I travel a lot. So much so that I feel guilty asking my boyfriend to pick me up at the airport, especially when I come back into town on a work night.

It’s midnight on a Sunday (technically a Monday, to be precise) and I’m feeling proud that I’ve parked at an airport lot near LAX, because I’ll be able to get home without bothering anyone. I feel good– independent, self-sufficient, despite being bleary-eyed, since I’ve traveled from New York and it’s 3am as far as my body is concerned.

The long-term parking garages have shuttles that come through the airport and pick up passengers regularly, about every 10 minutes or so. The garage I’ve chosen, however, must not own as many shuttles as the others, because when I get outside I see vans for about five other garages go by twice in 20 minutes. The one I want hasn’t appeared once.

I have the parking receipt I’ve printed from the internet. The phone number is on it. The woman who answers sounds very nice and tells me she’ll call the driver. Uh—I guess at that hour there’s only one? The other garages seemed to have a few vans running, but whatever. I just wait. And wait. It’s not that bad. There are other people waiting too, though for different vans; a few young women, an elderly man, and a young family with two little irritable kids.

Finally my driver pulls up and he’s great. Jolly, playing some decent R & B, (Kindred) and his van smells yummy. A little too much air freshener, perhaps, but the scent, a mix of vanilla and lavender, is pleasant.

I’m the first and only one on the bus. We’re about one minute from the garage. It’s 12:30am by this time. I have until 1am to get my car out without being charged an additional day. No worries.

Guess I’m really tired, not thinking straight. Silly of me, of course, to think he’s going to take me, JUST me, back to my car. There’s a busload full of people to pick up. And pick them up he does.

It takes another fifteen minutes of stopping at each terminal to fill the bus completely. I’m squeezed between a sleepy, blue-eye boy holding a hockey stick, and a wild-haired, mad scientist looking dude whose collared shirt is too short, and fails to cover his hirsute lower back when he leans forward.

I have a two-dollar tip ready for the driver. He’s been kind enough to help me with my heavy, Tumi carry-on, so he’s earned it. But when we get to the garage at 12:55am, I’m so preoccupied, worrying about getting out of there in time, that I forget to give it to him. Sorry! (I really do regret that.)

As it turns out, I must checkout in advance to receive an exit pass. BUT, even though I have the receipt that shows I’ve paid online, I have to show the ticket, too, which is in the car! Yikes.

I run all the way up to the car, on level 6, because I’m really stressed about going over my 1am deadline.

Thank you Battery Angels and Triple A. You made a grown woman (well, sort of grown) believe in magic. Good service really does exist!

These are photos of trees taken on August 11, 2011, that my friends and neighbors planted back in January of 2010. I started this blog in 2009 in an effort to persuade Ralphs to green this South LA location. Mayor Villaraigosa had made free trees available to communities that wanted them. Residents just needed permission from business owners and the trees would be provided. Ralphs refused. All their stores in other parts of the city had trees. I took pictures of how this location looked when there was nothing green here at all. Then I traveled around Los Angeles taking photos of all the other Ralphs, and posted them here. The contrast was undeniably stark.

After writing letters, pestering the CEO of Kroger, making a youtube video and publishing an op-ed in the LA Times, Ralphs finally did the right thing and agreed to allow us to plant the trees. With the help of Million Trees LA, and Lisa Sarno, who runs the organization, we received 20 Ginkgo trees and over 100 volunteers showed up to plant them.

I’m unable to capture all 20 trees in one photograph, but The Los Angeles Conservation Corps. has been caring for them and I’m pleased to report that all 20 are still alive today.

Thank you again to all the friends and neighbors who devoted their time help  green to South Los Angeles.

PRINCE was at the Forum this past weekend, and I was there! Not only that, I was able to WALK there from my house. And back! At 11:30pm. And nothing happened to me.

Okay, I wasn’t alone. I was escorted by my rock-climbing boyfriend who’s a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and he had weapons with him—pepper spray and a knife, but he didn’t have to use them. No one bothered us.

Did you ever see  the film “Grand Canyon?”  I enjoyed it, but the part where the white folks had car trouble after leaving a game at the Forum and it’s supposed to be ooo, really scary cause of the dangerous black people, always seemed silly to me even before I moved to the hood. Now that I live down here, it’s even sillier, because the Forum is in Inglewood, one of the least frightening parts of the hood. In fact, Inglewood is nice!

Being “Inglewood adjacent,” I’m actually a wee-bit envious of Inglewood, but fortunately I can walk there. They have beautifully landscaped street dividers, a really cute downtown area with lots of trees and flowers and little shops and restaurants. They have the restaurant Soul Food Kitchen. The day spa Skin Essence. Target, Home Depot, Bally’s, Bed Bath & Beyond, Michaels, Chilis, Red Lobster, M&M’s. And the Forum! Ingelwood is cool.

I’m not saying the hood is without its problems. And its knuckleheads. But there are fools and bad people in other LA neighborhoods, too; “Nice” neighborhoods (I used to live, um “rent,”  in some) and those places don’t get dismissed as unworthy the way SoLa does.

