In between New York and LA, there's all this haze in my head.
For the first 18 years of my life, I was over zealous to have been born and raised in soCal. I just knew there was something fortunate and special about California, although I didn't know any better until I left it.
There was a very particular moment right at age 19 when I realized I might have been mistaken that I truly belonged where I was born. This moment was when I first discovered what I considered a "sense of style." Not to say that I didn't have style in high school. I did. In retrospect, I can confidently say that my style in high school was peculiar, hard on the eyes, and rigidly but voluntarily uncoordinated. Bright, mismatched colors and prints, layers upon layers, plastic Barbie-like accessories, and floral espadrilles or Chinese maryjanes. Nearly hideous. A scene haircut, always that fake, orange-red hair color that Asian girls get when they can't get light brown right. "Eliza and her fiery red hair," Hawara and The Kitty Cats would say.
Then, magically, and late in the game, I found Rumi Neeley and Olivia Lopez. I found black. I found gold. Even though they were LA gods, I felt like they shouldn't be. I felt like I shouldn't be. I grew my hair out again, I dyed it black. I wore oversized, I wore necklaces over necklaces. I discovered cheap pleather, beanies, and black stockings. I finally felt that my style matched my music. I stopped feeling that uncommitted feeling I felt. I felt Alive. And that's when I ironically began hating LA. It's not really about the fashion itself-- it's about the influence underneath the fashion. For me, it was the anguish and liberation. So it's anywhere from Kylie Jenner to Kinfolk magazine that turns me away from LA even now.
I know nothing about LA, especially not enough to claim I hate it. But what I did know of it, I hated it. And being so closely tied to the upbringing of a childhood that was neither unhappy nor satisfactory, doesn't it make sense that I wanted to feel connection to some place, perhaps a new home? There are articles and conversations with strangers and friends that tell me that LA is the new NYC. I wish I believed them. I wish I liked California because I don't particularly like the idea of adopting New York either, but it's where I feel the most happy. I have never loved a place until now, even though I haven't experienced personal turmoil as I have in this city (I equate that hardship not with the city, but with age. I can't yet determine if this equation is wit or simply denial). The anguish and liberation, they return with this city. They reactivate and conspire.
And so we made our trip to LA last week. We stayed in Echo Park, where I once again discovered a side of LA that was unknown to me, and then headed East to the desert land I call home. I went to my oldest friend's wedding, spent time with my family, and hung with good people. I even reluctantly went to church.
I don't know why-- since I visit home about once a year-- but this particular trip made me feel like a foreigner of my own hometown. I'd like to think that with my family recently visiting me in New York, it validated my new home here.
