(But to me, Los Angeles isn’t a violent place)
“The writer describes her feelings about whether Los Angeles is a dangerous place “
“Sometimes I feel trapped. I can’t cross the street to the mini-mart. I can’t walk my beagle alone. I can’t ride my bike without a chaperone. My parents keep me on lock-down. At times, I’m just so frustrated because they are overly protective. On the nightly news, they’ll hear a report of an honor student who got shot and say, “”See? You think we make this stuff up. This is why we don’t let you go across the street. Something could happen.””
I must admit, they have a point, even though sometimes I do not want to hear it. Violence is real. I watch the news with my parents and there is always something pertaining to violence and teens. I’ve read the report that 222 Los Angeles youth, aged 0-19, were killed in 1997. But could something like that happen to me?
My neighborhood seems peaceful
I look around me, standing on my front lawn in Los Angeles, and I can hear a pin drop. Daily I hear little children playing and dogs barking. I never hear gunshots or people crying out in terror for help. I look at my friends and they don’t see violence. Maybe I’m naïve, but to me Los Angeles doesn’t seem violent.
Last summer my neighbor’s purse was stolen. Now, whenever a newspaper reports a violent crime, everybody in the neighborhood talks about that purse-snatching and how L.A.’s gotten so dangerous. But in my mind, one purse being stolen doesn’t mean my life is in danger.
I really don’t know what to make of it. Are my parents right in thinking that I am in danger? Am I right in thinking that I’m safe? Does the TV news blow things out of proportion?
Violence does affect me
Even though I do not live in a violent community, my life has been touched by violence. I lost a classmate who became my friend when I went to school in Las Vegas. A few days shy of his 12th birthday, Rupert was shot. A friend of his was showing off his newly bought gun when somehow it went off. The two thought the gun wasn’t loaded. I still remember him vividly, with is soulful brown eyes and jet black hair.
Every year around the anniversary of his death, I get kind of sad. Sometimes, I look in the mirror and pretend I’m talking to him. I’ll update him on everything that has happened since he died. “”Your family really misses you. Your brother changed since you left. I love you, and miss you terribly.”” My little sister will overhear me and ask who I’m talking to. I’ll say, “”no one.”” That’s my time with him. I can’t share that with anyone else. But I can share this: when someone dies so young, it changes everyone that’s involved—family members, friends, even acquaintances.”