My Story of Self: From the 818 to the 805

Van Nuys, California

I have paced these streets my whole life, I know them just the same as if they were engrained into my memory with a sharp blade, carved in deep like some sort of beautiful image. These are the streets that provided me with a sense of comfort and familiarity, where I learned to ride my first bike, and moreover, where I learned to drive my first car. Although I grew up in a city, Van Nuys lacked the bustle and congestion typically associated with city-life. Instead, shopping centers were occupied with small family businesses and street corners became marketing hubs for ice cream trucks and local venders. My walk home from school was my favorite part of the day. Stepping foot outside the school gates, the first person that would catch my eye was Maria, fashioning a bright orange vest with a stop sign in her hand. Maria was a volunteer school crossing guard, and although our conversations were confined to the time it took to get to the other side of the street, a day would not pass that we did not inquire about each other’s lives. My next stop was the Elotero man, as locals would call him; a resident who sold street style corn, shave ice, and ice cream from his tiny makeshift cart. No language barrier stopped us from getting to know each other over the years, as I slowly started to pick up some Spanish while helping him refine his English. Even though the end destination of my walk was my house, the people I interacted with along the way represented home.

As I got older, my already-inquisitive personality intensified and manifested into a kind of curiosity that stemmed from genuine wonder and confusion. During my rides to school, my eyes would gravitate to vibrant invasive graffiti splattered on once desolate walls. I wondered whether this was characteristic of cities other than my hometown. My eyes became fixated on the unfamiliar letters and signs tagged on buildings and billboards throughout the city. I did not understand why students at my high school were arranged based on their ethnicity, each group taking up a different area of the school. I soon learned that the quaint charming hometown that I thought I lived in had many dark flaws. Around most street corners was a homeless person calling the asphalt underneath their thin scraps of clothing home. Many of the businesses I used to visit as a child were now turned into piles of ashes, fenced off and never rebuilt. You could not drive a full mile without running into a pothole that would make your insides turn upside down. I pondered if this is how my city was all along, and that instead of the city changing, what had changed was my perspective.

It was not until later on in high school that I was confronted with the notions of economic inequality and social injustice. During my junior year, I was assigned to take my SAT at a different school than then one I attended. On the day of the SAT, I drove about twenty minutes past the city limits of Van Nuys to end up at Harvard Westlake, a private preparatory academy nestled in an affluent neighborhood. Right away, I noticed the disparity of lifestyle between my hometown and this place I had never encountered before. The ground of the parking lot lay servitude to the wheels of the latest models of cars. The students were impeccably dressed in the upmost sophistication, each wearing uniforms that represented exclusivity and belonging. As I stepped foot into the school, I was transported into a lifestyle that greatly differed from the one that I have always known. The football field resembled one that I would see on professional televised games. The walkways were intricately decorated with blooming hydrangeas, filling the air with a clean crisp scent, almost unwelcoming and frigid. The school even came with its very own boba shop in the center of the campus. I felt anger and envy forming a kind of resistance inside of me. I could not make sense of the fact that only twenty minutes away was a city in desperate need of basic resources, a city I grew up in and was now going to fight for.

It was after this day that my perspective became larger and my vision became clearer. I wanted to be the voice for the people in Van Nuys who were forgotten about. Since many of the older residents were not educated and did not speak English, they were unaware of their rights as citizens to demand improved living conditions from senators and district members. In an effort to educate myself on how to initiate change, I took on an internship at the Senator’s office in Van Nuys. Specifically, I requested to do research that was tied with bettering the quality of education in my neighborhood. My belief was that the lack of motivation for teens to graduate high school and pursue higher education made them victim to illegal activities such as gang membership. I knew about this lack of motivation from my own experience. My high school failed to provide the resources and information necessary to pursue a college degree, resulting in a lack of self-esteem and frustration among students. By encouraging and motivating students to go to college, the high school drop-out rate in the city would decrease and the quality of life for the future generation would improve drastically. With this in mind, I set out to propose an idea to the senator and his staff. The name of my proposal was The UC Outreach Program- a free-of-cost program consisting of UC staff and student representatives that would visit high schools in low-income areas and provide informational presentations about the college application process. Although I finished my internship, I plan to work closely with the office to see that my proposal gets implemented in high schools around my neighborhood.

Fast forward to current day and I am sitting in my cozy apartment away from Van Nuys, in my new home. This new home is a 1.8 mile stretch of lush palm trees, local businesses, and an abundance of college students; I am in Isla Vista. Approximately 23,096 people call Isla Vista home. As an unincorporated area, Isla Vista (IV) reminds me a lot of my hometown. If you drive about 30 minutes south of IV, you will find yourself amongst the mansions and private golf clubs of Montecito. Yet, the closest thing to a mansion in IV is a poorly managed apartment complex that houses up to twenty college students each year. Even though residents of IV continuously voice their concerns about lack of infrastructure and poor-quality housing, it does not seem like our voices are being heard. Much like my hometown, IV is the “unwanted child” of Santa Barbara County and the city of Goleta. Due to its status as an unincorporated area, problems of taxation and revenue hinder intervention efforts from outside bodies, branding IV as financially unfeasible. However, a voice must be given to the thousands of residents who call this remote place their home, regardless of financial stakes. Money should not be a top priority when addressing the livelihoods and quality of living for the students and families that live here. As an advocate for minority rights and grassroots politics, I plan on bringing that voice to Isla Vista. In collaboration with the Community Services District, the IV Tenants Union, and most importantly, the residents, I hope to see a more sustainable and prosperous future for Isla Vista.

When I think back to my hometown, I think more of the people and experiences that reside there, the ones that have shaped me and given me the motivation to fight for fairness, equality, and representation. I see these traits in me everywhere I go, and I hold onto the mentality that banality and idleness stem from contempt for the habitual. I stand with my community, whether it be my hometown or local neighborhood, to bring forth positive changes for current and future generations.