Being a young, white girl attending a private university in
Los Angeles, most people assume I come from a privileged background. I drive a
newer car – they think mommy bought it for me. I get dressed up and go to
expensive bars – daddy’s credit card must be paying. Going away for a long weekend – wow, she’s
such a lucky girl.
However, I live in Inglewood.
Alone.
And in not exactly the “nice” part of the city.
I used to be awkward telling friends where I live. At first,
I’d equivocate and say things like “Oh, it’s closer to LMU than you think” or
“I couldn’t feel safer there. You should come over sometime” to avoid the
responses of “But you’re white” or “But you’re a woman living alone there?
You’re going to be raped.”
Yes – I really live in Inglewood. Since mommy can’t buy me a
house and daddy’s credit card stopped working years ago, my car, my home,
my nights out in expensive cars or weekend getaways are my own doing. So yes –
I really live in Inglewood.
Not once have I been mugged. Not once have I been grabbed.
Not once have I felt creeping fear walking the block from my car to my gate.
My neighbors helped me when I had a flat tire and “the white
girl” didn’t know how to use a jack. My downstairs neighbor helped me carry my
new furniture up the long set of stairs because “the white girl” wasn't strong
enough and her “white friends” were too scared to come over. The building
manager made me soup when “the white girl” looked too sick to be getting the
mail and he offered to go grocery shopping for me.
My neighbors don’t know my name, or if they do I wouldn’t
know it. I’ve been “the white girl” from day one and I know that’s how it’ll
stay. But my neighbors treat me as family. They ask if I need help carrying
groceries, “hey did you catch the game last night,” “we’re having a barbecue
tomorrow, would you like to join?” They signify me by my skin color, just as my
friends signify them by theirs.
Inglewood was once a predominately white neighborhood, but
in the 1960s different races started moving in to the areas. According to
Gladys Waddingham, Inglewood historian, “No blacks had ever lived in
Inglewood,” but by 1960, “they lived in great numbers along its eastern
borders. This came to the great displeasure of the predominantly white
residents already residing in Inglewood.” In her book “The History of
Inglewood,” Waddingham explains how blacks weren’t allowed to go to school,
there were heated town hall meetings about letting the blacks in and even real
estate agents refused to show homes to blacks in the area.
In contrast, when looking at apartments in 2015, “the white girl” was met
with “Are you sure you want to look at this apartment?” or “Why on earth would
you want to live here?”
“The white girl’s” story isn’t even close to the stories my
neighbors have told me, have trusted me with – stories of fear and stories of
growing up in areas worse than this. I went to the weekly Sunday barbecue and
asked my neighbors this: Why do you continue to stay here?
Apartment 2 said: “I’d rather give my daughter nice things
than have to choose living in an overly expensive place.”
Apartment 6 said: “Dad was shot and mom left. I’m doing this
on my own and this is where I can afford.”
Apartment 8 said: “I found new family here, why would I ever
leave?”
The new, welcomed outsider, “the white girl," agreed.
Sarah Litz
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