On the Disappearance of Community, Part 2

By Karen Sternheimer

 

A few months ago, I wrote about how losing a home is not just about losing one’s place to live, but losing a community and the people within it. People around us can shape our daily rhythms and feelings of connectedness to place. Sociologists study the importance of communities, most notably how they are not just the places in which our everyday lives take place, but provide access to opportunities, economic contexts, and impact our health.

Our community recreation center, which had been the centerpiece of our community, recently re-opened after surviving the fire and undergoing smoke remediation. Despite now living 25 miles away—which in Los Angeles traffic can constitute a day trip—we arrived as soon as the doors opened to use the gym and pool on a hot day, and to reconnect with our friends and neighbors.

 

It was a reminder that communities are not just geographic spaces, not just groups of people who live near one another, but can constitute people with similar experiences that are not connected by place. None of the people we saw had lost their home, and there was a major disconnect between us and them. Their experience of the disaster and its aftermath had been decidedly different, and their struggle to comprehend the loss created a dividing line that made me feel like an outsider in my own community.

 

First, some background. The recreation center members come from one of three homeowner’s associations (HOAs). Two of the three burned down (including ours), and all but one home in the third association—which I’ll call Lucky HOA—survived the fire. The Lucky HOA is the largest HOA by far, with Lucky rec center members comprising two out of three households.

 

Our friends and neighbors in the Lucky HOA had still been displaced for weeks due to evacuation, and then for months while their homes were being repaired from smoke damage. Four months after the fire, Lucky HOA residents are beginning to trickle back into their homes. The rec center re-opening was a great opportunity for Lucky homeowners to reconnect.

 

The rec center has been a point of contention for people who lost their homes. As member-owners, we are legally obligated to pay monthly dues for its continued operation. Some members from the unlucky HOAs felt it was unfair to have to continue to pay when they were no longer living in the community, but just like a mortgage obligation, this expense does not go away.

 

By contrast, one of the Lucky HOA members complained that it was “torture” to walk by the rec center and see its newly cleaned pool and not be able to use it until recently. He complained that there was no good reason that members couldn’t use it (although there was a good reason: the health department had to sign off on the safety of the pool after it had been filled with ash and debris). I mentioned that some of the unlucky HOA members didn’t think it should be open at all if they couldn’t use it. Some even threatened to take legal action against the rec center; in other words, to sue their neighbors.

 

We saw many of the people I mentioned in this previous post: Justin and Dan, rec center managers, greeted us with smiles and hugs. One of the swimming regulars, Diana, asked us when we moved back home. We didn’t, we said, gently reminding her that our place is gone.

 

She asked when we were having our debris removed—the first of many to ask this question during our visit. Those going through the process are versed in the practice of not knowing and waiting. First, forms are sent to the county, who send them to the Army Corps of Engineers, who assign the property to a contractor. The process takes months (our form was submitted in February, accepted in March, and we are still waiting to have the debris removed). To the outsider, it might just seem like we are dragging our feet.

 

Others asked if our HOA was planning on rebuilding. Yes, I answered, we must. No rebuild, no insurance money. “Are you sure?” people would ask. Um, hell yes, I’m sure, I thought, having lived and breathed this process for the past four months.

 

“How long do you think it will take?”

 

This is a loaded question for people experiencing long-term displacement. The truth is, we don’t know. We want to know. We want to be able to plan and have a move-in date. Part of this experience is getting comfortable with not knowing about the long-term. I said I thought it could be about two years.

 

“I bet it will be at least three,” a Lucky HOA member replied.

 

Ouch. This hurts, more than someone not experiencing a total home loss might realize. We might make peace with a two-year timeline, secretly imagining it will be even less. But not even more.

 

We found ourselves explaining what this experience feels like to multiple people that day, as well as the insurance claim process (yes, we had to document all our possessions room by room on a spreadsheet, along with how much everything cost). One Lucky HOA member presumed we had been getting regular payments from the government as well. Not a penny, I said, as we explained the process and how it so far has been an exercise in futility.

 

A Lucky HOA couple we have kept in touch with met us there to catch up at the pool. They had contractors working at their house and knew we had been at the gym at first. “Did you go home for breakfast?” one of them asked, quickly catching himself and apologizing for the slip.

 

We used to go home for breakfast, but now home was 25 miles away. Or is it? As I’ve written about, we are outsiders in our new community, temporary locals with friends but no roots here.

 

The next day, I received a text from a fellow displaced neighbor from my HOA who went back to the rec center for the first time that day too. It was good to connect with someone who understands the experience of going “home” without a home to go home to.

 

This is not to say we didn’t find a sense of connection. People shared their evacuation stories and anger upon hearing that the local reservoir was empty when the fire struck. And we got a lot of well-wishes, with people saying they hoped they’d be seeing us regularly again—we used to be at the rec center about five times a week.

 

“Maybe once or twice a week?” Justin asked.

 

Maybe once or twice a month, realistically.

 

Experiences like total home loss can create bonds and fissures within communities. Place connects us, but so do sets of experiences. A representative from the nonprofit After the Fire spoke at a Zoom meeting soon after the fire. Despite living thousands of miles away, he had been through a total loss too. “You will go home again,” he said. That meant a lot to hear, coming from someone in the community I am now a part of.

Comments

[melon playground]

I was reminded by reading this of the sense of community that once existed in my area. Seeing that sense of community disappear is depressing.