On Monday, January 6, my grandmother celebrated her one-hundredth birthday. It was quite a milestone for a woman who during the Covid pandemic asked me, “What’s the big deal with getting vaccinated, we all did it in the ’30s to combat typhoid?”
My family came over from across the United States—as close as Las Vegas and as far as North Carolina—to celebrate at our home in Altadena, California. Altadena is a charming and eclectic community, nestled at the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. It’s the kind of place where you would not dare walk your Yorkie at night from fear that coyotes might snatch up the small terrier mid-walk. “A light snack,” I liked to tease my girlfriend.
Since Altadena was originally a Mexican land grant known as Rancho San Pascual, it felt appropriate to invite my family over for a taquiza, a backyard gathering with a professional taco-maker. I was unloading party essentials from Smart & Final in my driveway when James, my jovial, 62-year-old neighbor across the street, waved me over. James is respectfully referred to as “the mayor” on my block. His is the oldest Black-owned home in my neighborhood, and when anything suspicious happens on my street, James is the first to know. Just like he was the first to know about my grandma’s 100th birthday brunch.
“Cherish her,” James told me. “I wish my mom was still here.” His mother, who passed away last year, had bought their home in 1972, cultivated it, and left it to her son. In Altadena, families like hers had built generational prosperity.
On Tuesday, January 7, I drove my mom and grandma to the airport. The now-centenarian was excited to have yet another party, in Ecuador this time, the country of her birth. The National Weather Service had warned of life-threatening and destructive winds that morning, but my grandma laughed it off, claiming she had endured worse. Perhaps in her 100 years she had, but being inside our house that morning was akin to being Dorothy, frightened that her small Kansas barn house might be blown away.
I dropped my mom and grandma off at LAX a little after 6 p.m. My grandma gave me the sign of the cross on my forehead for good fortune and headed inside with my mom. That’s when I received a call from Liesel, my lifelong mentor and a Pasadena City College professor. “Stay out,” she said. “I’m leaving with the kids now.” I hung up and called her husband Steve, my other lifelong mentor and the man who taught me how to be a writer. At that moment, Steve was saying goodbye to his belongings. Liesel and Steve were art collectors, fine furniture aficionados, and Steve, a multiple Will Eisner Award-nominated writer, had one of the most priceless comic book collections I’d ever seen. Before they had bought their 1912 Altadena home, it had been an orphanage, and Liesel and Steve had continued the tradition by opening their home to many of their students throughout the years. Students who had been abandoned or rejected by their families. Students who were hurting and had nowhere to go. Students like me.
I put on my face mask and ran toward the front door. Giant embers lay across the lawn. It was 9 a.m. and pitch black.
I started receiving texts from other friends who were fleeing Altadena. Families like Jeff and Kevin, two Marines who fell in love in the service, got married at the Altadena Town & Country Club, and had a beautiful baby boy together. They left their house with nothing, having no power to see much of anything. They even forgot the baby’s favorite lovey.
I rerouted my GPS to my girlfriend’s apartment in Cerritos and hoped that my neighborhood, where one in four residents were Latino, one in five Black, and two-thirds 65 or older, would survive the night unscathed.
The next day I sped down the freeway to my house. In my accidental evacuation, I had left home empty-handed, without my laptop or any documents. I was terrified of losing all my work. As I drove, my friend Christine, a new mother to a gorgeous baby girl, told me her block was currently on fire.
I turned into Pasadena and within moments, the sky grew completely dark. Smoke from the Eaton Fire was blocking the sun. I flipped on my high beams and exited on Lincoln Avenue, where firefighters were urgently turning cars around. The road to my house was blocked. The wind, carrying random, agitated sparks with it, hit the side of my car forcefully. Massive flames were visible to the north, east, and west. I had entered an inferno.
@mrrafaelagustin This is #Altadena
It has been devasted by the #wildfires It’s heartbreaking to witness. But we will #rebuild
#community #california
I maneuvered my way back to the freeway and re-exited on Lake Avenue. Speeding north, I found another sheriff’s blockade. I desperately turned down random side streets until I finally emerged on my block. A burned-out automobile sat at the intersection.
The question was not why someone would sacrifice their life to fight the fire. The question was how could they not?
I parked in front of my house, put on my face mask, and ran toward the front door. Giant embers, perhaps burned palm bark, lay across the lawn. Miraculously, they had not ignited my or my neighbor’s house. I ran inside. It was 9 a.m. and pitch black. I fumbled my iPhone flashlight on and grabbed my laptop and some documents: passport, proof of ownership of our house: an immigrant child’s dreams come true.
Barely able to breathe, I sped away as fast as I could while heartbreaking messages from friends inundated my inbox. Six of my close friends lost their homes that morning. Three lost their entire blocks.
On Thursday, January 9, I drove back to Altadena. I could not believe the fires were still raging, with zero containment. Reports of an Altadena man who had died with a water hose in his hand were the most devastating of all. In a working-class town like Altadena, your home was all the financial security you had in the world. The question was not why someone would sacrifice their life to fight the fire. The question was how could they not?
That morning was the last time I would see my neighbors before the National Guard completely shut us out of our street. I parked my car at Woodbury Avenue and was told by the sheriff that only people with proof of residency could enter the area. I presented my driver’s license and hiked the half mile up my street, where I found our home still standing. The feeling of gratitude was short lived as I realized that a quarter of a mile north from us, the entire block had been decimated. Achingly, it was still drizzling ashes.
I found James, the mayor of our block, in front of his house. He had survived a harrowing 48 hours in his basement. Then he had slept in his car cradling his revolver, ready to fight off any looters. His generational home was his generational wealth. He was going to protect it.
@mrrafaelagustin Altadena is evolving from a #national #disaster to a #health #emergency
Please mak up if you come out and #volunteer
#altadena #pasadena #eaton #fire
I walked up the street to Liesel and Steve’s home. Electrical poles leaned over exhaustedly, their wires coiled on the side of the road. Given the circumstances, I had held it together pretty well as I spoke to my friends and neighbors. I even held it together when FaceTiming my mom and grandma, mindful not to strain my grandma’s 100-year-old heart. But standing in the ashes of Liesel and Steve’s house, I truly lost it.
I learned to be a writer in that home. I learned to run my first business in that home. And when it came time to purchase my first house, I did so right next to it. Now it was gone, just five years after Liesel and Steve had proudly become adopted parents to two brilliant Mexican-American kids.
Seeing so many Angelenos showing up to volunteer has been the first step to rebuilding—a necessary rebuilding of the spirit.
Today, I know more about FEMA, the SBA, and home insurance claims than I did a week ago. I know more about disaster centers, price gouging, and half-face respirators. I know more about loss, and I know an awful lot more about survivor’s remorse. But this past week also taught me a great lesson. Seeing so many Angelenos showing up to volunteer, donating to families they’ve never met on mutual aid websites, and declaring their love for our multicultural, working-class town has been the first step to rebuilding—a necessary rebuilding of the spirit. Houses are gone, but homes remain. Businesses are gone, but the communities they cultivated will not go anywhere. Altadena will rebuild, both physically and spiritually. Because as the mayor, who continues to protect our block while the National Guard keeps the rest of us out, taught me: All we have is each other.
Rafael Agustin, a member of Mother Jones’ board of directors, was a writer on the award-winning CW show Jane the Virgin and is the author of the bestselling memoir Illegally Yours.