Anyway, I appreciate it here. I’m thankful for its flAva. There’s a dress shop down the street (In Inglewood,) called THICK CHICK. Yup, it’s for plus-sized ladies. First time I saw the sign, I laughed out loud. It’s that kinda, wit and straight-up swag you just don’t get a few miles north.

This is actually an old picture. They’ve since moved up the street, but you get the idea.

Haha.  I took this photo the same day, some months ago. Only in the hood do I see this kind of funky-cool. Though I might not want it in my own driveway, I love seeing it!  Makes me smile, and enjoy being here.

I’m not from LA. I’m from back east. Grew up in upstate New York in an area with no people of color.  I was about it. Okay, I’m exaggerating, there were a FEW more, but when I say a few, I’m talking, literally, count on one hand: few. My grandparents lived in Harlem, on Sugar Hill, and when we’d visit, my mom would invariably remark how she was glad to get out of there, happy not to live there anymore, and she would never move back. Back then, I was kind of happy I didn’t live there, too, but I didn’t love where we did live either. It was home, but boyOboy did it lack FLAVA.

Harlem had plenty-O-flava! From the cars people drove (my grandpa drove a gold Cadallic Seville with shiny rims) to the way they dressed in big hats for church and marched up the aisles to organ music, to the way they bounced and nodded when they walked toward the subway on 145^th St., played hop scotch and double-dutch on Convent Avenue, double parked on Broadway, cooked greens and ribs you could smell in the street, played R&B, and hip hop too loud, played the numbers, spun on their heads with card board on the sidewalk, and cat-called me in a way that was annoying, yet made me feel special at the same time.

The Harlem I visited was not the same one the kids I grew up with watched on the news. The hood I visited was a cultural extravaganza that I found inspiring, not bleak and depressing as it was usually described.

Guess that’s a big part of the reason I’m here. Most people strive to get OUT of the hood, I was eager to come. So many people have a negative impression of South LA, and fear, loathe, or pity it, but I try to find what’s fun and interesting and focus on that.

I read an op-ed last year by a fantastic writer—one I admire immensely, who’s from Inglewood. She was discouraged and feeling like the community wasn’t stepping up. She expressed being sad, and at times, a bit embarrassed that she lived here.

But there was no mention in her essay about what SHE was DOING to make it better. It’s easy to complain and criticize; More effort to pick up a broom, or dig a hole and plant a tree, or organize a group to make something that adds beauty and vibrancy to the neighborhood. I didn’t write to her and say all that, because I really do understand how she feels. I have bad days sometimes, too. But I’m rarely discouraged for long, because I’m always dreaming of ways to make things nicer.  My philosophy is when you look for what’s wrong, you’ll find it, and when you look for what there is to appreciate, you’ll usually find that, too.

Saw someone get mugged yesterday.

I’m driving to my first ever Pilates lesson, taught by Satoko Espinosa, the lovely wife of Michael Espinosa (former head of the LA Community Beautification Grant). She was kind enough to read my anti-aging book, and I’m gratefully looking forward to supporting her endeavor as a new Pilates instructor. As I travel east on Florence, contemplating the benefits of Pilates, I approach Normandie, and something catches my eye. The sidewalks around me seem to vibrate at a mundane frequency, except one salient spot that flashes in my peripheral vision, like those flickering announcements when you’re surfing the web and you find: you’ve just won an ipad!!! or a free vacation, or some such nonsense.

My eyes focus and I see that a young brother, 20-something, in a large, gray T-shirt, shorts and sneakers, is grabbing a Latina in her late 30s, who wears bangs and a French braid. He tries to pull something from her.  She holds on, and lets out a guttural scream that penetrates the bubble of my Prius’s closed windows and manages to drown out Larry Mantle on NPR.

I can’t see exactly what the small object is, but they’re now playing tug of war with it. His teeth are bared, neck and arm muscles bulging as he tugs with his fingers, and she continues to scream and hang on with hers.  She doesn’t seem afraid.  Perhaps she’s too shocked, angry and determined to be frightened. Or maybe the object, which I still can’t make out (is it money? a piece of jewelry?), is of special value to her.

The young man looks as desperate to take whatever it is, as the woman looks to keep it.

I’m rooting for her, of course.

But there’s such a sad, sick cloud around him, that I feel sorrow in the midst of watching him do this terrible thing. I wonder how miserable his life must be if this is what he needs to do to get whatever he thinks her stuff is going to bring him.

The woman screams even louder now, as if the volume itself can stop him. It doesn’t.

He wrests the object from her, and runs into the street and in front of my car. I’m stopped at the traffic light now. There’s room and even time for me to pull forward and hit him, if I’m so inclined, putting an end to this crime. For a moment I consider it.

Is it the right thing to do?

It occurs to me that deliberately hitting someone with my car is probably a crime, too, even if it is well intentioned. And physically injuring the guy, possibly worse than I mean to, doesn’t feel appropriate given that it’s theft and not something more serious like rape, or other physical assault.

