“I Lost My Home in the L.A. Wildfire. This Is What I’m Holding Onto.”

by

The film was just getting underway, and my back pocket was vibrating. Normally, I disapprove of phone noise in cinemas, but on that Tuesday evening, large parts of Los Angeles were ablaze as the movie “Better Man” played. Given the situation, it seemed sensible to keep a connection with the outside world while I tried to follow Robbie Williams’ story told by a computer-generated chimp.

To put it plainly, if I hadn’t relocated from Venice Beach to Altadena in 2021, a peaceful suburban area located beyond the northeastern border of Los Angeles, I wouldn’t have ended up at the Century City AMC on a school night. Officially known as an “unincorporated area,” Altadena lies between Pasadena and Angeles National Forest. It offers larger plots, more affordable housing, friendly residents, stunning hiking trails, but also long commutes into the city that reinforce the most worn-out Southern California stereotypes (traffic is a crucial aspect of this L.A. tale).

On an average weekday evening, the journey from West L.A. to Altadena often requires over two hours of driving. What a valuable time! Instead of letting it get wasted on traffic jams when there’s a lengthy movie featuring the convincing digital monkey portrayal of my beloved British pop star, I usually opt to pass the peak-hour congestion with some entertainment until I can attempt my journey during clear roads. However, Chekhov’s phone had other ideas. The alert was from Amir, my partner, informing me that a fresh fire, the Eaton Fire, less than a mile from our home, was spreading rapidly out of control. Los Angeles, even its natural elements seem to enjoy the eternal rivalry between the east and west sides. This seemed like some existential response to the fire consuming the Pacific Palisades on the other side of town. With the safety of Amir, our little dog, and our rice cooker in mind, I left the movie theater to confront the rush hour traffic. It turned out to be a quicker drive than usual, though it was certainly more nerve-wracking due to gusts of wind knocking tree branches onto roads and freeways.

Upon getting close enough to see the flames on the hillside and the procession of headlights fleeing from it, I wondered if this trip was necessary. We each had a car, so there wasn’t much reason for me to return, other than possibly to gather a few items if the then-mandatory evacuation lasted more than a couple of days.

Within our powerless structure, ash was falling from above, leaving me perplexed. In the dim light of a flashlight, I grabbed the nearest items: a jar of moisturizer, a charging cord, three cozy sweaters, and a half-filled bag of laundry destined for the dry cleaner, which I mistakenly took for my old college sweater in the heat of the moment. I’m sorry, rice cooker, I hope you didn’t get damaged in the process.

As it turns out, I’m not great when it comes to handling crises or foreseeing them. I had assumed our house, located three blocks south, was safely out of reach for any wildfire, except perhaps in a biblical apocalypse scenario. The risk seemed so remote that it didn’t make sense to move Amir’s valuable sculptures and paintings or even spend an extra half-hour contemplating what we’d take if we never returned. However, that night, as I peacefully slumbered in the guest room of our friend’s Mar Vista residence with a helping hand from Xanax, the fire and its erratic embers miraculously breached my supposed safety line, heading straight for our home, my in-laws’ house of 32 years just up the street, and an unfortunate number of other homes and structures that are estimated to surpass 5,000 in destruction or damage.

The next morning, we didn’t fully comprehend the devastation until we saw it. The media’s focus on more sensational Palisades destruction didn’t make things clearer, but the situation became evident. We learned that a 90-year-old hardware store in an even older building had been destroyed. Our friend’s pizzeria at the end of our block was completely wiped out. We got confirmation from an unexpected source – X – when a friend on the East Coast sent us a video showing damage to our neighborhood, recorded from a car window. About 15 seconds in, there was our devastated rubble, nestled between recognizable landmarks: a street sign and a burnt but familiar tree. It felt like the old days of Twitter when relevant information could be quickly shared and spread, except all comments on the post were from verified accounts blaming the fire on liberals and claiming that the hydrants were empty due to fish.

Fish aren’t to blame for my small misfortune or the ongoing catastrophe affecting families in Los Angeles, let alone those in California, other states, and countries who’ve lost homes or tragically, loved ones due to wildfires. The situation is a complex interplay of factors, some unavoidable and many that have been overlooked despite being preventable, that come with inhabiting this planet which appears determined to pass through the cosmic doorway.

Almost all traces of our home have disappeared, except for the expanding archive of sympathetic messages – hundreds of them expressing worry, condolences, and offers of aid – along with my heartfelt replies, which are often interspersed with humor to lighten the mood and avoid burdening others. I’m already feeling awful; there’s no need to make anyone else feel down too.

(This version maintains the original’s tone while using simpler language and making the sentence structure more straightforward.)

One challenging aspect of my time spent in Altadena was a noticeable change in my personality, which I attribute to preoccupation with financial worries that tainted what could have been an idyllic existence. This problem is not unique to me or Altadena, but it seems to be more prevalent in Los Angeles where people often compare themselves to those who appear wealthier, own bigger homes, live in trendier neighborhoods and seem to have better careers. I’m concerned that the widening gap between rich and poor might strain my deepest friendships. Interestingly enough, the many individuals now offering assistance—and doing so in ways that broaden my understanding of kindness—had not even realized this was an issue for me.

Instead of caring that Amir and I rented an apartment from his kind parents, my friends seemed indifferent. However, I found myself venting my unnecessary worries about the living situation. I grumbled about the absence of a yard. I moaned about the dim lighting on the ground floor. I even criticized Altadena’s peculiar affection for leaf blowers. And goodness gracious, I complained incessantly about my daily commute. I spoke more about its imperfections than acknowledging that, despite all these issues, I cherished our home and the surrounding unincorporated area.

On the Sunday preceding the fires, as I put away our Christmas ornaments, I found myself reflecting deeply on my attachment to that apartment. It held a special place in my heart because it was where we celebrated Thanksgiving annually. Our friends would drive from their larger, more accessible homes just to join us for dinner. No matter how tiring the journeys home from work, the airport, or the beach had been, I always felt nothing but grateful and content upon entering its doors.

Eventually, I’ll return and search through the leftovers, looking for keepsakes from my past much like many others I’ve witnessed on the news for ages past – yet, I’m unsure what I’m hoping to discover. Items such as my late grandfather’s ceramic ashtray, trousers that haven’t appeared on my credit card bill (and will be outdated by summer), a thumb drive filled with blurry photos from college, and the pesky rice cooker. Each item, in itself, isn’t worth much emotional investment or a significant amount of time.

When I start doubting about the things I brought with me or the time I spent packing, I’ll remember this lesson. Material possessions lost don’t matter in isolation, and their absence shouldn’t feel any more significant because they were all taken at once. Instead, I’ll focus on how much I cherished that home and how fortunate I am to find another one to care for, even if it’s in the less convenient location of Altadena. And when this strategy inevitably fails, I’ll return to the theater, watch the CGI chimpanzee perform and have a good cry.

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2025-01-13 18:25