On Being A Valley Girl

The Valley is LA; LA is The Valley

This piece is a love letter to LA, or a part of it anyway. If you are upset by ICE raids in LA, as I am, please refer to the following action items you can do before reading!

1) Find your state senator or assembly member and demand action using this link:

https://findyourrep.legislature.ca.gov

You can use this script; try calling in the morning earlier in the week to get someone on the phone:

"Hi, my name is [Your Name], and I’m a resident of [Your City or ZIP Code].
I’m calling because I’m extremely upset about the recent ICE raids in Los Angeles. They appear to be racially motivated and are causing fear in our communities.

I’m asking [Senator/Assemblymember] [Last Name] to consider introducing or supporting legislation that would ban all ICE enforcement actions on public property without a judicial warrant. That includes places like sidewalks, schools, hospitals, and transit areas.

We need stronger protections for Californians. Please let [Senator/Assemblymember] [Last Name] know this matters to me, and I’ll be following what action they take.
Thank you.”

2) This article includes numerous things you can do. You can donate items so that undocumented people can avoid spending more time in public to run errands to get toothpaste/food/etc. Likewise, if you know undocumented people in an area impacted by ICE raids, you can offer to do grocery runs and other things like that.

3) You can donate to different mutual aid and legal support organizations here.

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for all my valley divas

image of the north hollywood metro station; courtesy of hollywoodlocations.com

I am a real valley girl. I was born in 2000, the y2k-est of years to be born. I was then raised until the age of six in Valley Village – literally – perhaps the valley-est of neighborhood names.

Threatening a divorce if we did not move, my mom took us (that is, me, my younger brother, my newborn sister, and my reluctant father) to the westside, where she was raised. Until I was 15, I lived in Venice.

I rode every weekend on the bike path; I watched skater boys smoke weed and fly on the concrete bowl of the Venice Skate park; I swung into what felt like the heavens on the Santa Monica Exercise Park swings; every June I looked forward to the Hare Krishna parade; I boogie-boarded; starting at the age of 13, I attended “Free the Nipple” protests; I would lay awake at night living in fear of a tsunami if the waves were crashing particularly loud; at 14 I met Arnold Schwarzeger at the Venice Gold’s Gym, where my monthly membership was $20 in 2015; at 16 I started working as a hostess at The Rose Cafe.

Venice changed in 2013. It was once a grungy, drug-addled beachtown full of hippies and people living in RVs, cheap pizza places, dimly-lit cafes open until 11 PM or even later, locally-owned sandwich shops, used bookstores, kooky old people who could be relied upon for comic relief during a depressive walk, local characters. It was a lot of families and people who had been there a couple generations. There were local gangs too. You never knew what was a firework or a gunshot.

I recall one woman who was actually living in an expensive Santa Monica apartment but wandered around as a homeless person, asking specifically for “fifty cents” only; we called her “fifty cent lady.” There was another guy my mom was friends with, who lived with his mother at 50. He scavenged for dinner on Main Street, picking at uneaten fries and chicken tenders left on terrace tabletops. If he needed to buy food, he would only shop at the (now shuttered) 99-cent store on Lincoln and Rose.

Then in 2011, Google opened an office space near the Gold’s Gym, The Rose Cafe, and the CVS Ballerina Clown.

Millennial hipsters poured into Venice in the following years. They started to reproduce. A store which sold strollers that cost more than rent popped up. Affordable mainstays at the Venice-Santa Monica border like Wildflower Pizza, The Omelette Parlor, and Amelia’s shuttered and got replaced by restaurants I don’t know the names of right now. They’re too hard to spell or pronounce or affordably eat at.

But I was always a valley girl at heart. I moved back at 17. My father is a valley boy, raised on the knowledge of the 101 and the 405 and the canyons and the Sepulveda basin, on boulevards – not Hollywood or Olympic, but Burbank and Victory. His parents moved here from Poland and Mexico in their 20s. My grandma worked as a translator at a bank in Boyle Heights, and my grandfather worked as a janitor until he learned English, at which point he became a door-to-door vacuum salesman until he got his real estate agent’s license.

