On Saturday, I went to a riot and found myself at a quinceañera.
I wasn’t lost. I had headed to the L.A. County cities of Compton and Paramount to see the “riots and looters” that Donald Trump and his administration were talking about on social media. I know those communities from years covering them for the Los Angeles Times.
But I couldn’t find any rioting.
Yes, Los Angeles County Sheriff’s deputies were on Alondra Boulevard. The sheriffs had two lines, blocking off a stretch of Alondra Boulevard that is home to Paramount’s Home Depot. That store and an industrial park nearby had been the site of a day-long conflict between immigration agents and local protestors who said they wanted to stop deportations.
To the east, sheriff’s vehicles were confronting a few protestors, pushing them back into the middle of Paramount. To the west, the law enforcement lines had crossed L.A. River and the 710 Freeway, which separate Paramount and Compton, and fired projectiles to push back a small group of protestors into east Compton.
In Compton, with its strong oral culture (it’s the hometown of Kendrick Lamar), some protestors were profane and provocative. A few were anarchists, dressed in black and wearing masks, and threw things at the sheriffs.
On the Compton side of law enforcement line, a burned-out car sat at the intersection of Alondra and Atlantic. But people weren’t rioting or destroying property. Maybe 400 people milled around. Some wrote “Fuera ICE,” or “Away ICE” on signs and businesses, since the departure of these feds would certainly make everyone safer.
As I approached the law enforcement line, I swallowed droplets that tasted like tear gas and pepper spray. So I retreated, first to Alondra and Atlantic, where not much was happening.
So I walked around the neighborhood. Two hundred yards in any direction, it was just another Saturday night. Just up Atlantic, families were relaxing in the park where Venus and Serena Williams learned tennis.
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I wandered west and then south, passing again near the law enforcement line. Less than 200 yards from there, I saw lights and heard banda music.
It was a quinceañera, a man said.
“Bro,” said a middle-aged gentleman wearing a Dodger hat, “you OK?”
“I’m good,” I said.
“Your eyes are kind of watery. Let me get you some water.”
I poured water from the cold bottle into my eyes. And he asked: “What’s the deal up there?”
I tried to explain.
“Trump is an idiot,” he said. “What else is new?”
Then the father of the girl celebrating her birthday invited me into the party.
He apologized that the party wasn’t grander—“I don’t have the money to rent a place”—but the event was quite spectacular.
It took up two side-by-side apartment building driveways that extended maybe 40 yards in from the street. The father and his family had put up a white tent, with chandeliers hung from the top, for 100 people. There was a dance floor, a stage, and a terrific band played so loud that you couldn’t hear the helicopters overhead.
There was a woman making tacos. The father ordered me two al pastor.
Who knew civil war could be so tasty?
Technically it turned out the party was a Sweet 16, not a quinceañera, for the father’s youngest daughter. This was his second marriage, and he wanted to go all out. He missed his older children, who had moved to Wyoming, where life is easier.
He saw no reason to stop the party. The police actions were just outside, but they didn’t feel or sound anything like what the White House was officially calling “a rebellion against the authority of the Government of the United States.”
“The government does what the government does,” the father said. “Life goes on.”
Eventually, he excused himself and danced with his wife.
Some other guests invited me to dance. I agreed. If your national government is going to declare you in rebellion, you might as well have a good time.
Joe Mathews writes the Connecting California column for Zócalo Public Square.