Another young man, a stocky Latino, now sprints in pursuit of the mugger, who’s made it to the other side of Florence (since I didn’t stop him). I watch the second young man, and lose sight of the first.

The light changes.

And just like that, it’s time to continue on to my cushy exercise lesson, and proceed with the rest of my life, which I promptly do.

But I’m replete with uncomfortable feelings, a few noble, most craven, as I drive away.

I should stay to be a witness, I think.  I should help her. My description might lead to the police catching him. But I’m afraid. What if other muggers are lurking nearby?

A left turn, and I’m heading north, out of the hood. I don’t want to be late for my appointment. I’m a selfish, spoiled coward. If it had been ME getting mugged on the street, wouldn’t I want someone to do the right thing? I keep driving.  Someone on the sidewalk (there were a lot of people) will be a witness for her. Right?

I’m not proud, but I justify my inaction anyway, telling myself it had nothing to do with me, and I made a commitment, which I must keep. If I stop, I’ll be late for my lesson, and that would be rude. My middle class sensibility tells me this is what’s appropriate, but I still feel like I’ve failed some sort of cosmic test.

I also feel stunned at having seen a crime, despite the fact that they happen all the time in South LA. There’s a part of me that remains in denial about where I live. I’m usually too busy trying to improve the community to acknowledge all of its flaws.

The thing is, crime happens all over LA. I lived in an apartment building in Beverly Hills for 10 years and more criminal activity took place there than I’ve seen in the hood. There were drug dealers living in the building. My friend Kelly, who was Robert Culp’s mother in law, was attacked and severely injured in the parking structure. Aasif Manvi, the actor/comedian from The Daily Show lived on my floor, and his apartment was burglarized in the middle of the day.

But I never actually SAW any of these incidents take place.

Not only is this the first time I’ve witnessed someone get robbed in South LA, it’s the first time I’ve EVER seen anyone get robbed, anywhere.

What I just witnessed wasn’t terribly violent, that I could tell. I don’t think he hit the woman. He definitely didn’t pull a knife or a gun on her; He just yanked her stuff away. Still, I feel sad for both parties. I feel sad for humanity (as exaggeratedly silly as I’m aware that sounds) for having seen one person wrong another.

My reaction surprises me. Historically I’ve tended to have clearly defined boundaries of right and wrong and the propensity to judge along those lines. In this case, the young man was unequivocally in error; He took someone else’s stuff. If he were my son, I would rebuke and punish him. And if you’d asked me how I’d feel before actually seeing it happen, I would have said I’d want someone to catch him and beat his a$$.

Instead of anger, though, and wanting him to receive a beat down, I find myself feeling sadness for someone whose life leads him to rob a woman on the street, as mine, simultaneously, leads to a Pilates lesson. If this seems to reek of condescending, insincere middle class guilt, I apologize. There may be a tinge of it, but it’s not that simple.

Having lived in the community for over seven years I’ve come to understand my connection and similarity to others in a way I never had to before. Like some folks here, I’ve had my self-esteem shaken by unemployment, and like others, I’ve known the spirit-lifting satisfaction of success. I’ve been forced to be friendly with all kinds of people, from the gang-bangers round the way, and the man who lives in St. Andrews Park, to the erudite Jazz musician, the martinetish elementary school teacher, the persnickety Veterinarian, and the Pastor down the street, who has PhD and drives a Hummer. The South LA community is a complex mix of cultures and surprisingly of class, too.  But what’s become obvious is how alike people are on a certain level, whether low income, or well-off, educated or not, this is true:  Everyone wants the same thing from the people in they interact with in their community: to be treated with consideration and respect.

My perspective has expanded exponentially for having lived here. I’m no “better” than that young mugger. I’ve just been much more fortunate. There’s a line in THE GREAT GATSBY: “…remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”

So true.  We often fail to understand or acknowledge that reality when we harshly judge the behavior of people who aren’t like us, or don’t behave the way we do.

It’s easy to be “good,” or smart, successful, productive (or any of the desirable traits we admire in our culture) when you’ve been born into a life that reflects middle class values. What if you’re born struggling? What if your parents don’t take care of you? Or expose you to the things the middle class takes for granted? Or what if you don’t have parents at all?  Yes, there’s validity to the “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” ethos—I’ve heard it from my own parents.  But some souls are more easily discouraged than others.  And everyone needs a bit of help and encouragement before they’re able to succeed on their own.  Fortitude and perseverance are developed with experience, if you’re lucky.

Though I’m not a particularly religious person, I do believe in something, bigger and better than we are, that loves us, and watches the things we do, hoping that we’ll eventually figure out that our happiness is predicated on being kind to each other.

That young mugger wasn’t happy, even though he succeeded in taking that woman’s stuff. I saw him. I read his face. Few, if any, people are born aspiring to grow up to be poor and mug other poor people in the street.  And I believe we’re all generally happier when we’re nice to people, than when we’re not.

