Sunday, January 1, 2012

Roots


My grandfather was born in Los Angeles. His parents were Russian jews who fled the pogroms of the early 1900's. They converted to Catholicism, and that's how my grandfather was raised. I didn't find out he was jewish until after he died.

My dad grew up in the neighborhood I live in now, around Crenshaw. He and his family left the area in the late 60's, shortly after the Watts riots. Thinking about it now I am reminded of my grandmother's mild racism. She and her racism are dead now, buried at Holy Cross cemetery on Slauson Blvd., near the 405.

I didn't realize when I began living here that I was, in a way, moving "home". I knew my dad grew up in the city, but I didn't know what neighborhood, exactly. I grew up in the north central part of LA, near Glendale. I've never felt much like an outsider here in Inglewood even though maybe I should, seeing how I grew up white and comfortable and this neighborhood is more brown and struggling. Now, though, having seen the house where my dad grew up and the place where his parents are buried, I feel even more at home here. I feel a mild sense of history and belonging that I don't even feel about the place I grew up. I'd say it's nice, but that's a pretty banal commentary. It's something, though.