Languages in LA

That’s meant to be a pun on lingua franca, but because I don’t speak a bit of Latin, I probably just said something risque about monks by accident. Oh well. A lingua franca is  a common language used by people who might not speak one another’s tongue. I hear it  in my classrooms, when my Thai girls speak in halting English to my Urdu-speaker, because it’s the only mutual code they can access.

 
But what I’m pondering today is something I’ve noticed in my continued window-shopping for the perfect West Hollywood apartment. There are areas in Los Angeles that are veritable enclaves of non-English speakers. In particular, I’m finding a lot of Russian and Armenian neighborhoods where, even as I poke around the courtyards of units-for-rent, I hear conversations through open windows and in little backyards that are conducted entirely in another language.

 
I remember dating a Russian fellow from New York who showed me entire areas of the Bronx where three generations have come to adulthood speaking only Russian. They stay in their neighborhood, and they have everything they need. There is no pressing reason to learn English.

 
I feel sure that Los Angeles offers similar enclaves, but I notice that on all the answering machines I’ve encountered so far in my quest to view apartments, the messages are always in English. Heavily-accented English, perhaps, but English.

 
This is encouraging. It suggests an openness to let others into the enclave. I mean, if one were interested in making sure the 800 block of such-n-such street stays Russian, there is no simpler (legal) way to screen apartment applicants than to leave a message in Russian to scare off outsiders. But so far, no one seems to be doing it… not in West Hollywood, anyway. And little things like that mean a lot to me.

Take a drive with me on a gorgeous Sunday morning, through the leafy sides streets of Hollywood. Here is the perfect way to spend the hours of 8am to noon if you’re one of those who pops awake at the break of dawn on your day off because your cats are like little furry alarm clocks with claws who don’t know what “weekend” means.

 
I’ll tell you what weekend means. It means following handlettered signs that say YARD SALE up Beachwood Drive, on the hunt for groups of people standing around, peering judiciously at lamps and boxes of CDs laid out on blankets in the small, landscaped yards of the apartment buildings leading up to the HOLLYWOOD sign.

 
Drive carefully, for Beachwood is rife with tourists who want their picture taken with the sign behind them, and they will stand right smack dab in the middle of the street for that picture, oblivious to the glares of the yard-saling locals who want to get to that pile of sequined throw pillows before that old Armenian lady making her way determinedly up the sidewalk, cane in one hand, purse in the other. She’s eyeballing those pillows and some putz from Tulsa is blocking my way. One more second and that’s going to be one hell of a picture (“Here’s Heather getting run down by some bitch! OMG!”)

 
After combing Beachwood, I like to head into Weho to Duke’s Diner, a seedy little place right next to Whiskey A-GoGo on Sunset Blvd. They have awesome huevos rancheros. For dessert, I take a drive up into the bird streets, and drool over the ultra expensive movie star homes that cling to the mountainside between Sunset and Mulholland Drive.  There’s always one for sale and open houses are on Sunday. We can go in, look around, and pretend we have $4 million lying around and are pondering an investment. Hm, ceiling’s a little cracked on this one…

 
To finish my morning, I go down to the corner of Gardner and Santa Monica Blvd to my favorite carwash, and listen to Dave Matthews “Crash Into Me” nice and loud as the suds pound my car. I come out with my ears ringing and my car glittering clean. Now it’s noon. Time to grade papers. Sigh. Until next Sunday.

I have noticed an odd habit amongst my students here in Los Angeles: they use the word racism to apply to actions and attitudes that have nothing to do with race. It’s basically a word they hurl whenever they wish to complain or comment on anything that they perceive as ill-treatment. 

When I ask for two volunteers to hand out books, 12 year olds will nearly jerk their arms out of the socket waving them in the air in a desperate bid for my attention. Naturally, not everyone can be chosen. But I have had several little boys exclaim, when I failed to chose them, “That’s RACIST!” 

The first time one said this, I was baffled. Since the majority of my students are Hispanic, and I had chosen two Hispanic volunteers to pass out the books, I said, “How was that racist?” 

Stoutly, the boy replied, “You never pick ME!” I mulled over this for a while. Then, as we were reading Flowers For Algernon, we came across the scene where Charlie’s co-workers mock him because he is mentally retarded. 

“Oh, that’s messed up,” said one girl, “That’s racist!” 

Then I understood: their concept of racism is a little shaky. Particularly given that they don’t hesitate to harass foreign students. (It took me several days to convince one boy that chanting “Ming wong dong! Ming wong dong!” to the pretty little Thai girl in the corner was an abysmal way to get her attention.) 

Even their concept of race seems incomplete. Upon seeing a scene from Gone With the Wind, one student noted the close-up of Scarlett’s tear-filled blue eyes. Suddenly he turned, looked at my blue eyes, and blurted with sudden comprehension, “Miss are you WHITE??” 

I still don’t know what he had thought I was up till that moment. I’m afraid to ask.