I didn’t handle the situation in a way that left me proud. I didn’t do anything. I kept driving, focusing on my own little life.  Sadly, I’m not unique. We all see things that we think have nothing to do with us. And so we don’t stop. I can’t really say, with certainty, what I could have done. Counseled the young man? Encouraged him to find another path? And in the meantime, what? Was I going to put food on his table? Probably not. But maybe I can, going forward, take the time to encourage a younger kid. Teach someone to read. Persuade someone not to give up…

The vigilant, loving spirit out there is probably disappointed with me right now, but I feel it prodding, pushing, encouraging me to keep on keepin’ on, trying to figure it out.

Though I pride myself on my generally equable temperament with strangers, yesterday, I “WENT BALLISTIC,” to quote one stranger who had the misfortune of dealing with me.

It was the termite inspector. Corey. Wasn’t Corey the name of kid on that TV show with Diahanne Carol in the late 60s/early 70s? Picture that Corey in his early 20s. Well-bred, clean-shaven, mild-mannered, brown and studious in wire-rimmed glasses, he looked and sounded like a respectable college student. He was so patient and restrained it made me seem like a barking lunatic when I became justifiably upset about what he told me.

Here’s the deal: Back in 2009, I was outside in my backyard washing my car on a particularly hot LA spring day when I looked up from scrubbing and saw what appeared to be a veritable dense cloud of creepy flying things. It was horrifying, not just because it existed, which was bad enough, but because those flying things had come from somewhere inside my house! I can’t even tell you how I knew that, because it was SO horrifying I’ve blocked much of it from my memory bank.

I recognized that they were termites, because I’d spent 10 years in a building in Beverly Hills that was infested with them. Once, in that apartment, they swarmed inside and ended up on my BED. Yes, it was every bit as gross as it sounds. Back then, I could call the super and the landlord and withhold rent until they took care of it.

In 2009, it was my problem.

I called ORKIN. They inspected the entire house and the garage and explained the course of treatment AND follow up. $1,800.00 later, they’d drilled into my house and the ground around it and injected poison assuring me, all was well.

In order to maintain that state of wellness, my obligation was to pay them $222.00 each year to come and inspect. I was told that should there be a reinfestation the $222.00 WOULD COVER IT. You see where I’m going with this??

In 2010, I paid the $222.00, their guy came out and inspected, told me everything was fine except that I had some debris under my house—some wood and paper—that needed to be removed, because it could attract termites. I paid a guy $50.00 to do that.

So, it’s 2011, I just paid the $222.00 again, and here comes cute Corey to inspect. He asks me if there have been any problems. “Have you seen any activity?” I tell him no. I tell him I’ve done what the previous inspector instructed: had the debris removed from under the house. Corey blinks at me. “That’s actually part of your service, ma’am. We do that.”

I’m a little annoyed. Not at all at Corey, but I wonder, “Why didn’t the last guy tell me that?”

Corey doesn’t know.

I’m still annoyed that I paid someone else to do something I’d already paid for, but it’s not such a big deal that I go off. Yet.

Corey does the inspection while I go inside. When he’s done, he knocks on the door tentatively. “You have some drywood termite activity,” he informs me.

I don’t trip, because I paid my $222.00 and I’m covered. Right?

“Well,” Corey says, looking like he feels sorry for me, “actually, drywood termites are a different type of termite. Your service covers subterranean termites. Only.”

My face begins to feel hot. My upper lip itches. I scratch it with my bottom teeth. “So what does that mean?”

“Well, you’ll need a drywood termite treatment. Is there access to the attic?”

“There really isn’t an attic. It’s a crawl space and it’s filled with insulation and the tunnels for the heat and air-conditioning.”

“Oh,” Corey says, drawing his full lips inward, making them disappear until he speaks. “That means the only option is to tent the house.”

“And you’re telling me that’s not covered in the $2,244.00 I’ve already paid you guys?” My voice rises in pitch a couple of octaves, but I’m not yelling yet.

“What you have to understand is, in Los Angeles, there are two types of termites: Subterranean and drywood and each requires a different type of treatment.”

I exhale an irritated huff. “Uh huh. How much is it to treat the “drywood” termites?” Drywood rolls off my tongue sarcastically, because to me, this is some bulls**t. A termite is a damn termite, right?

Corey sighs. Leans back, looks at the house and glances at the garage. “To tent the house and the back structure, it’ll run about $1,700.00.”

My head starts to throb. $1,700.00! I’m SO ANGRY I’m about to combust. Blood has rushed to my face with such speed and force it feels like it will imminently project straight from my eyeballs knocking the glasses off this young man’s round head.

I’m still in my doorway. Haven’t moved. But sensing that something’s about to jump off, Corey takes two giant steps back.

I grit my teeth and speak through them the same way my mother used to grit hers when she was frighteningly angry– usually at me. “So you mean to tell me that I’ve paid you people, $2,244.00 to keep the damn termites at bay and now you’re gonna charge me ANOTHER, $1,700.00?!! Is that what you’re telling me?!”

