From B’wood to the ‘hood

WHEN I broke the news to my mother that I was moving from Brentwood to the ‘hood, she immediately began praying for my protection. When I told friends and colleagues at work of my planned move toward South L.A., they would pause and whisper, “Oh.” Not just any “Oh,” mind you, but one freighted with “Good luck, hope you don’t get shot.” Strangers thought I was living out the pilgrimage of a young black man who, after a stint on the “outside,” was returning to his roots.

That couldn’t be further from the truth. I was raised by my mother in Culver City before it became “on the Westside.” I attended UCLA and settled in Brentwood after graduation. But I needed to escape a bad roommate situation, and my father, separated from my mom, offered me his vacant apartment near Jefferson Park in the Crenshaw district.

At first I thought I couldn’t survive a move south. I’d tried the ‘hood in the early 1990s, when the movie “Malcolm X” came out and my mother decided I needed to know “my people.” So I bypassed my usual summer YMCA experience for a camp close to Baldwin Village known as “the Jungles” because of the rampant gang activity nearby.

I was called everything in the book. “Why do you talk so white, white boy?” was a frequent question as I was being punched. At night, I cried, but I never told Mom about my camp experiences. One day, though, she coyly smiled and asked, “Black folks sure can be mean, can’t they?”

Older, more culturally aware and growing ever more desperate to leave Brentwood, I decided to face my childhood demons and take my father up on his offer. The area seemed no different than other urban landscapes in Los Angeles. But adjustments needed to be made. I soon got used to the nighttime “ghettobirds” (helicopters) that plagued the community, and the annoying chime of ice cream trucks that made their neighborhood rounds at midnight. To better fit in, I walked around with a no-nonsense ‘hood face -- which only made it more obvious that I was not from the neighborhood.

“Why did you do that, baby? You have to make sure all your doors are locked!” Aunt Cathy playfully chided me when I told her I didn’t regularly lock my car. Note to self: Lock everything!

My parents also reminded me of the do’s and don’ts when (not if) the police pulled me over. Their advice came in handy one Halloween night when two officers cuffed me and put me in the back of a squad car while they scanned my nonexistent record. Only my embarrassing temptation to blurt out that I grew up on the Westside contained my rage.

More discomfiting than the dangers I have to be wary of are the conveniences I miss. I yearn for Jamba Juice and La Salsa -- anything but Jack in the Box or McDonald’s. A privilege I took for granted -- anytime access to an ATM -- ends after 10 p.m. on Crenshaw Boulevard. Nighttime jogging is also out in my new neighborhood.

But the Magic Johnson theater at Baldwin Hills Crenshaw Plaza is as good as the Century City cineplex. The smothered chicken and greens at Chef Marilyn’s 99-Cents-and-Up Soul Food Express makes me quickly forget the lack of sushi eateries nearby. My neighbors ask how my family and I are doing, a social custom rare on the Westside.

I also have become reacquainted with my younger half-brother, who lives nearby. After being shot in a gang altercation, he speaks of his struggle to stay off the streets. His dreams are often tarnished by his quest to avoid jail, drugs and death -- a story I hear from too many young men his age.

Far more consequential, my color is not what defines me. I’m not seen as a tall black guy, lanky black man or the loud black dude. No woman clutches her purse when she sees me approaching. No walker quickens his step when I am spotted behind him. No one rushes to open a door when I walk down a hall.

In my mostly black and Latino neighborhood, my race is no longer a prelude to my being.

I don’t ache for the conveniences and glamour of my former “home.” I drink coffee in Leimert Park. I cruise Crenshaw Boulevard instead of Pacific Coast Highway, enjoying the comforts of my newfound home -- doors locked, of course.