Un Trauma Silencioso

By Noemi Romo

As a minor, I passed by a liquor store when a man in his 30’s whispered loudly, “Chupa me mi pito, baby.” Encabronada, I turned the hell around, loudly yelled “No debes de decir eso a las niñas chiquitas!” as I kicked his backpack, followed with an even louder “IT’S 11 AM!” as I walked away--how was I to know he had a six-pack of beer in there? He yelled at me and threw the six-pack at my head--I ran back punching. Eventually, someone from inside the liquor store came out, grabbed me and yelled at him. As they argued, I took the harasser's bike, left it in the middle of the street, and marched home.

As an even younger minor, I wasn’t even five steps outside my building’s door when a man in front of a van asked me which way Sepulveda was - “Has un u-turn, sigue derecho - por ahi ‘sta.” He asked me if I could show him, to which I said no. He took a step towards me and I immediately went back inside. I thank my lucky stars that he didn’t try the door--that lock had been broken for well over a year.

As an adult, I was stalked for almost an hour. This path home became like a date night with myself throughout the pandemic. I needed to know if this person was following me, so I spoke to my friend on the phone as I clutched a littered box cutter I found. I had seen this person at an encampment near the Panorama City Rock Garden. I needed to know if this person was following me.

He was like an animal hunting prey--a block and a half distance between us, making sure to pop behind some bushes when I turned to look.

Completely dissociated and disturbed the next day, my trauma yelled at me, scolded me. How could I be so stupid, so ignorant--did I not know where the fuck I’m from?

It took months for the trauma to settle into a murmur of caution. Courage gathered, I tried my path again--then this happened:

A houseless man biked past me slowly as he checked me out.

Man: Do you need help with your backpack?

Me: No.

Man: Oh okay. Can you give me five bucks?

Me: No.

Man: One?

Me: No.

Man: A hug?

Me: No.

Man: Well then fuh-UCK YOU BITCH!

He came at me with his bike, pushed me back then rode away. Not one person stuck in traffic paid the incident any attention. A man harassing a woman. Just another day in the San Fernando Valley, I guess.

I wonder about these two houseless men - did they grow up here? My gut tells me they did. They remind me of a lot of the kids I grew up with, the ones who felt that being “gangster” and “ghetto” were synonymous with being a “true” Mexican-American. I recently saw a former classmate who fits this bill graffitiing in the Pacoima Wash.

In her poem titled Girl Awash, my sister writes about a moment our mother witnessed from her window. At the time, there was a homeless encampment of about 100 people--it was a mess of drugs and violence. One night, a mother came for her daughter, desperately pleading for her to go back home, crying out “¿Que ya no me quieres?”. Nothing--not all the middle of the night screams, the physical and sexual violence, the drug use, nothing--pained my mother to witness as much as this.

The only moment that compares were the children yelling “Mommy! Daddy! Stop!” in the middle of the night. We couldn’t see them… we could only hear their cries, echoed by the structure of the wash.

At night, you can hear an orchestra of frogs coming from the wash. At times, they go silent due to the low LAPD helicopters, ambulances, the year-round fireworks, or whatever. They go absolutely silent. Then from one end of the wash, you hear a tiny chirp. From the other, you hear a croak. Then they erupt in song together - it never fails.

When I came back home after running away years prior, I cried as their chorus filled my heart again. I had long forgotten that there was beauty in Panorama City. I just had to tune my ear to listen.

Just like that, the way I interacted with my surroundings changed. I obsessively recorded their songs and posted them on Instagram - I was not alone in finding their tunes mesmerizing. I began to record a hummingbird that I named my Lil Hummie. I paid more attention to the bugs around me, to show that they too are beautiful and worthy of admiration. I started making comics with screenshots of my videos, in an effort to make sense of all the madness we were seeing in this country. I looked over the fence and into the wash, longingly--but my trauma yelled far too loudly for me to climb over.

I found my power as an artist by displaying these beauties throughout the pandemic. Some people I grew up with couldn’t believe that all our lives, amongst the garbage and abandoned furniture and concrete and freeways and so on, these creatures were here.

One day, I raised money for a local non-profit by auctioning off videos of whatever creature a donor wanted to see. Someone requested a frog. I waited and waited, but no frogs made their way out of the concrete river.

I waited and waited.

I listened to their chorus.

I waited some more.

Eventually, their song became louder than the cries of my trauma.

