Poem by Sam Campbell, English 2600, Fall 2021

Belonging is still foreign to me
For I was non-native and non-Mexican
Attending a school where the walkouts are fondly remembered
And the chants of “Si se puede!” still ring through the halls
Of the second oldest high school in Los Angeles
The Hispanic culture has a vice grip on a neighborhood
Which was once the stomping grounds of immigrant Italians
Who frequented the long gone Ostrich and Alligator Farms
The latter of which is now home to the Lincoln Heights Family Recovery Center
Right across the street from what was once called Eastlake Park

Where said Italians would boat across the lake now overrun by ducks
Drove on the dirt paths that local residents bike across
Crossed the since demolished footbridge to see the long forgotten arboretum
And marvel at the exotic plants in its greenhouse as well as the cactus garden
Children would ride a carousel featuring a menagerie of animals
So revered it became Historical Monument 153 for a little while
Until vandals burnt it to the ground months later in 1976
Where it once stood is now nothing more than the tennis courts parking lot

Children also played in the Aztec playground
Sliding down the side of an artificial pyramid
Knocked down to make way for a modern playset
The pyramid was probably more fun
Current amenities include the decade old skatepark
And the Plaza de La Raza cultural center
Where children learn to play mariachi music and dance Folklorico
It also serves as an ominous foreshadowing of my inability to belong

Because even at eleven years old I knew
This place was made for the Mexican kids
The community it was in 1917, the very year it was named Lincoln Heights
Exists in digital archives and dusty textbooks
But is seldom talked about in the oldest suburb of Los Angeles
Where mothers prepare menudo for dinner
As fathers drive to Downtown construction sites
The elderly board the 45 bus to Chinatown
As children speak fluent Spanish and Mandarin
In the dual language classrooms of Gates Elementary

The Chinese have found home here too
Congregating at the Youngnak Church of LA
Or grabbing a quick bite at Champion Donuts
Though I wonder if they too feel lost in the shuffle
Of a neighborhood that is dominated by the history of Chicanos
Cesar Chavez himself once gave talks at Church of the Epiphany
As the La Raza newspaper was printed in its basement
A history so entrenching I know nothing about the impact of the Chinese
Despite the fact that they have lived here for several decades
Nor do any of the murals on Broadway reflect that

Indirectly causing me to become the token black girl in high school
When a school counselor asked me to appear on advertising posters
All in the name of “black representation” in the community
When I was neither Black nor living in Lincoln heights
Where DIY venue HM157 can never be a true community gathering space
Because no one trusts the optimistic White woman
The automatic colonizer despite her inability to afford this city
Backyard rock shows and art galleries are not welcome here

Every attempt at inclusion has been shunted
By people who believe this space has bad intentions
Resulting in visitors who travel from as far as Santa Monica
Seldom from the place it was meant to serve
My interest in this venue makes me the odd one out
As did my excitement for the art gallery which never came to fruition
And my pleasure for the renovated playground on Broadway and Daly
All of which make me an outlier in a community of low-income families
Because in this time of gentrification these amenities cannot exist here

Where Lincoln/Cypress station is seen as the gentrifiers access point
Despite servicing students like me since opening day on July 26th, 2003
And passengers walk past the sculpture of a Tongva woman on the platform
She pours water into a bronze basket a stone’s throw away from the L.A. River
I sometimes wonder what it would have been like to board the O and 10 lines
Trolley cars that traveled through the streets of Lincoln Heights to Southland
Back when neither neighborhood was synonymous with crime and gang violence
Though I do not believe they will be for much longer

The bougie restaurants have already rolled in
Properties are being boosted on The Eastsider
Activists took over the neighborhood council in May
And I sit here wondering why change has to come like this
In this neighborhood where residents kick and scream at the face of change
My aspirations of a more economically and socially integrated neighborhood
Are not only frowned upon, but are viewed as downright colonization
Change always seems to come with force and inevitable retaliation
It comes with the chants of “Si se puede!”
As long term tenants fight illegal evictions
It comes with the tense “Hello’s!” between new neighbors
Because no one trusts optimistic White people
It comes with endless chatter at neighborhood council meetings
As children and adults alike try to figure out their civil rights
It comes with one of seven schools overcoming educational inequity
Because White families feel more comfortable in droves
Opinion pieces in The Lincoln Star begin to appear
Titles like, “My neighborhood: The creative types paradise,” say it all
The yearly carnival and trendy eateries are no longer the main draw
And I see more racially integrated streets, but my friends don’t live here anymore
As I walk down Broadway to the comfort of my apartment
I am greeted to moving boxes perched outside my neighbors door
As I settle in after a long day at my nonprofit job
I ponder if this new sense of belonging is worth it