For moment, Corey’s lips disappear into his face again. “Ma’am, I just do the inspection.”

“I just HAD an inspection LAST year!” I’m yelling at the poor kid now. “Why didn’t THAT guy tell me there was a problem? He said everything was FINE! Why am I paying $222.00 every year? They told me, if I paid my $222.00, I wouldn’t HAVE a huge bill again! That’s the ONLY REASON I’ve been paying that money, so I WOULDN’T HAVE TO PAY for a full treatment again! And now you’re telling me I have to pay almost $1,800.00 AGAIN for some other kind of termite?!! WHAAT?!”

Corey has taken a few more steps back. He looks at me like I’m nuts, they same way I used to look at my mother when she’d go berserk like I’m going right now.

His voice is calm, yet nervous at the same time. “I just do the inspection and that’s what I found. I don’t set the prices.”

“You guys—this is such a rip off,” I rant. “No one told me when I spent that initial $1,800.00, and then subsequent payments of $222.00, that I might have to pay to tent the house! I wasn’t told anything about the difference between drywood and subterranean termites! So basically, I just paid Orkin $222.00 for the privilege of hearing that now I get to pay them ANOTHER nearly $2,000.00! This is not acceptable! I know it’s not your fault, you just inspect, but I want you to tell them I am not pleased!”

“You want me to tell them that, now?”

“Yes!”

“You want me to call my boss?”

“YES!”

“Okay. Just a minute.” He walks away.

Corey can’t see my door from where he’s standing, so he doesn’t realize I’m outside and I can hear him say, “I told her that, but she went ballistic on me.”

Okay, I won’t tell you how I stormed off my porch to where he was at the end of my driveway and took his cell phone from him. But I will tell you that a couple of the “fellas” who hang outside on the street, chat, drink beer and talk s*@t in the middle of the day, turned to watch. I see one grinning. I’m sure it’s amusing seeing the normally gentile-mannered, educated woman go stark raving GHETTO outside her house fussing at a defenseless, young man in a pristine white uniform.

I don’t even remember walking back into my house, but I did; with Corey’s cell phone.  And I closed the door, too, leaving him outside to watch through the window as I spent about 15 minutes pacing, shrieking and gesticulating back and forth in my living room. I didn’t even catch the name of the guy on the other end, though I know he tried to tell me, because I recall him beginning with, “Hi, how are you today, I’m–”

How am I?!  Please.

Once I cut him off, he let me run my mouth like a volcano until I was done spewing my dissatisfaction, rage, and I’m embarrassed to disclose, a few silly threats.

I’m not proud of this, but yes, I did indeed, threaten him. I felt so ripped-off, done wrong, and powerless, I said, and I can’t believe I’m admitting this, but I said, “Google me and see what I did to Ralphs!”

(I publicly called Ralphs out, in the LA Times, and here in this blog, on their environmental injustice in South LA.  But whatever—I was just laughably blowing steam in this conversation– it wasn’t fooling anyone.)

The guy had a smile in his voice and was like, “What-you-did-to-Ralphs?” I imagined his head tilting to the side, “Huh?”

“I will fight RELENTLESSLY,” I fulminated, “if I feel my community is being disrespected! You guys come down here dissembling (yes, I was pretentious enough to use the word dissembling. Blame it on studying for the GRE) with this business about—‘just pay the maintenance and you’re covered!’ It’s a lie! I’m NOT covered. I don’t know one goddamn termite from the next, so if you tell me I pay this money and avoid another big bill, THAT’s what I believe! You all never said, ‘by the way, that’s just ONE kind of termite and you can pay us this money and STILL need to pay thousands of dollars for the OTHER kind of termite.’ How do I know you people didn’t just chase the termites from one part of my house to another?! This is a scam!”

I’d paced and shouted so much I’d worn myself out. It was a losing battle. I could huff and puff, threaten and complain, but why should they care? They already had my $2,244.00 and if I didn’t pay them anymore, some other sucker would. They’d won.

“I can try to see if they can do a little better on the price,” the guy on the other end says, finally, once he can get a word in.  I can’t tell if he feels sorry for me, or if he’s just worried that I’m completely insane and that the situation needs diffusing.

The news doesn’t make me feel better.

Corey knocks on the door. I return his cell phone with the guy still on the line, and he quickly hangs up. Clears his throat. Not sure how to proceed.

I tell him, “I’m sorry if my anger made you uncomfortable, Corey. I’m not angry with you I’m upset with the company. I know you’re just doing your job.”

He looks down and adjusts the pen on his clipboard before looking back at me. His eyes are big and open like a child’s. “Oh, I know,” he says softly. “You’re not the first client to be surprised by this. Don’t worry about hurting my feelings.”

He’s so magnanimous, I feel even more ashamed.

He asks if I want him to look at the crawl space. To be honest, I don’t. I’m ready for him to leave.  I need an advil and a nap.  But I want to be polite now, to redeem myself, and I figure he might as well, since I’ve paid for it. And then some.

