This month marks a year since the Eaton and Palisades fire. And whether you have upper case TRAUMA or lower case trauma, there was a window of time when every Angelo (except my Armenian neighbors) thought the entire city of Los Angeles was gonna burn to the ground. The whole ordeal was a compost of stinky shit, but, like the stinkiest compost you sprinkle in your soil, some really good shit grew from it. I’ve resisted telling my story because it is not ‘that bad,’ but I believe everyone’s story is worth hearing, so I guess that includes mine. Plus, I promise it’s funny…
I always liked the Santa Anas: Their visits were brief but lively (like my favorite houseguests), but this time was different. The winds came thrashing: they were PISSED. The Palisades fire hit first, and it was devastating, but a fire on the west side might as well be on Mars. I scrolled in horror, but was mostly preoccupied with my 3-month-old baby who had just discovered her vocal cords. So all I could really manage was the helpfulness of a republican after a school shooting: thoughts and prayers. Then back to cleaning up poop: my baby’s, my cat’s, my own. Life with a 3-month-old is a real shit show. I was so deep in shit I didn’t even notice our power went out…
My dude, Rufus, and I are ‘don’t panic’ people, perhaps to a fault. I am actively trying to heal the epigenetics of ‘run!’ inherited from my Eastern European ancestors, and he is a gentile. We spent the morning convincing ourselves that the new fire in Altadena would soon be contained, the power would come back on, and the smoke in the air was just normal LA smog. But then my mother texted… and texted… and texted…
Now, no offense to my mother (and my first paying subscriber), but she often texts me about catastrophic emergencies that are neither catastrophic nor an emergency. So, I took her panic with a grain of salt. Worrying about her daughter in California is a Jewish mother’s favorite pastime. Surely, she was once again overreacting. Fire season is, unfortunately, just part of the deal here. As I played with my baby and ate cold beans from a can, I couldn’t help but notice the black cloud of smoke from the Eaton Fire was growing larger and larger, like it was in a fight with the perfect SoCal blue sky, and the black cloud was winning. It really felt like the fire was coming for us…
Rufus began compulsively checking the fire maps (thank you WatchDuty!) to see if our neighborhood was being evacuated, while I began to gather our things ‘just in case.’ I felt like I was in a movie. What would you take with you if your home might burn down? It was simple: passports, old family photo albums, and a litter box. The holy trifecta. When the fire map showed mandatory evacuation less than 10 minutes from us, I was so pissed: Damn, I thought, my mother was right.
Outside our house, the wind was raging. It felt biblical. Or like the beginning of The Wizard of OZ. Random trash rolled through our yard like tumbleweeds. As we loaded up the Kia with our little life, I noticed my neighbors’ cars (their white Tesla, their other white Tesla) were gone! I assumed everyone had already evacuated. I kicked myself for waiting so long. Seems we were the only idiots left in Glendale!
I stuffed our Kia hatchback to the brim but I knew for sure I had forgotten so much. But then I looked in the car at my baby, my man, my cat and knew I had everything.
We said a prayer for our home to be brave and pulled away for what could’ve been the last time. I got in the car, and to be honest, I was shocked that I was riding shotgun. Isn’t the front seat where the adults sit? Despite having a baby, I still didn’t feel like a ‘real’ adult.’ I mean, I wasn’t even wearing a bra. Surely, the adults were gonna come to our rescue soon. I then heard the voice of my Higher Power, ‘Bitch, you are the adult.’ Time to fake it till I make it…again. I tried to assure everyone that everything would be okay, and worst case, our house didn’t make it, it didn’t matter. The four of us were safe and together. Everything else is just stuff. I would soon learn what an ignorant thing this is to say. To someone who has lost their house, a home is very much not ‘just stuff.’
