I've been living in the little yellow guest cottage in Venice for about 15 months now. I go through periods of ambivalence about it -- I love the proximity to the beach; the proximity to the great restaurants, shops and scene of Abbot Kinney Blvd.; the fact that I'm living around "my people," as opposed to the very vanilla, very homogeneous Santa Monica (which I do still love); the arty, eclectic vibe of the place (this is, after all, the birthplace of the Doors), and the community spirit.
I can do without the gang activity, the drug deals that go down in broad daylight on my street, the ghetto mentality of some residents (I can never be sure what large piece of furniture or trash will be dumped in the alley), and the equally abhorrent fortress mentality of people who want to live in this area yet not have to deal with any of its regular, day-to-day residents.
I was down on Venice and ready to pack up and leave right before the holidays, when I was positive the universe had an East Coast gig and move in store for me. But now that I've been given the chance to really take a breath and live like a "woman of leisure" here (albeit a cash-poor one), I'm loving my neighborhood. I dig my neighbors, the old-timers who keep an eye on things on my block, and the great architectural diversity -- walks in my 'hood are never dull. Yes, I have witnessed a girlfight; warm nights and large tents erected in the parking lots of the apartment buildings in the area mean Spanish-language music will be played at high levels into the wee hours; graffiti tags show up on fences and other defiled bits of personal property from time to time, and the police presence is palpable (especially every once in a blue moon when a chopper is searching the area). But, in the end, I consider Venice my home; I'm a part of this community.
I've had friends visit and I can't help noticing their discomfort sometimes; they're quick to lock their car doors and make comments about the questionable safety of the area. More and more, I'm realizing that the fear is not of scary-looking drug dealers or derelicts; it's just plain ol' black people that make them nervous. Where I see a neighbor just going about his business, they see a fearsome, suspicious black man. Where they see a potential drug dealer sporting dreadlocks, I see my soft-spoken, quite intellectual neighbor. Where they see a "ghetto dweller," I see an old-time Venice resident not quite ready or able to afford upgrades on the 50-year-old family home in a way to keep up with the luxury car-driving newbies and their Wallpaper-worthy architectural remodels.
Many of my friends are not used to seeing more than one or two black people at a time (and then, they're the non-threatening kind that act, speak and dress just like them), so the thought of a whole area populated by black folks like Oakwood, my section of Venice, is almost unfathomable. Depressing -- especially in a city that's supposed to be so mixed -- but true.
Despite that, and in spite of the fact that I do miss and love Los Feliz/Holllywood/Silverlake, Venice is now a part of me. The other day I was daydreaming about the house I'd want to buy in the area on the other side of Abbot Kinney when I hit it big. That was a turning point -- up until now my dream house was in the Hollywood Hills.
I think Venice and I have a long, meaningful relationship ahead.