He climbs up inside my closet, where his round head disappears into a small square opening in the ceiling, “What do you see?” I ask.  Of course it’s no surprise when he answers, “Termite droppings.”

I spot his ladder as he climbs down, and when he leaves I think we we’re on good terms.

But my head aches for the rest of the day.

Though I later discover that the two types of termites are, indeed, different, my grumpy mood lasts all day too.  Oh well. We all have bad days now and then, don’t we?

This was back in the early days of my community beautification efforts, long before I began to blog on the subject.   With me in the photo is Pablo Cardosa of the Los Angeles Conservation Corps.  He’s marking a spot on the sidewalk wherein I’ve requested that a tree be planted.  As  project manager of a Los Angeles Community Beautification Grant it was my responsibility to meet with inspectors and contractors and guide the implementation of the plans.  Our project involved planting several new trees, removing and replacing old  plants that had been damaged in a fire during the 1992 ritos, and the installation of a mosaic tile mural that the community would participate in making.

This is how the site of the mural/tree-planting looked before any work had begun.  I’m pointing to a spot where I want a tree installed.

The white marks indicate where trees would go.  Both spots were not approved by the Department of Urban Forestry, however.  There’s quite a bit of bureaucracy to contend with in the planting of a tree in the city of Los Angeles.  First you must consult “Dig Alert,” and they come out and mark the spots where underground cables and pipes are.  You might wish for a tree in a certain spot, but if the gas line, or phone line runs through it, you have to be flexible.  Then you have to secure permits to plant the trees and permits to cut the concrete and each step requires a meeting at the site, paperwork and waiting for approval.   It was a lot of time and effort, but mostly worth it.

My neighbors and I putting up the mural.  Each piece of tile had to be hand glued onto the wall.   Took us several months to complete.   That’s me with the bare legs in the background.  Yep, a girl does her best to be cute, even while doing community work!  I know it’s  vain, but beauty, whether on me or in my hood, makes me feel good  and if I’m going to dedicate my time and energy to this work I’ll look good while doing it if I want to.

That’s my neighbor, Etheline Burns in the foreground cutting tile.  Awesome lady.   She’s been doing things to benefit the community for many years and her dedication, intelligence, concern, and kindness inspires me.

The artist, Robin Strayhorn, had given us a tutorial and we learned to break up the tile to create the right size for the spaces we were filling.  It was fun and interesting learning a new skill.  It was also fun meeting neighbors and members of the church where the mural was installed.  Part of the requirement to win the grant was that the project should include activities that foster a sense of community.  The mural itself depicts a community and the idea for the images in the mural was developed with members of our block club, along with leaders in the church.

These are the old plants outside the Veterinary office.  Some of them had been burned and had never recovered.  The owner of the business was difficult to persuade, because, according to him, there was nothing that could be done and he (and the rest of us) would just have to live with those mangled, ugly plants forever.  The Los Angeles Conservation Corps. members were able to explain to him that they could remove the plants and grind the stumps down which would allow for the planting of something new.

And: Viola!  These plants are much healthier and better looking.

Here’s the mural once it was completed.  Sorry for the awful angle of the photo that has a pole running through it.  I took this one, and my photographic skills are poor, but at least you can see the mural and the trees.   Some of the photos above were taken by a real photographer, Carlos “Los” Jackson.  Thanks, Los, for your contribution to the community’s history.

What I hope to accomplish with this blog is to show how individuals do have the power to impact their communities in substantive ways.   People think that things are the way they are and that nothing can improve them.  I’d love to encourage someone to shake off that apathy and find some way, however small,  to make a difference.  You may never know exactly how your contribution affects your community, but I believe that if you make something nicer, prettier, healthier… it gives people a lift on some level.  That person waiting for the bus might not know why he feels better standing at the bus stop where you planted a tree that’s now big and green and providing shade on a hot day, but you will have made someone’s life just a little happier.

“For hundreds of years– perhaps since the beginning of Creation– a piece of the world has been waiting for your soul to purify and repair it.  And your soul from the time it was first emanated and conceived, waited above to descend to this world and carry out that mission.  And your footsteps were guided to reach that place.  And you are there now.”
–Menachem Mendel Schneerson

Wishing everyone a happy 2011!

After spending the past couple of years devoted to tree-planting in this area, this image pisses me off.  Among the benefits of trees is their contribution to the aesthetic enhancement of a community. Obviously, the owners of this business  have no interest in that.  Selfishly, the only concern they have is that people see the business. I do understand that.  But the business is unattractive, and I don’t appreciate looking at it.  I preferred how it looked when the trees had BRANCHES on them!

When you move into a community to do business, in addition to making money in that community (which in this case is mine), you should take into consideration the impact your presence has there. Scalping our trees is offensive and I’m one community member who will never spend a dime in the store, because instead of making my neighborhood nicer, they have cut the limbs of all the lower branches of the trees, pruning it so severely that the trees are no longer beautiful and might even be irreparably damaged. Will those lower branches grow back?