To be a valley dweller is to constantly reinvent. It’s to know that the past doesn’t matter, because there is no past. The valley was the frontier of Los Angeles. It was an endless beacon of hope: of new houses, new neighborhoods, bigger backyards, more public schools, wider streets as far as the eye could see.

When the future looks so big, the past recedes in the mind’s eye. It doesn’t matter what came before, because it’s all about what’s next. The valley has no real history (I mean this in the abstract and aesthetic sense, of course everywhere has a history and the San Fernando Valley’s history is wrapped up in original ownership by Mexico, a rich farming history, terrible suburban planning, Harry Chandler, and railroads). But it’s not like New York or Boston in that way, or even like Fairfax or Downtown LA for that matter. In those neighborhoods, you can see and feel a sense of what came before you. In the valley, there is only ever what’s ahead.

In the valley, the mountains overcome you from wherever you are; the looming hills follow you like a shadow; during the day you hide from a scorching heat; and at night you feel the temperature drop as you hear the coyotes howl. This is a perennial reminder that you are not permanent. You are in a wilderness of sorts. A wilderness with taco restaurants and malls and community colleges, but a wilderness nevertheless. The mountains are there to remind you that there is something always on the horizon. Whatever is happening now or has happened before is infinitesimal in contrast to the San Gabriel Mountains.

To be a valley girl, first and foremost, is to endure the heat. Heat gathers in a valley like a pearl in an oyster. If LA is a living body, the valley is the space between your thighs on a cold night; reliably warmer than everywhere surrounding it.

san gabriel mountains overlooking the city like a pre-olympian deity

Nothing brings me back to my early childhood more than burning my legs on the hot leather seat of a car that’s been parked outside for an hour. Or knowing to be careful with the burning metal tooth of the seatbelt. Or the scalding walk through a parking lot, only to enter the tundra of a Costco or a Westfield.

And so to be a valley girl, is really just to endure. Not just the heat, but everything. Because enduring that heat teaches you everything else you will need to know. It’s knowing which teeth to avoid, how to sit through the burn of your skin, how to grit your teeth until the air conditioning kicks in.

Oddly, the term “valley girl” is usually associated with a wealthy blonde girl. In reality, this is far from the case. The valley is a haven for more affordable homes than the ones in most parts of the city of Los Angeles. Moreover, the valley is incredibly diverse, resolutely not blonde.

Pacoima, Arleta, Van Nuys, Reseda, and Sun Valley host a huge Latino population, one of the cornerstone populations of LA. In Valley Village, Sherman Oaks, Encino, Tarzana, and Reseda there is a strong Jewish, Moroccan, and Persian community. Glendale, North Hollywood, and other neighborhoods are known for their Armenian, Russian, and Ukrainian populations. Burbank is a key location for the entertainment industry, for which LA is known. CSUN is a hub for the performing arts, entertainment, education, and other key industries. Woodland Hills & Granada Hills might be boring. I’ll give you that. (Except the Topanga Mall is nearby, and that’s pretty bitchin’). Tons of writers and others who work in Hollywood live in Studio City, and some of the most important dance studios which train the people you see on stage or in music videos, are in North Hollywood.

Recently, I asked an aspiring famous person (she simply aspires to fame) if she would act in something I am producing. I said we would shoot in the valley. She responded, from her home in Mar Vista, “I won’t go further than Sherman Oaks.” I had planned to film in Woodland Hills, which is less dense, and quieter, and therefore makes filming easier.

