Los Angeles and the State of Humanity

“Tell me about yourself”

The interview question that we all pretend to have the answer to. I’ve answered this question several times, in several different iterations — first dates, jobs, new friends.

But what’s the true answer?

That’s something I’ve been working to reconcile over the past few months, as I transition to life in California from life in Kentucky. Things are very different in Los Angeles as compared to Bowling Green,Kentucky, pop. 70,000.

I got my bike tires popped the other day, which blew my mind. Who would do such a thing?

Turns out, Los Angeles is where the tire poppers run rampant. I’ve seen people beat each other over a dollar, children digging through trash cans to get bottles, and so, so, so many people sprawled across sidewalks and streets.

When you see them, it’s jarring. For me, I didn’t understand at first. Bowling Green had a minimal amount of homeless people, and they disappeared after a while. It was easy to ignore.

But here in LA, I see the same people, again and again. I see the tents. I see the needles in the gutters and the remnants of shopping carts.

I’ve seen one man degenerate. I moved here in July, and vividly remember the first time I saw him. He wears a suit coat. He looked normal then, worn out, but you couldn’t see the streets on him yet.

It’s been six months. I saw him the other day, walking along street. He lost a shoe. His suit coat no longer fits him. His hair is matted to his scalp, and sores cover his face. He saw me, and stared me down until I passed him.

I cried after that. I cried, because I think a lot, and I started thinking about his family and what they were thinking, where were they, and were they even there? I cried for what I think that he had lost, and I cried because he was a shell of what he had been.

There was no movement in his shoulders, no shuffle to his feet. He was a zombie.

I saw him outside of Whole Foods, talking with another transient. The smell was awful. They lit up a pipe, and smoked something intense, right there. They started laughing, and the suit coat man punched the other one in the stomach. He fell to the ground.

I was walking into Trader Joes, when I saw a woman trying to give suit coat man a shot. She had on blue gloves. I thought that this was some health program, so I went into the store, happy that Suit Coat was getting some help. I got my groceries, and walked outside.

I ran right into her. She was talking to herself, and had a syringe tucked inside of one of her gloves. She began to pet some of the plants outside of the store.

Suit Coat was drawing on one of the parking garages with chalk. He was eating the chalk after he put some of it on the wall.

He walks around the neighborhood, all day, everyday. Like a ghost.

There are two things that will break your heart in Los Angeles: the state of humanity, and the cost of living.

There is a negative correlation between the two.

I don’t drive, and I frequent public transportation here, which exposes you to all sorts of things. I once sat behind someone on the Expo line who had an open sore on the top of their head. They were rocking back and forth, hugging their chest tightly.

There was another person who had a backpack. He opened it along the ride, and it had three dogs in it. They crawled out, scrawny and depleted. The man stared at the ceiling the whole time.

I lived a sheltered life. I have grown from my time here. But I can’t help but to lose a bit of myself every time I see my fellow humans in such a state of disarray.

My friends will talk about helping them. Volunteering at the shelter downtown. Working on Skidrow. Giving them leftover food. They all have big hearts.

All true and all helpful. So very needed.

But the first problem that we run into is the idea of a “them”— they are humans, just like you and I. They deserve a sort of compassion, one that I have lost over time. I’ve been here for a short six months, but already I feel frustrated when I see them.

It’s so prevalent, everywhere you turn. There’s no escaping the ubiquitous of the human condition, especially when its deteriorating. It is exhausting, and it becomes easier to accept it rather than to fight it.

I was walking to a nice restaurant the other day, one Google would label as $$$$. I was walking the stairs to get there, and a man was sprawled at the top of the steps. His shoes were not shoes anymore. He was dirty, covered by threadbare pants and a rotted shirt. He asked me for a nickel.

He was blocking the path to the top.

I stepped over him.

I was so afraid as I stepped over him — would he grab my leg, pull me down? Would he push me? Would he hurt me?

The fear was justified, as we should all be careful when stepping over people.

But it felt very metaphorical.

Here I was, stepping over this person. Literally. Figuratively. He was spun out, and I don’t think he even knew I was really there. He smelled like urine, and his eyes were unfocused.

But he was as human as I was.

As I walked into the restaurant, I felt that little part of my heart tighten. I was disappointed and sad and upset and angry at that man for being there. If he had just moved over, or not come to that staircase at all, I would have been okay.

But he had to be there.

He had to remind me of myself, and he had to remind me of him. The space between. What made me any different than him?

It’s easy to get wrapped up in those thoughts.

I miss Kentucky, mainly for the simplicity.

It was safe there. I felt safe.

Los Angeles is the complete antithesis of safe. Perhaps I am not cut out for this city, or perhaps I could ignore more things from the confine of a car.

But all I know, is that something will have to give from a bottom-up analysis of society. We all know this.

I do not have the solution to this equation. It’s not something that you can run a regression against. If I increased x, would y respond? Is the movement statistically significant, and can we forecast out from it?

People constantly talk about the “problem” getting worse — more and more people taking to the streets as the house prices continue to rise. The “thems”.

Economically, rent-controlled apartments and mass shelters simply don’t make sense. “Not in my backyard” would prevail. So once again we are left with the question — how do you reconcile economics and humanity, and what does it mean for how we define ourselves?