I hope, for the sake of other community members the store will benefit the area in at least some ways.  And I hope the department of Urban Forestry fines the hell out of this place and educates the business owner about the benefits of trees.

THE  FLAVOR TABLE…Mmmm!!!!

This afternoon, while driving east on Florence heading to my home in South LA, I was listening to the talented, but sometimes annoyingly haughty, Pat Morrison on NPR condescend to Councilperson Jan Perry who was trying to get a word in about yet ANOTHER ordinance restricting fast-food restaurants in “the community.”  Yay!

The conversation led to Perry explaining the desire to attract more SIT-DOWN restaurants that offer nutritious food options, which, they tell us, are not available in South Los Angeles. As I was driving, I saw a street sign for THE FLAVOR TABLE, a southern cuisine restaurant in the New Orleans Tradition. I’d noticed the sign months earlier, but didn’t know anything about the place and hadn’t tried it.  Several weeks ago, a friend of mine, Steve Blake, who lives in The Valley, raved on his facebook page about the food. As Pat Morrison blathered on in all her glorious verbosity, I pulled over, finding a parking spot right in front of The Flavor Table.

Inside, I found a charmingly decorated space, with antique-looking furnishings (though they may be reproductions), quaint photos, Mardi Gras beads and fresh-cut flowers. There was an older gentleman sitting, waiting patiently for his take-out. He had an air of old-school class, and calm, that contributed to the delightful ambiance.

There are only three tables in the place, but guests can, indeed, “sit-down,” if there’s space.

There’s a take-out window, where a sweet, pretty lady took my order, looked my size-two body up and down and shook her head.

“I feel sorry for you,” she said. “You ’bout to be another victim. ”

I think my eyes grew wide and concerned, because her tone turned reassuring.

“You gon’ be stuffed and you gon’ be back.”

Yikes! Pretty confident, she was. My jeans felt tighter already. I told her I’d had that problem when I discovered “Harriet’s Cheesecake,” which is about a mile east on Centinela.

“The year I was introduced to Harriet’s,” I told her, “I gained about 10 pounds, cause I ordered a Pecan-Praline Cheesecake for every holiday, my birthday and sometimes, just because.”

She nodded, understanding. She’d had Harriet’s Cheesecake, too.

I ordered grilled Tilapia with two sides– collard greens and corn & okra.

It came with gravy on a bed of white rice and with a corn muffin. I didn’t sit down and eat it; I brought it home.

No one was in the kitchen nook with me, but when I tasted that food I spoke out loud anyway:  “Dayum, this is go-od!”

I’m afraid she was right. I WILL be back. I didn’t eat the white rice and took only two bites of the corn muffin. But I ate every BIT of that delicious tilapia! It was topped with red and green peppers and onions and some kind of cream-based gravy that I’ll request on the side next time. The greens were phenomenal– perfectly seasoned, a little spicy, not too salty, and the corn & okra was heavenly.

I’m glad people like Jan Perry and Bernard Parks are doing what they can to improve the quality of food choices in South LA. But I disagree that one can’t find decent food in this community. I’m all for limiting the proliferation of fast-food restaurants. But how about touting and supporting the restaurants we DO have that DO offer healthy food choices: Dulan’s Soul food kitchen, M & M’s, Moby’s, Red Lobster, Chili’s, Ihop and my new favorite: The Flavor Table. Granted, none of these is, exactly, “fine dining,” (though, The Flavor Table is about as fine as I’ve tasted, and Soul Food Kitchen is downright addictive) but they certainly offer some nutritious choices.

As we work to make improvements in the community, let’s not forget to acknowledge the good that’s already here. Things improve when you love an appreciate what you already have. I think we do South LA a disservice by constantly harping on the negative, without praising the positive.

I will definitely be praising and appreciating The Flavor Table! Guess that means I better take advantage of the exercise options my South LA community offers, too:  The track and tennis courts at St. Andrews Park (free!), the state of the art (free!) Olympic-sized pool at Jesse Owens Park, and the stroll around the Forum– but that’s for another post…

See you at The Flavor Table, 2812 W Florence Ave.  LA, CA 90043.

I’ve written and published a book on anti-aging.  I’m not going to tell you my real age– you’ll have to buy the book for that!  I will tell you that I look very good for the age I admit to, but for the age I actually AM, I’m fabulous!

“What does this have to do with Community Beautification?” you may ask.  Good Question!  Well, I’ve lived in “the community” for the past seven years and I’ve been developing the book for about the same length of time.   Some of the things I suggest in terms of diet, exercise, non-toxic gardening, non-toxic cleaning, community service, skin care, tooth care, vitamin supplements, meditation, etc. are all things that have been practiced in my South Los Angeles community.  The anti-aging foods I suggest can be purchased in our community.  The skin care tools can be purchased here, the types of exercise I recommend can be practiced here– even things I haven’t recommended in the book, but would advocate, like tennis, can be practiced in our community.

