海角大神

In the vast landscape that is Greater Los Angeles, somewhere nestled between the former John Birch Society recruiting ground of Huntington Beach and the conservative cop-land of Simi Valley, lies my neighborhood. During the late 1930s, when most parts of Los Angeles were being redlined for Latino, Black, and Jewish Americans,听my community was populated by legendary actors Frank Sinatra, Bob Hope, and Bing Crosby.听

Ronald and Nancy Reagan hosted their wedding reception here. A man-made lake 鈥� inaccessible to the public 鈥� hides behind single-family homes big enough to fit two, sometimes three, families spaciously. A private golf course butts up against us. A local weatherman is our honorary mayor.

In 2008, the Los Angeles Times reported a 72%-plus white population in my community. Which, as they put it, was 鈥渉igh for the county.鈥�听Twelve years later, we are still an overwhelming majority-white town. But there are also many Black residents. I know, because I am one of them.

When I first moved to听the neighborhood听eight years ago, I did not want to live here. I craved the diversity and beaches of LA鈥檚 Westside. It was my parents, visiting from my hometown outside Chicago, who fell in love with this place and its quaint, walkable business district. At the time, this community was听removed听from the tent and makeshift-shelter population surrounding the Venice bungalow I wanted.听Here, they saw a clean, safe, and, what we once thought,听liberal听neighborhood.听

Shortly after I settled in, LA鈥檚 homeless population skyrocketed. As the numbers of homeless people rose, so did the population of Black folks on the street. In 2019, Skid Row,听home to one of the largest homeless encampments in the nation, had the unintentional honor of becoming one of the top 10听Blackest neighborhoods in LA with a racial makeup of almost 60% African American.

Around this time, I received a newsletter from my neighborhood council advertising a town meeting regarding the hotly debated topic of homelessness. I was the only Black person in attendance 鈥� including those seated on the elected neighborhood council.

The public discussion quickly turned ugly. One neighbor demanded to know how Beverly Hills 鈥� a municipality separate from LA 鈥� was so successful in keeping homeless people out. Another inquired if our community could, too, hire or 听individuals away. Seeing a lack of resolve, ingenuity, or respect for the issue from members of the community and its representatives I decided to run for election myself.听

After I was seated on my neighborhood council, I hit the ground running. I became a homeless liaison to LA Mayor Eric Garcetti, campaigned for affordable housing, and advocated for Skid Row in their fight for neighborhood council status (they lost ). To further highlight the disparity for my neighbors, I fought for our community to host our own . I hosted a town hall with LA activists, politicians, and policymakers on why supportive housing in our area was crucial.听

The way I romanticized it, my Hollywood-adjacent community could make LA history by becoming the first 鈥渨oke鈥� neighborhood to build supportive housing for homeless families. Unfortunately, that all came crashing down when I learned one very hard lesson: Not only does NIMBY-ism exist, but 鈥淗ollywood adjacent鈥� does not mean progressive 鈥� or inclusionary.听听

As of 2020, there are more than听听living in Los Angeles County, and 21,509 of those people are听听One third of those experiencing homelessness are Black听in a county where only听听are Black. The data is soul crushing. Ninety years later听and redlining is still coursing through LA veins. I did not seek reelection.

Fast forward not too many years later, and now my community 鈥� and all of America 鈥� is at another impasse, this time regarding Black lives specifically. Now I鈥檓 fighting a new NIMBY-ism as a beloved local business has erected a large, vague sign alluding to all lives mattering.听Our newly seated neighborhood council newsletter has no mention of Black lives or our protests 鈥� even though some marches are only a few blocks away. The latest issue of our local magazine not only features no Black people in its roundup of neighbors adjusting to quarantine, but, as of听today, its website鈥檚 homepage hosts more听dog听photos听than it does Black faces.

While everyone from my car dealership to my gym and yoga studio have issued statements affirming the importance of Black lives, I鈥檝e become a thorn in the side of those in charge, writing letters, demanding to be seen in my own community. In response to my neighbors鈥� silence, two weeks ago I put together a small march down our busy main drag to remind myself that not only do Black lives matter, but we live, work, and spend our money here, too.听

It鈥檚 taken years of experience and听my own light skin 鈥� as听the biracial singer听Halsey calls it, 鈥溾�� 鈥� to teach me how to read people. During our peaceful protest, I could not help but notice the annoyed smirks, disgusted body language, and lack of eye contact from many of听my white neighbors as they assessed our potential threat to their comfortable existence.听Their fear felt like a mirror reflection of my own and my parents鈥�, who were听convinced听I would be killed by an enraged white supremacist or angry LAPD officer upset with our nonviolent protest.听

I was born to a Jewish Holocaust survivor and a Black descendant of one of the first farms settled by freed slaves in America.听After fleeing Europe and serving in the U.S. Army, my father worked his way up the since-dissolved Immigration and Naturalization Service, helping, instead of imprisoning, immigrants and refugees, like he himself once was. My mother ran her own business plus her family farm. There is a reason I was created from these two people. I do not take my gifts of being both Black and Jewish in vain.听

My folks鈥� concern is more听than听irrational fear听鈥� it鈥檚 rooted in historical facts.听And so I walked my sidewalks on edge, awaiting the worst possible scenario.听An Asian friend asked why I don鈥檛 move to a Black neighborhood. (She, herself, lives in an 鈥淎sian鈥� hood, walking the walk.) I鈥檝e thought about uprooting myself, but my problem is, I still believe change is possible. So, for now, I write my letters and stake my roots. I can still hear the distant听sounds of progress 鈥� even if so many don鈥檛.

Natasha Lewin is a former LA elected official and homeless liaison to Mayor Eric Garcetti.听She鈥檚 an award-winning playwright and screenwriter, and is an author and New York Times bestselling ghostwriter.听Since she has no social media, you can only follow her down the street as she marches. She resides in Los Angeles.听