I jumped the fence and made my way down. There were dozens upon dozens of baby frogs! Just like that, I suddenly noticed the red-tail hawks, the different species of bees, the dragonflies, the damselflies, the ducks - oh, and there was more than just one species of frog in the wash, too! I spent a lot of time with these creatures. This was the first of many expeditions here.

I ended up spending so much time there that I got to know some of the houseless people who now call it home. I reflected on the houseless people my community grew up with. Who else remembers the man with the blue eyes and empty stare to match, with the long white hair and beard? What about the man with one leg (the only time I know of that he accepted help was when my sister bought him a bag of cheetos at Target)? What were their stories?

There have always been those among us who have shown that the system was failing our society in some important ways. Here’s what those among us have shown me.

Some struggle with addiction.

Some struggle with a bad attitude.

Some are mentally ill.

Some are immigrants.

Some are artists.

Some are kind.

Some are sketchy.

Some are one or more of the above - is this not just like the rest of us?

They are part of my community--and yours, whether you like it or not.

One was expecting a baby, said “screw rent”, and let go of his apartment to save up instead due to the cost of living. He made money by fixing up bikes for the houseless community. I haven’t seen him since the birth of his baby. Maybe he told his truth to my friend. Maybe he lied about his experience to my friend who told me the tale. My friend and I chose to trust in his word.

My friend introduced himself through my fence. He is a friendly, respectful, older, and much smaller Guatemalan man who rides his bike up and down the wash, always happy as can be. He found me sitting outside of the fence. He asked why he hadn’t seen me there for a while. I explained that I got harassed by some dudes I suspected of selling meth while I was botanizing in there. I was too scared. He told me welcomingly and absolutely free of arrogance, “Vente cuando estoy aquí! Siempre estoy de las 6 a las 7 pm. T’echo un ojo, no te preocupes.”

Trusting him, I went back in and found not one but two California Poppy plants, growing amongst the invasive weeds and syringes and abandoned shoes and game consoles and so on. I thought about the potential to sow wildflower seeds in this stretch of the wash for the native pollinators. There was so much potential, just some hand-weeding in some areas. But how could I possibly remove everything that would make it hard for the wildflowers to sprout and take root?

Then it hit me.

I knew when the next opportunity to sow seeds would come--the next time someone’s tent blows up, the city will come to remove everything--the garbage, the plants, the people, the animals. That’s what they did last time, and the time before that, and so on--with no regard for all the creatures and the houseless alike.

The first time I saw it happen the skies were an ominous orange from all the fires. It took days for me to welcome the damage into my reality. I climbed through a hole in the fence, and made my way down, tearing up. It was all gone. I looked desperately for signs of life. Then I saw a hawk and - wait, what?- two dragonflies attacking it? I could hardly believe my eyes. Every time this hawk swooped down for a small bird, these two dragonflies would hit it, go back low, attack each other, only to attack the hawk once more.

I looked around and saw about 30 ducks - more than I have ever seen there before. Clearing the wash exposed the duckweed in the water, and so they came. If everything and everyone hadn't been removed, they wouldn’t have come.

I learned a lot about resilience and community from these creatures - no, these teachers - that day.

The loss of habitat broke my heart… but hope was sowed in the clearing.

Since then, I’ve seen a lot of beautiful moments. I saw a man with a little girl on his motorcycle (a cool 5 mph, don’t worry), followed by a little boy on a tricycle pedaling with all his little might to keep up. There’s a young couple that climbs through the fence. They just sit and hold hands and talk with each other for hours. There’s a group of friends who gather there to walk their dogs. There’s the mom and the nature loving son who walk laps around there almost every morning. People being people in the Pacoima Wash.

The wash is ultimately what has kept me sane throughout the pandemic. It helped me fall just a little bit in love with home. How could it not, with all the beautiful moments I have witnessed there? It made me want to fight for it because all of us - every last person and creature, here, right now - deserves better.

Following the wash's path led me to get involved in community organizing. It led me to get involved in building California native habitat at the Panorama City Rock Garden. It is what makes me want to leave this place better than I found it.

There’s a saying that goes “You can’t heal in the same environment where you got sick.” I am coming to understand that this is true for me. My trauma knows how to make conversation in the valley a little too well.

But that doesn't mean I can't get the trauma down to a whisper, to a sound tan silencioso, that I can help this place heal.

Because this place, with its various forms of trauma, is worthy of healing.

And so am I.

And so are you.

And so is our community.

Together and alone all at once.