As we pulled onto the 5-South (my 2nd least favorite freeway), we drove directly towards the big black cloud. The scene was downright apocalyptic. I felt really guilty for deserting my city in her time of need, but my new mom instincts kicked in, and I knew we had to GTFO. We had no real plan, just to ‘drive south.’ My sister asked me what the gameplan was, and all I could manage was ‘We’ll go hang out at a coffee shop…’ My Brother-in-Law immediately booked us a hotel in Anaheim with a crib that allowed animals. So, we headed straight for the big A. I may be an adult, but thank God I’m still a little sister.
You know you’re in a desperate state when Anaheim brings you to tears. The black cloud outta sight, I felt like I could finally exhale. The wide roads, chain restaurants from the 90’s, and street signs engraved with Mickey Mouse’s silhouette. This truly was the happiest place on earth.
We checked into our hotel, and let me tell you, you haven’t lived until you snuck a dirty litter box into a Hilton. I knew in my gut the baby would be fine; babies are used to movement. But cats are a different story. Mine loathes leaving home. Every time she has to go to the vet, she doesn’t speak to me for weeks afterwards. As we got settled in our room, I was desperate to make sure she wasn’t super traumatized. Thankfully, I remembered a trick from the Vet who once told me that ‘she can’t be traumatized if she’s still eating.’ Cut to me feeding her tubes of Churu treats every 5 minutes to make sure her mental state was still intact.
Later, I posted on Instagram letting everyone know we had evacuated but were safe and sound in the land of corporate conferences and Disney adults. Messages began to flood in: Was I okay?! Did my house burn down!? Lots of prayer hands and heart emojis. I was getting the kind of attention that should’ve been reserved for folks in the actual line of fire. I realized, by posting, that we ‘evacuated’ rather than ‘self-evacuated’, I was culturally appropriating fire language. I was a fraud. I was an asshole. I was really hungry. By the time a cash donation came from my dear high school friends (shout out 6-pack!), there was only one thing to do: go to Johnny Rockets.
The irony of going back to the ‘picture perfect’ 1950’s world of Johnny Rockets amidst the literal world burning was not lost on me. I was grateful for the meal, but I felt numb. We tried to make the best of things and even ordered a strawberry milkshake to split, but even the smoke from the grill triggered me.
Back at the hotel was the night shit really hit the fan. We watched in horror, helpless as endless fires erupted all over the city. Some of them arson. People who were hosting evacuees were now having to evacuate themselves. It was a nightmare, but we were wide awake. Just then, in the depths of my despair, I heard a giggle. Who the hell would be laughing at a time like this? I looked down to reveal it was my daughter. A laugh. Her first! A sign of life amidst all the destruction. Pure. Innocent. Heavenly. She laughed. I cried. The moment reminded me of when I used to do cocaine. It was a little bump from the universe to keep going…
There comes a time in one’s life when it’s time to say goodbye to Anaheim. The flames were far from out but ‘enough’ contained. The fires never reached Glendale. I felt grateful, of course, but also a little guilty. The plan was to return home and gather more things, only to leave again, but this time head north. As we turned down our street, things looked ‘normal’ except for the air that made you feel like you just smoked a pack of stale cigarettes. We parked in our driveway, and I kissed the ground. I never imagined I’d be so happy to see our yard flamingos, trashcans, mailbox, etc. These are the things that make up a life. Exhausted and overwhelmed, I tried to be like our house: stable, strong, intact. If not for me, then for my daughter. I kept telling her, ‘We’re on a fun adventure!’ Because to her, we were.
I noticed my neighbors’ and their Teslas had returned as well. Which brought me a surprising amount of comfort. Just then, my neighbor stepped outside and lit up a cigarette amidst the already smoky air with a commitment I could only aspire to. His overall vibe was casual, like it was just another Thursday. A funny contrast to me and my two masks and makeshift hazmat suit. ‘Hi! I saw your Teslas were gone during the fire. Did you evacuate?! ’ I asked. He looked at me like I was the crazy bitch that I am. ‘No, I was just at Starbucks.’ I guess one person’s emergency evacuation is another person’s Grande Frappuccino.
