There was a period of time in the mid-to-late aughtens (aught-tens?) when I moved across country three times in two and a half years. New York to California, full of hope. California to New York, full of despair and defeat. New York back to California, for what originally was meant to be a two week lark in March of 2020…and as Elaine Stritch might sing, "I'm still here."
For all the destabilizing hell trauma that those moves evoke, even now, there was something pretty freeing about each of the decisions to pack up what I had on my back and take flight. Having to surgically or sloppily stow away my life in cardboard shipping boxes felt natural, as natural as the process of holding books in my hand one by one to try and compel some Marie Kondo sense of joie de vivre before deciding "screw it, I'll buy more books where I'm going." I wondered, watching my mother haphazardly throw every single knife in bubblewrap and dump them all into a box, if anyone knew how to do this. Surely, the decision of what to take, at a moment's notice, is completely antithetical to the human condition in the 21st century; I have three whole cabinets at my house currently that are devoted to briq-a-braqs and designer toys.
All that raw trauma on my psyche, and yet this week when it was actually time to grab the dogs and our go-bags, throw some clothes in a suitcase, make like John Carpenter and escape from L.A., I felt nothing but calm. The stuff would be here when I returned, or it wouldn't. We could start over. Unlike those other times when my life had been uprooted, this week's forced evacuation had nothing to do with me or my divorce, my relationship with my sister, or my inability to live well with others. It was as if some epigenetic sixth sense kicked in, and I felt the spirit of my ancestors willing me to get the fuck out of dodge before it was too late. An ecological disaster? Well, that's out of my control. I didn't cause that, and with no blame to assign, it became much easier to focus on finding and packing all the cords to my various electronic devices.
But I understand that I'm in the minority of evacuees here: for one, I don't own a home to burn down, and while the toll for renters might be high, it has far less paperwork involved to just, you know, get a new place with a safety deposit. For another, we had somewhere to go: not just anywhere, but with my boyfriend's family whose presence I actually adore being around and would, all things being equal, not mind living with for an extended period of time. (They also have a pool.)
And while part of our decision to go was motivated by our dog almost choking to death on a chicken breast and realizing all of our vets were currently on fire, our animals are all now currently accounted for, happy to be melded into a larger five doggie household.
Which is to say: I'm good. But so many others aren't. And I really fear for creators; a community that is not famous for home ownership (unless we're talking about the mega-influencers) but do, as part of the process, own a lot of very expensive gear. Renters insurance that is willing to cover fire is basically a non-starter here in CA (I've checked), and after we're all done being grateful to have gotten out alive with our pets and loved ones, the arduous process of building back our former lives, either back in the city or elsewhere will be a long, expensive road. As John-Michael mentioned in our Thursday newsletter, creators get no days off; every day they aren't streaming or producing content, they're losing money.
So we've compiled a long list of charities and donation centers here in lieu of this week's newsletter but urge that it's far from conclusive. If there is a creator you like based in the Los Angeles area, please send them support however you can.
- Drew Grant, Editorial Director