There are many guns in Hollywood, and I’ve stared down the barrel of about 20 of them since I moved here. Fortunately, they’re all two-dimensional. I’m talking about billboards. Hollywood for some three decades now has had a tendency to produce action movie billboards with a hero pointing his gun directly in the viewer’s face. He’s usually making eye contact, too, leaving no doubt in mind that it’s you he’d like to blow away.

 How this is meant to lure me closer, I’m not sure, but the film industry seems certain it will.

 Those billboards that don’t feature guns directly pointed at the viewer sometimes include a gun simply pointed away, Jodie Foster’s current The Brave One being an example.

 Occasionally, in the billboards, the viewer has the gun, which you can tell because some starlet is in your crosshairs. No wonder movie stars are scared of their fans. Half of them have faced us over a gun one way or another.

 The other oddity that seems particular to Los Angeles advertising is the plethora of bare buttocks one encounters on Sunset Blvd. And these are big billboards. Big buttocks! Joe’s Jeans has run a particularly infamous ad campaign advertising a product I haven’t seen yet because most of the billboards simply feature naked buttocks. One featured seven naked butts of varying hues all in a row. It was startling enough to make you run off the road. Fortunately it was at an intersection, so you could rest at the red light and take in the huge, butt-y rainbow at your leisure.

 I wonder why they don’t combine these two most-favored images. I haven’t seen a butt and a gun together since James Bond was a brunette. I suppose, however, that it’s only a matter of time.

While cruising the L.A. Craigslist hunting for this week’s four writing gigs that will be fought over by 20,000 frustrated screenwriters, I encountered a highlife-observing newsletter/website called Pocket Change (pocketchangenyc.com). This glittering piece of frivolity is spreading herpes-like into Los Angeles via New York (oh, where else??) and features the biting commentary of a smirking fop known as Richard Nouveau.

 
Richard isn’t a real person, he’s a caricature who comments on “the finer things” in L.A., such as where to get good chutney, or a facial, or a spa where they put the chutney right on your face.

 
I should like this character, this Richard. Whoever is doing the writing manages to make every sentence count. Commenting on L.A.’s most expensive personal trainer, he writes: You know, it’s a terrible shame that high-end breeding and bear-like musculature and athleticism seldom go hand-in-hand. Those of us born with a fashion acumen draped over a consumptive frame are fortunate enough, however, to be able to hire someone to do the pushups for you.

 
Clearly, this is Saki’s Reginald reincarnated. In an earlier paragraph he even simperingly mentions hemophilia and asthma… what clearer references to English noble blood can there be?

 
Yes, I should like him. But I already don’t, and I know why.

 
I can be a wee bit snippy but this fellow fairly oozes snark. I imagine him gliding along Melrose Avenue, perilously close to the Pacific Design Center, smirking at Urth Café and the incense-wafting bookstore nearby. He seems downright cruel, and I don’t like the current notion that wit equals sadism. There’s a difference. Witty people have cats. Sadistic people do too, but they refuse to have them spayed because distressed cats in heat amuse them. That’s how this Pocket Change Richard comes across to me. Oh, he’s funny. But I don’t like him.

In keeping with an earlier entry about oddities in my students’ categorizing tendencies, I have noticed another peculiarity among Hispanic youth in Los Angeles. I suspect it’s larger than just here in the city, but this is where I came across it first. When reading a story in the ESL textbook about a Jewish family, I stopped to check for comprehension and found none. Most of them had little idea what Judaism was. A couple had a vague recollection of hearing the word associated with the Bible, and a few with the Holocaust.

I stopped to explain a little and, wishing to begin at a familiar starting point, I asked, “How many of you are from families who consider themselves Christian?”

Only about half raised their hands. Now I was stumped. I’m pretty sure we do not have a thriving Hispanic-Muslim or Hispanic-Buddhist community here in the Los Feliz/Echo Park area. I chose one who had not raised his hand.

“What religion are you?” I asked bluntly, puzzled.

“Catholic,” he said.

“Oh, okay. So you’re Christian.”

There was a chorus of “No!” from those who had not raised their hand. It took some questioning until I finally understood, and found myself staring at them in consternation. They did not consider Catholics to be Christian. And they had never heard the word Protestant as far as they remembered.

I suppose it’s no big deal, but it was one of those many culture-shock moments that has left me staggered since I relocated. Within the public school system, those on high have been concerned about American ignorance of the Middle East, thus the students do rather extensive studies of Islam, and make little picturebook-research reports to show their awareness of the various aspects of that religion. But no one questions how well they understand the religion they actually practice.

One thing I’ll say for Los Angelenos, when they hear sirens, boy, they pull over. When an emergency vehicle comes racing down Sunset, sirens wailing, the traffic parts like the Red Sea and everyone docilely comes to a halt till the ambulance, cop car, firetruck or whatever has gone by.

 
These are the only vehicles that get the slightest consideration from others. The rest of the time it’s dog-eat-dog on the mean streets of LA. Just the other day I was watching a blue hybrid (don’t even get me started on all these hybrids all over the place) waiting impatiently for an opportunity to turn left on Argyle.