We headed up to Ventura to my sister-in-law’s beach house. If you want to know the quickest way to my heart, it’s having a beach house I can stay in for free during a fire. These weeks were a blur. Rufus and I were both working and up all night with the baby. We were exhausted and lonely and annoyed with each other and so so lucky. I was hyper aware of all of the devastation going on back at home, but I was suffering, too. Have you ever been trapped in tight quarters, listening to your partner chew? Would we have to get divorced before we even got married?
During this time, I was writing a show called ‘Royally Screwed,’ and as I tried to form a coherent thought with a crying baby strapped to my chest, I thought, yeah, I am royally screwed. This impossible combo of fires, work, and baby was just the push I needed to get back on my psychiatrist meds. I remember taking the first dose and getting the first good night’s sleep since before pregnancy. I woke up crying tears of joy, ‘I’m back, baby.’ I truly believe mental health medication is a gift from G-d: I’m basically RFK Jr’s nightmare.
We stayed in Ventura long enough to form habits. Every day, I would push the stroller the entire length of the town, and later, every person (and horse!) in the entire village would gather at the beach for the main event: the sunset. It was magical, yes, but after a few weeks, it was also a little claustrophobic. As a restless retiree once described the town to me as ‘the most beautiful Alcatraz you ever did see.’
Soon, we started getting word of friends’ homes that had burned down. One after another, each story more gut-wrenching than the next. A new family just starting their life. An old family, generations raised under a single loving roof. Ashes to ashes. Dreams stolen. Legacies erased. This is when I learned it’s not ‘just stuff.’ Our homes, like our bodies, give our souls a place to be.
We donated to GoFundMe and mutual aid funds, but nothing felt like enough. It could’ve been us. But it wasn’t. It was them. What do you say to your friend whose house burnt down? I always try to just say something, even if it’s the wrong thing. But even I was at a loss for words. I texted my friend that she looked hot (because she did!) But that’s when I learned the hard way, I will never be using the fire emoji again. Too soon.
One night, we went out for dinner in a nearby town and were seated next to an adorable family with rowdy kids and weary parents. I just knew from their body language that they had lost their home. My eavesdropping confirmed my suspicions. I never used to notice mothers, but since having a baby, mothers are all I see. As I was rocking my baby and stuffing my face with fish piccata, the weary mother and I made eye contact. That quick look between mothers that says everything. I watched as she cut the spaghetti and meatballs for her kid. My first thought was that I ordered the wrong thing. My second thought was pure awe at this woman who, despite losing everything, was still showing up and doing the damn thing. Why don’t we give Medals of Honor for the spaghetti and meatball-cutting moms?
Looking back, those weeks are when I really came into my own as a mother. Motherhood, as I’m learning, is when an impossible situation just becomes another thing you do. It’s also when the tree of our new family took root and began to grow. It made me grateful for a partner who is solid as a rock but soft as a blanket. Who gets up at the ass crack of dawn with the baby so I can work. Who always drives and saves me the last bite and claps when I fart. Every. Single. Time. The wilderness of life can be brutal but this was the beginning of the time when I realized our lil tree can get through anything. Farting and laughing along the way.
That time in Ventura, I’ve never been so aware of the air. We were there for the clean, fresh ocean air. Never have I taken such deep breaths. As I type this back at home with my current list of petty grievances, how quickly I forget that time when simply having fresh air was more than enough.
As we made plans to get back to LA, I was so inspired by how quickly the people of our city had sprung into action to help those in need. When I have trouble seeing G-d, I look to people to see hope in action. To try to be part of the solution, I offered our back house as a place to stay for anyone affected by the fire. I posted on IG and immediately connected with a girl from Altadena who was looking for housing for her and her boyfriend. Perfect!
