall gather at the river,
because we have almost nowhere else to go in built-out Los
Angeles. We shall gather on the river’s banks to restore it, not to
nature, but to ourselves.
This city has failed to give its residents what they critically need –
reasons to be faithful to each other that go beyond the politics of
shared grievances. This city has not inspired faithfulness because it
had not offered much that stood against the easy belief that no
shared loyalties are possible at all.
Rather than break the political geography of the city into pieces –
which was a very real possibility in 2002 – Los Angeles voters
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Some of the early results of the reform charter have been unruly and
easy to misread as the old bickering in new a setting. But something
alive is breaking through the dead mask of the city’s unaccountable
system of governance.
We are not yet vulnerable to that Los Angeles, and too many of us
cannot embrace the consequences of seeing our whiteness as
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I’ve asked you tonight to consider how you and I might gain what
could be called a "moral imagination" the means to write ourselves
into the story of this city and its redemptive mix of tragedies and
joys.
It was the fate of Los Angeles . . . I almost said the grace of Los
Angeles . . . to be the paradise we’ve ruined and, as a consequence,
now our home.
____________
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