 
I contempleted holding back and letting him turn in front of me since traffic had come to a halt on Vine, a block ahead. But I have been trapped before by such a kindness because those in the lane to my right did not feel the same charitable impulse and the turning car was then trapped in front of me, ensuring that I and everybody behind me went nowhere till the intersection-dweller had completed his turn.

 
The only time it’s safe to yield the intersection is if both lanes are so constipated that no one is going anywhere anyway. So I proceeded through the intersection and the blue hybrid made an attempt to bully the person behind me into yielding. I heard a crunch and looked into my rear view mirror to see the hybrid, its front passenger side bumper crumpled, skidding to a halt in the intersection, steam billowing out of it.

 
An accident, even a minor one, always jars one out of the complacent fog of routine. But if there’s one thing we could count on, it’s that the ambulance and police would have no trouble at all getting to the scene. Just blare those sirens and voila, the lanes clear up like a happy sinus, and order is restored.

I have a habit of talking with strangers on the internet. I tend toward politics, movies,  philosophy… all the usual topics. Sooner or later, the conversations turn to more personal subjects, and then, eventually, comes the inevitable question: do you chat?

 
They mean that MSN stuff, I guess. No, I don’t chat. I’ve done it a few times and find it about as enjoyable as leafing through old People magazines in the dentist’s waiting room. People are often puzzled as to why someone who will post all over forum groups and email endlessly hates chatting, and I don’t really know what to tell them. I just hate it.

 
It’s like talking on the phone: I feel trapped. I have to concentrate on hearing the other person, and I don’t have my hands free. I guess I could get one of those headset things but I just… don’t…. want to. Chatting online or via phone is just too immediate, requires just too much focus and commitment. There’s too much pressure to respond right away.

 
And chatting, because it’s so quick, so back & forth, tends to devolve from well-thought-out responses to quick one-liners. Correspondingly, the subject matter deteriorates too. A discussion that began with the surge in Iraq winds down to “u like jazz?”

 
I’m not opposed to small talk, but if I’m going to chat about nothing in such a desultory manner, I want a face in front of me, and a waitress bringing me coffee and pie. I also want a window so I can watch traffic.

 
The nice thing about today’s technology, however, is that there is a method of communication for everyone’s needs. From moderated forums that operate with message-in-a-bottle languor to chaotic chat rooms, now is a great time to be some level of ADD. All you need is the internet. Life is good.

Tonight I came home to my new apartment in West Hollywood and pulled up in front of the house to find a man distractedly puttering around his car, which had a flat tire. He’d retrieved the jack from the trunk but it was some newfangled thing with the lug wrench affixed to the jack itself, and one had to perform a series of feats to disentangle it.

I came up to investigate and the thin, dark-haired man with an accent I could not place, gave a chagrined smile and admitted he hadn’t yet figured out how to maneuver this jack. I joined him in trying to peer at the directions, which may as well have been in Swahili.

As we pondered, he said, “This has not been a very good day for me. I came here to Los Angeles to try to find out more about my daughter, who is missing, and now I have a flat tire.” To say it had not been a good day seemed quite an understatement.

I sat and listened to the man talk as he changed his tire. I wished I could offer more than a towel to wipe the grease from his hands, but in the end, it was all I could do as he told me of his four month struggle to keep his daughter’s case alive with the LAPD.

She was 19 and taking classes at San Diego State. Over the summer she came up to LA where she placed an ad on craigslist offering her services as a math tutor. The man who answered, it would later surface, was a known sex offender. Donna Jou trustingly went to his house… and was never seen again.

Her father is holding on as best he can. He left Iran before the revolution to seek a better, safer life in America. Now his heart is broken. For more information, see www.donnajou.com. And teach your children well.

If you want to be thought sophisticated in L.A., you simply must have a painting or drawing of an ugly naked woman in your living room. And no coy concubines swathed in drapery with only a nipple peeking through will do. There must be pudenda. It’s the only way to show how far we’ve come, apparently.

 
She can’t be beautiful. If she’s beautiful, it might be mistaken for an Abercrombie & Fitch ad. She should be safely beyond the slender age of young adulthood, old enough to have womanly hips and a distressingly sensible haircut. She should be as naked as a plucked chicken and nearly as attractive.

 
Place such a painting or drawing prominently in your living room, and then surround her with other works of art that are much more traditional (as long as the tradition goes back no further than 1920.) Folk art with a Hispanic theme is, of course, an excellent way to compensate for being white.

 
Don’t have too many plants; it’s bourgeois. People will think you spend too much time at home, watering them. You don’t have time to water plants. You’re taking in a concert tonight and a play tomorrow.

 
Once you’ve surrounded your Brunhilde pudenda with works by people named Diego and Sebastian, add a roughweave, natural-textured couch of a color so neutral there is no name for it, and perhaps a table handcarved by someone named Fernando which you bought on a foray in Mexico back in the 1970s when you were young and wild (add self-deprecating chuckle here) and you are ready to earn your LA street cred.

 
I have no explanation for this trend, I only know that it is so: every house I’ve been into so far that was owned by a white person has some variant of the naked Brunhilde in the living room. I’m beginning to think they’re giving them out for free at Bristol Farms.