My younger daughter started her second semester of high school in the wildland-urban interface of the Santa Monica Mountains on Monday, Jan. 6.
It’s timing that holds heaviness now.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused on
Parents and children in Los Angeles have seen their lives upended by fires, smoke, and evacuation alerts. Our reporter tells the story from her own experience.
That evening, we received an email from the head of school telling us that the campus would be closed the next day, due to a “destructive, potentially life-threatening windstorm.” The next day, fires would decimate this city, destroying thousands of homes and changing the lives of countless more.
We’ve always known that fire is a threat here. It’s something I’ve felt acutely since I moved back to Los Angeles, where I grew up. And as one of the Monitor’s West Coast correspondents, I have written regularly about wildfires. But what happened in Los Angeles this month was different – for the city, and for me, as both a journalist and a mother.
As reporters, we are trained to keep our own emotions and experiences out of what we write. But over the last few weeks, the reality of balancing my work with the shock of watching my hometown burn, all while trying to solo-parent a child with another away at college, has given me a new lens.
My younger daughter started her second semester of high school in the wildland-urban interface of the Santa Monica Mountains on Monday, Jan. 6.
It’s timing that holds heaviness now.
That evening, we received an email from the head of school telling us that the campus would be closed the next day, due to a “destructive, potentially life-threatening windstorm.” The next day, fires would decimate this city, destroying thousands of homes and changing the lives of countless more.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused on
Parents and children in Los Angeles have seen their lives upended by fires, smoke, and evacuation alerts. Our reporter tells the story from her own experience.
We’ve always known that fire is a threat here. It’s something I’ve felt acutely since I moved back to Los Angeles, where I grew up. And as one of The Christian Science Monitor’s West Coast correspondents, I have written regularly about wildfires. But what happened in Los Angeles this month was different – for the city, and for me, as both a journalist and a mother.
As reporters, we are trained to keep our own emotions and experiences out of what we write. But over the last few weeks, the reality of balancing my work with the shock of watching my hometown burn, all while trying to solo-parent a child with another away at college, has given me a new lens.
Normalcy, interrupted
On Tuesday, Jan. 7, as the fire in Pacific Palisades made its way toward Malibu, I took my younger daughter ice-skating. Skating is her sport, and we took a break last semester while we were getting settled in LA. I had promised to make it a priority, so it is.
But as I watched her twirl around the rink, the fire alerts kept coming through on my phone.
Parents know this moment, when work pings through a child’s sports game, dinnertime, homework. But this time, it was both work and personal danger.
We live on the western edge of the San Fernando Valley, north of a quirky hillside community called Topanga, which sits between Malibu and the Palisades. My aunt and uncle live in Mount Washington, another hillside community, but farther away from the blazes, and they suggested that my daughter and I go there, even though their guest rooms were filled. I was grateful. Sleeping on a sofa near family was better than being alone with the full weight of caretaking.
My daughter and I packed quickly. She told me that she’s had a mental evacuation list since kindergarten – a fact I’ve filed away for a later discussion. We moved through the house together in quiet cooperation. She was focused, efficient. She knew what she wanted in her suitcase and had identified additional items in descending order of importance for any extra containers. I collected the dog and started the car. She closed doors to every room to slow the spread of flames.
Reporting the news, and living it
Over the next few days, school remained canceled, so I took my daughter to work with me. Friends and family offered to host her while I reported, but I wanted her by my side.
We visited an evacuation shelter at El Camino Real High School to talk with volunteers and evacuees. While we were there, we got news of a new fire. Those gathered would need to evacuate once again. I approached a young woman wandering through the parking lot with a roller bag. She looked dazed. She needed a ride to the next shelter but was wary about traveling solo with the men who offered to take her.
I glanced at my daughter and quickly offered to hire an Uber.
As we were leaving, I noticed an older woman with two small dogs. I asked if she was heading to the next shelter, and if she had what she needed. She looked into my car, at my daughter, and asked me the same thing.
Connections amid a life suspended
Throughout the week, the fires continued to spread. We drove to our home to check for damage and mail, stopping at our local supermarket along the way. We bought sushi and chocolate-covered honeycomb, familiar indulgences.
When we got out of the car, my daughter buried her face in my shoulder. She didn’t release my hand as we walked through the store. I cherished the unfiltered affection.
Life was beginning to take on a pandemic feel; work and home blended, routines suspended. Then Los Angeles Unified schools – the second-largest school district in the United States – announced Sunday evening that in-person classes would resume for most of the area’s public schools. Students whose schools had burned down were redirected to other campuses. Some private schools would remain closed, as would the nearby Pasadena schools, which include the Altadena district heavily impacted by the fires.
My daughter and her friends were in constant touch with group chats and video calls. She didn’t complain, but I knew the close quarters and shared room with her mother were closing in on her. I wondered at what point we would need to make longer-term plans.
Sunset Boulevard, transformed
We started to weigh the possibility of going home.
One week into the fires, on Jan. 14, my older daughter – who had been staying with friends a couple of hours north of LA – met us at the house so she could repack for her next term at college. My younger daughter and I kept our go bags close as her older sister reorganized.
I heard what sounded like rainfall on the roof, but it was debris shaking loose from the trees. We slept there, but vigilance kept me awake all night.
Ali Martin/The Christian Science Monitor
The next morning was quiet, the air slightly crisp. There was no trace of smoke, but a wind advisory kept us on edge. We got our college girl to the airport, and I said goodbye with the familiar combination of pride and longing. She allowed her younger sister a lingering hug.
Then her sister and I were a team of two again. My daughter grabbed my phone and queued up a playlist. “Wicked” and “Hamilton” are our soundtracks.
We made our way to Sunset Boulevard on the edge of the Palisades Fire evacuation zone. On streets to our left, we saw normal life – home improvement crews, joggers in step with their leashed dogs.
There was no turning right, though. Northbound roads were blocked by orange cones and the California National Guard. Stoplights had no power. Beyond were the ash and rubble of decimated neighborhoods. I’d been staring at online maps all week, distanced by the digital rendering of these streets. Here they were in 3D.
Ali Martin/The Christian Science Monitor
Sleeping in our own rooms
The teenager headed upstairs to her room. I asked her to grab the blanket and pillow sitting at the base of the stairs and return them to the linen closet. “Yay!” she exclaimed. “Does this mean you’re sleeping upstairs tonight?”
I had spent the last two evenings sleeping on the couch with the television on, tuned to local news. The possibility of overnight flare-ups or a change in wind direction still made me uneasy, and the thought of sleeping through an alert was terrifying.
But yes, I told her. I am sleeping upstairs tonight, in my own bed, for the first time since the fire started.
I couldn’t help but feel her excitement.
At times like this, it can feel impossible to know what to do as a parent – even more so than usual. But the extremity of crisis brought a simple truth into clear view: The loving intuition that springs from parenting is a protective force.
And I know, deeply, that it is a blessing.