I typed out then deleted the following reply: “Listen to me you grody fucking transplant, I hate people like you. So much of the north valley is where big latino LA culture is, George Lopez went to high school in Pacoima, CSUN is a huge part of LA culture, entertainment, artistic, and academic life. And you’re in your stupid ass condo in Mar Vista acting like you know what’s up in this city. Meanwhile there are actual cool people in Echo Park who wouldn’t come near your side of town, mind you. And you say you’re ‘from Chicago’ when you’re actually from a suburb an hour outside of the real city. You’re not a city girl. You’re a wannabe. There are people in actual Chicago who wouldn’t go to the boring dry ass suburb you grew up in even if Madonna herself was performing there for free. Get fucked.”

“The valley” is derided in Los Angeles: “Ugh, the valley?” “Oh, it’s all the way in the valley?”

The distance from the city to the valley is cultural, not geographic. Without traffic, the drive from Culver City or Brentwood to Encino or Sherman Oaks can be less than half an hour on the 405. People have no trouble with going somewhere in the city that’s 30 minutes from them – but not to the valley.

In LA, there is a certain time & space warp that happens going to the valley, one that my city mom would proclaim and lament. Something about crossing the 405 or the canyons, something about traversing all that barren land and mountain.

Maybe there’s something evolutionary in our minds that makes 25 minutes on the 405 feel like an hour and a half of driving in the city. At least in the city, you are surrounded by homes, people, restaurants, busy streets, and pedestrians as you drive. You feel a sense of time or distance passing. But on the empty stretches of freeway to the valley, it must be like trying to maintain a circadian rhythm when you never go outside – without any change in scenery, how can you know the time?

Once, I dated the son of a surgeon who lived in the Pacific Palisades. Without traffic, our houses were never more than 30 minutes apart. I usually drove to him. One time, he drove to me and he complained endlessly about how long it took to get to me.

I finally snapped: “And how long do you think it takes me to get to you?”

He replied: “Well at least when you drive to me it gets prettier and you’re on Sunset. When I drive to you it just gets uglier and all the houses are hideous.”

So part of the issue with coming to the valley is the time, but it’s really a cultural and socioeconomic temporality issue. The change in scenery changes how we perceive time.

Indeed, it does seem like the deeper you go in the valley, the further back in time you go. My sister spent her entire life in the city, and after attending the Bat Mitzvah of a cousin in Chatsworth, my sister told my mom and I that all the girls there were still talking about things that stopped being cool or trendy 2-3 years ago.

“It was like being in a time warp,” she said.

So maybe time moves slower as you approach the valley, slowing as you get deeper. But still.

I think people who scrunch their nose and scowl at the valley are generally tasteless, classist, boring losers. These are people who think anything that’s more than 20 minutes away is “too far,” a marker of a certain kind of privilege.

This is a person who does not know what it is like to have to commute, whose parents were able to afford to live near the law firm, the business center, the private schools. I think every city has this split in the population. It’s the difference between people who had to commute from Queens or the Bronx to a school in Manhattan, and then the kids in Manhattan who cannot fathom getting on a subway for more than 30 minutes.

These are people who have been driven around their whole lives in air conditioned vehicles, who have never been troubled by waiting for a bus.

More importantly, these are people who do not know how to make a trek worth it, who do not see the possibility in a long ride, and for what’s on the other side of it. They would rather just stay home, or stay in their immediate vicinity. These are people who lack curiosity, the ability to see the magic in the everyday.

I think of friends from Century City, Beverlywood, Beverly Hills, Brentwood, Westwood who make jokes about how the valley “isn’t LA,” or hear things like “Sylmar” or “Pacoima” and throw off mocking glances before cattily asking, “What’s that?” Oh – nothing, just the place where many people live when they’re not cleaning your house or gardening your lawn. More importantly, it’s where huge percentage of attorneys, nurses, teachers, accountants, artists, landscapers, social workers, and many others live. It’s as much a part of LA as — if not more than — places further west.

The same people who deride the valley are usually the people who think East LA starts and ends in Silver Lake, the same people who go somewhere like Italy or Japan or Morocco and spend the entire time in a White Lotus-style resort.

