Advice to a Grieving Native Son: ‘Start Loving the City Again’

The last time I had anything personal to say in The Times, I told the city off. I said I was angry over how looters, arsonists and rioters took over after the Rodney G. King verdicts. I scolded the city for destroying the pride I had for the place where I was born and raised. And I wondered whether if I would ever regain my affection for L.A.

“Los Angeles, you broke my heart. And I’m not sure I’ll love you again,” was the way I put it in early May.

Pretty strong stuff for a reporter who was always expected by his editors to be objective, especially since I was expressing my anger and hurt on the front page of The Times.

Me and my big mouth.

Frankly, I was surprised. I had expected a very critical reaction to this confession, with readers telling me to keep my opinions to myself.

Instead, people called to talk about the Los Angeles of old--the one I reminisced about. The one that I miss.

They longed for the old Wrigley Field at 42nd Place and Avalon Boulevard and the return of Gilmore Field, the home of the minor-league Hollywood Stars, long since torn down to make way for CBS Television City.

I didn’t have the heart to tell those Gilmore fans that I hated the Stars. I was a devout follower of the L.A. Angels and I still remember the dream infield that played the best minor-league ball at Wrigley: Roy Hartsfield, Gene Mauch, George (Sparky) Anderson and Steve Bilko.

Some callers wanted to talk about the Eastside, specifically the Belvedere Gardens neighborhood where I grew up. They had remembered the funny anecdotes I used in a going-home story that was part of our Pulitzer Prize-winning series about Latinos in the summer of 1983. The scenes of a doting Spanish-speaking grandmother, 81-year-old Felicitas Vargas Ramos, telling the cynical reporter grandson to drink his milk at dinner still elicits laughs. Even though she’s been gone for nearly 10 years, I can still hear her words.

Yes, Grandma, I am eating well.

I was reminded of other grandmothers with many of the same problems Grandma had, in a world dominated by English-speakers. They now live in areas where English was once the dominant language--in Watts, Silver Lake, Koreatown, Pico-Union and even parts of Hollywood.

Some calls were about the present.

They wanted to talk about how the city found itself reliving the fury that swept Watts in 1965.

“Maybe we didn’t learn anything from the last time,” I told one caller.

The problem with Los Angeles, one irate reader told me, was the gangs. They rule the streets and the police don’t have the public support to effectively deal with them.

“Perhaps, we need to bring in the Army,” this male caller told me. “Make them the police. We need to take back the streets.”

Perhaps so, I told him as I reminded him of a truce that at least some gangs seemed to be observing. But it would also be nice if we citizens stopped using drugs. Without the demand, the wanton violence of gang warfare might decrease, I reasoned.

“We need to snuff them out!” the caller insisted.

“There’ll always be gangs,” I replied. “Back in East L.A., I remember. . . . “

“Gangs!” the man roared. “Snuff them out in South-Central! In East L.A.! In the Valley! Now!”

There was only one call I didn’t know how to deal with. It was from a polite woman in Pasadena who--in a sweet voice--told me to believe in my birthplace. Stop whining about the chaos. Stop wishing for boyhood dreams that didn’t come true.

“Start loving the city again,” she said simply. “I’ve lived here for 60 years. I’m hurt but I still love it. I suggest, young man, that you be a reporter and find the love again.”

I bring all this up because The Times has asked me to write a column about my city. To explore it, to talk to its residents, to explain ourselves to each other.

I guess they think I have something to say about L.A. The editors who got this idea may have talked to this lady from Pasadena and agreed with her. “This Ramos guy needs to start earning his keep around here,” they probably muttered to themselves. “Let him write about love.”

I’m going to try. I’ll occasionally voice an opinion about Los Angeles--I hate the Dodgers; Gloria Molina shouldn’t run for mayor of L.A.; San Pedro really ought to be its own city, and when are we calling in the Army to fight the gangs?

Love may be elusive, but we’ll see.