Revisiting

If I had to pick one thing I dislike about the Los Angeles area, it would be its bustling driving culture. I personally enjoy walking and taking public transportation as I did all throughout Korea and when I visited the east coast. Even in the west LA area, I always find some petty excuse to walk everyday- oh I need to drop off that library book or I should buy some cereal from the market. I imagine when I grow old, I’ll be one of those visor-wearing grandmas who always takes evening strolls with her old grandpa husband.

Being the restless and jittery person that I am, I decided to take a walk around my good ol’ neighborhood in Hacienda this past weekend. I have to say it’s been a while. I was in the mood to be swept away by a wave of nostalgia, ready to scrounge up fading images of childhood days and to feel a general air of wistfulness.

But something about it all was a bit haunting.

All the houses seemed to peer out at me with their solid expressions- their boxy window eyes and their scaled garage teeth. Some, I noticed, got makeovers with paint jobs or freshly manicured lawns. These renovations were slightly jarring. I wanted things exactly how I left it, and those houses were just “trying too hard.” I passed by my old schoolfriend’s house except she doesn’t live there anymore. Some new family with three little kids roaming around in the grass. They didn’t know that I, this strange passerbyer, was in their domain once, knew the contours of their home, used their toilet. The all-too-knowledgeable ex-girlfriend.

Then, I passed by that one house… “my paradise dream home.” You know how there’s one in every block- the house that sticks out like a sore thumb. The one that’s been remodeled and looks too pretty and polished to be with the rest of its rundown neighbors. Just its overwhelming presence seems to taunt the others. In all it’s out-of-place glory, I remember wanting to live there. I wanted more than anything to knock on that front door with the “welcome friends” wreath and yell “I’m home!” But looking at it now, the pink paint was blaringly tacky and even the wreath seemed tongue-in-cheek. Oh, how fickle one’s heart can be.

Then, there was that one house with that scary german shepherd that could always be found growling behind its barred gate. “Beware of Dog” the words shot out as if the dog itself wasn’t a warning sign. My steps would increasingly quicken as I would pass by, secretly praying to God that the dog wouldn’t jump over the gate and demolish me. Just as a pre-caution, I would always scan the street for some straggling neighbors or opened doors- places I could run to for protection. But this time, as I passed, there was no angry dog- no sign even. And it made me wonder if the family moved away or if the monster died. For some reason, the thought of its death made me unexpectedly sad. The house seemed desolate without the echoes if its consistent bark.

All the houses, the empty street (the places that captured the golden years of my childhood) seemed suddenly larger-than-life… presenting new wisdoms that were unsettling rather than reassuring. My assuming arrogance shaken by the harsh reality that I couldn’t hold this place “this Old Forest Road” in a permanent snow globe immune from change or tarnish.

Next stop- Wilson High.