Picasso's Promise

Episode 23| Fake Nice

Last time I went to Chinatown, it was the fall of seventh grade.

I didn't take many ventures into Downtown Los Angeles, preferring Santa Monica over the city because of the beautiful coastline. It reminded me of home. There was sea and sand, endless hills that were piled with homes that costed a fortune, and a twinkling Ferris wheel on the pier that attracted tourist from near and far.

I wasn't bashing Los Angeles in any way by longing for the beachside more. There was elegance in the architecture in downtown LA that Santa Monica couldn't compare to due to how new their buildings were, dotted with modern townhouses and store fronts down the street. It made the place look virtually the same no matter what road you went on, all covered with the same rectangular shape with no significant artistry.

My father told me about how Santa Monica was unrecognizable to how it once was, previously populated by blacks and Hispanics. Going into the 90s, those homes were crushed, and new shiny structures took their place, leading families that had been there for decades to move more inland because of the high rising property tax.

Undesirable areas transformed into sought after real estate. Santa Monica was a place that bled money nowadays, a mere ghost of what it was a few decades prior.

Perhaps that was why I liked it more, reminding me of my hometown of Malibu in all its wealth and glory.

A week after our trip to Chinatown, I turned to Picasso. After school, he offered to drive me home and I jumped at the chance.

Pushing the hair out of my face to look at him better, I asked him if he knew the past of Santa Monica as well as I did. His tone changed, raising both eyebrows when I explained how much better the city looked.

"Better?" he scoffed, "At what cost? Taking people's homes from them just so that people with fatter incomes can take it up, claiming it as their own is nothing to boast about."

"You're only looking at it one way. They brought in new business that wasn't there before. That was good for the city."

"Business would've been more prominent there if it weren't for redlining."

"Redlining has to do with housing, not business."

His scoff evaporated, making a sound I was growing used to. "You don't know what that word means at all. Redlining boxed off people based on their zip code, making it hard for them to get any type of loan and open up businesses if they were in the area deemed 'red.'"

"Well, it was in the past. You don't have to get so pissy about it."

"Past? It's not in the past. Banks still use a similar form as reference, even if it was outlawed, it was not overtly banned all over. Minorities still get turned away from mortgage loans at a higher rate than their counterpart, disregarding of income."

"Man, all I said was the city looks nicer."

"Nicer now that all the original occupants have been pushed out, huh?" he murmured, tapping at his steering wheel.

"I'm sorry; I don't like the hood."

"I'm not sorry I don't like the suburbs," he said, holding on the b in a way that irked me.

"What's there not to like? You're just saying shit to make me mad."

"What is there to like?" he inquired, staring at me from the corner of his eye.

"I don't have to confuse fireworks for gunshots. There isn't a bulletproof window between me and the cashier whenever I go out. I can't say that with where I live now with my aunt."