This is to say that these are people who are deeply uncurious about the world around them, coddled people, people who cannot handle a long walk or talking to a local while abroad or an awkward interaction, even if those things might edify them. These people do not seek out edification.

They seek out comfort. These are people who will not try to do something different, to learn, to value a culture or way of life or a place that is slightly different or slightly far from theirs – either culturally or geographically. These are people who could never dream of taking the bus in their own city, let alone abroad. These people are sheltered, unadventurous, boring, and self-absorbed. Going to the valley and being there requires a sense of adventure, an appreciation for the journey and the destination, a sense of wonder in the mundane.

These are people who are annoyed when people outside of the U.S. don’t speak English, don’t want to cater to their every want and whim. These are people who don’t like being in a new environment, who cannot see the thrill and excitement and opportunity in a long bus ride. They don’t see the worth in leaving their zip code.

I recall taking 45 minute bus rides with friends just to go somewhere for 2 hours. We would turn the bus ride into its own hangout: we would smoke weed, people watch, talk to each other, enjoy looking out the window.

The people who say “ugh, the valley, too far” are the people who never learn the pleasure of looking out the window. They are accustomed to the ease of being within 10 minutes of everything.

These are people who do not see the magical glow in the dirt, the grime, the scrap, the graffiti, the bus ride, the metro pass, the long walk, the pavement. These are people who want to leave their car at a valet service eight minutes from their house, spend the night in a perfectly clean, air-conditioned room full of people just like them, never interact once with the city itself or anyone outside, never see something different – and then retreat home.

To be a valley girl is a constant process of self-made reinvention. It’s being scrappy. No, we do not live near the Beverly Hills sign, or the beach, or the right malls or the coolest streets or the new house that everyone says Kendall Jenner is now living in, or that Heidi Montag was once seen stumbling out of. If I wanted to get drunk with friends in the city, I had to learn how to take advantage of the bus and metro system so I wouldn’t have to pay for two $60 Ubers. My friends in Melrose don’t know the fucking struggle!

To be a valley girl is to be a kind of chic that borders on the ethos of Charli XCX’s album BRAT. It’s wearing a thrifted designer dress with shoes from Payless. It’s getting your jewelry at the swap meet, wearing hand-me-downs from a great aunt, “borrowing” shoes from your mom.

I start my PhD in English this fall. My summer gig is tutoring summer school students. I recently knocked on the door of a 16-year-old in Studio City repeating Pre-Calculus. She opened the door in a bikini, at which point her mom yelled at her to “put on some clothes.”

She rolled her eyes and said to me, “Sorry, I was tanning. Do you think I got any color?” Then she extended her arm out to me. Before I could say anything, she ran to get her pink Macbook Air.

As she waited for it to charge, she sent texts and Snapchats to friends at a speed that could only be compared to light. She began picking at her hair and asked me to feel it.

“Is something wrong with it? It’s so crispy. I put some lemon in it to get highlights in the sun but I can’t tell if it worked and now it feels so fried.”

I reluctantly tapped a lock of hair she handed to me. I smiled with a certain nostalgia.

“No, you’re fine. I used to do that too. The lemon juice will wash out and you’ll have lighter hair soon.”

We finally moved onto logarithms and then asymptotic graph formulas, but not until she ranted to me about her English teacher being “such a bitch,” then asked if she should dump her boyfriend because she thinks he might be cheating on her, and then watching her mom take her phone away when she took a call from a “loser ex-boyfriend.” After the mom told her off, this time in Russian, we returned to the subject of factoring long equations.

At the end of our lesson, she announced that she now had a lesson with her “bitch driving instructor” who says she will fail the DMV test if she blows past the stop signs.

“Like literally I paused. It’s called a California stop. Obviously on the actual test I’ll stop, like you know I will because I fucking paused.”

I told my friend about this tutoring session as a funny story.

She replied, “But wow, that’s a real valley girl.”