My book focuses on “affordable” things we can do to ensure that we age well.  It is also a book that encourages excellent health, which is something I want to encourage in my neighbors and in everyone who lives in South Los Angeles.

Despite the fact that fast food is ubiquitous in our community, we can still eat well.  I read stories of how fresh produce and healthy food in general is not available in South Los Angeles and THAT IS NOT TRUE!   Within a 3 mile radius, my community has a Ralphs, Vons, Superior Market, Costco and  a Target and you can find good fresh produce in any one of these stores.   In addition to that, we are mostly a community of homes with front and back yards.  People garden here and grow fruit trees.  My next door neighbor used to grow his own squash and tomatoes and his orange tree yields tons of fruit.

Many people who live in this community don’t take advantage of the fact that they have land on which they can grow food– that’s true.  I wish I could reach more people and encourage them to garden– to eat REAL food, not junk food.  With this blog, I’m doing what I can.   As time goes on, I may find more ways to reach people, but this is a start.

If you’ve read my blog in the past, you know that I’ve been dedicated to bringing trees to this community.   That’s another way I feel the health of the community can be improved.  Trees filter the air, so what we take into our lungs is cleaner.  And trees provide beauty and a connection to nature that benefits us psychologically.  Studies have shown that trees have a soothing effect on communities, lower asthma rates and even reduce crime.

My book recommends spending time in green space.   Being around trees and green plants on a regular basis can help you age better.   That can be done in our community as well.  We have St. Andrews Park and Jesse Owens Park, among others.  We have a beautiful, Olympic-sized FREE pool, where you can swim laps, take water aerobics classes or swimming lessons.  We have a walking track, baseball and football fields, golf course, basketball courts and tennis courts.

People who don’t live here think this is some sort of wasteland, but it’s definitely not.  South LA has a lot to offer those who want to live a healthy life.  But you must chose that.  Choose to grow or buy and cook your own food rather than eating low quality fast food.  Choose to get outside and move your body.  Choose to treat yourself with the excellent care you deserve.  And if you don’t see something you’d like to see in your community, ask for it.  And if you get no for an answer, keep asking.   You do not have to settle for substandard anything.  But if you wait for “someone” to do something about it, it probably won’t get done.  YOU are the someone who can do something about it.  I’m serious about that.  If I had waited for “someone” to plant trees on my block, I’d still be waiting.  I had to raise hell and demand them, and then my friends and neighbors and I had to plant them ourselves.  There may be better, easier ways to make improvements in life, but for me, taking the initiative seems to be the fastest and surest way to get things done.

You don’t have to live in South LA to benefit from VIBRATING YOUTH, (which is the title of my book).  But if you DO live in South LA, know that the book was written with you in my heart and mind and with enormous love for you and our community.  May you be healthy and happy and live long and well.  ~ Toni Ann 10.7.2010 xoxo

Oh and please go to Amazon.com and buy the book!

http://www.amazon.com/Vibrating-Youth-ebook/dp/B0045UA7MM

If you do not have a Kindle, you can download a FREE Kindle app that will allow you to read it on your computer (mac or pc) or your blackberry, iphone or ibook:

http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_ipad_mkt_lnd?docId=1000493771

At the registration location, Ralphs Grocery on Manchester in South LA, just before the tree-planting.  I’m with Michael Espinosa, who runs the Los Angeles Community Beautification Grant program.  He also attended the tree-planting back in January.  He’s been instrumental in all the projects I’ve done in the area.  Back in 2006, my block club and I applied for a CB grant and I was project director on it when we won.  Michael taught me a lot about the opportunities the city makes available to communities and he’s been supportive of all our efforts here.

Here the Los Angeles Conservation Corps is giving us a demonstration on how to plant the trees.

That red instrument weighs 30 pounds and is used to push the stake into the ground.

Novelist Leonard Chang come to help us.  Here he’s breaking up the dirt in the tree-well with a pick-axe.

Film executive Karen Peterkin helps me shovel out the tree-well.  It was more fun than it looks! 

Eriq LaSalle helped us out and worked  very hard.

Always happy to see E.  We’ve been friends since 1985.

That’s Jeff Stetson, playwright, novelist and screenwriter.  He learned of the tree-planting via my facebook page and surprised me.   He planted a tree a few feet east of the one we worked on.  So kind of him to come out and support.

This is the team that planted our tree that Karen named “Earth:  Me, Leonard, Karen, Eriq and Xavier.  Xavier, 18, works with The Los Angeles Conservation Corps.  He was our supervisor on this job.  Pretty impressive.  Wonderful to see young people doing things to improve communities.  LACC is a fantastic organization.  They train kids as young as 13, so if you know of teens in the Los Angeles area who are interested in the environment, check them out.  They have good opportunities for youth and can train them in green careers.

It was a productive and fun morning.  I’m happy to say that there are 8 new trees in the ground on Manchester Ave. now!  Thanks so much to Lisa Sarno and Kayla Barnett of Million Trees LA, MWH and LACC.  Our community is that much better because of all of you.