The girl put the three of us on a text chain to talk logistics. I noticed her boyfriend’s name showed up in my phone as ‘Goy.’ But my head, still cloudy from the fire, just assumed my phone was doing that thing where it predicts the person’s name. I remember thinking, ‘Cool! He must be Brazilian or something! I can’t wait to tell him that in my culture, Goy means non-Jewish man!’
So, we finally get back home to our beloved city, and the girl and ‘Goy’ have already moved in. I go to the back house to introduce myself, and the girl is, of course, lovely (In my experience, most girls are.) She says her boyfriend is out right now but will be home later tonight. ‘Great!’ I thought to myself, I’ll get to meet Goy and have my fun little cultural exchange. The United Nations of Glendale.
Cut to later that night. I’ve got a crying baby, so I’m trying to calm her down and take her outside for some air. The light from the porch gives just enough glow to see the familiar shadows of home. Just then, I hear footsteps, and a dog runs past, his human close behind. The silhouette of a man emerges from the shadows. ‘Hi!’ I shout into the night. ‘You must be Goy!’ He steps onto my porch, his face illuminates, as a lightbulb goes off in my brain–
I’ve slept with him.
‘Um, Hi?! What are you doing here?!’ I mumble in shock.
‘Hey, Jessie, ’ He was so casual. So unbothered. Like, why was I the one freaking out? This was my porch!
Rufus came out at this very moment because apparently my life is just a full-blown sitcom.
As I tried to do intros, Rufus was rightfully confused. ‘You two know each other?’
Like my baby, who was still crying, I was annoyed. I wondered aloud, ‘How come you didn’t say anything on the text chain to warn me that we already knew each other?’
That’s when Goy delivered the best line of the fires: ‘Sorry, Jessie, my house burned down, I was a little busy.’ Fair. But also, damn, he was never that funny when we dated.
Dated is probably too strong a word for what we did, but I do remember he made me a mix CD. Feelings were had!
But I still didn’t get it. I needed to make the situation even more awkward
‘So, wait, is your name Goy?’
‘No….’
‘So then why are you ‘Goy’ in my phone?’
‘Because that’s probably what you saved me as….before.’
Goy! Oy!
Despite the awkwardness, I decided to let Goy stay. Because I may be Jewish, but I’m also Mother Theresa.
But after a few days, Goy started to piss me off. From asking for a wine opener to complaining about the Wi-Fi to parking in the driveway without asking, my patience was running thin. Was I being an asshole? Yes. These people lost their home, the least I can do is reset the Wifi router. But I’m sure even Mother Theresa has her limits.
The moral of the story is. You should definitely open your heart and your home to strangers in need. Just know that in LA, that stranger will probably be someone you dated.
My grandfather, a screenwriter himself, always used to tell me, ‘If you can do anything else besides writing, do it!’ It’s a tough life. But the best life. I remember seeing my grandfather (by then towards the end of his career) toil and struggle, and secretly binge on candy in his closet. He experienced rejection, heartbreak, and ego death on a daily basis. And all I could think was…I want that.
That’s kind of how I feel about LA. I came out here to escape my first big heartbreak, and the city has been healing me ever since. I guess there is some truth behind all the cliches people say about this city, but at the end of the day, LA is like my Mother: she isn’t perfect, but she’s mine. All fires aside, I just can’t think of a better way to spend a life than chasing my dreams in the city I love.
I get a surge of ecstasy every time I think about my daughter being a ‘California girl,’ and I know no matter how much I try to protect her, she’s in for her own heartbreak in this life, but at least while she’s dealing with life’s bullshit, she’ll be getting a great tan.
LA has fires and pollution and traffic and botox and ICE kidnapping our neighbors: it is not immune to life’s evils. But LA is also a conversation. And just like the best conversations: you gotta give to get. Doubling down on community is my current plan of attack. So let me fire up this crockpot, and you can come on over. No need to bring anything. Just yourself and your fire story.
For accounts of people who are rebuilding in the most incredible ways follow:
To support Latino families who have been displaced from fires donate HERE
