Whither the Plebians
by Justin Black

Olvera Street sits atop a small rise in the center of Los Angeles north of Union Station. It seems out of place amongst the tall buildings and bustle of Los Angeles; it is tightly bordered on all sides by the heady roar of Los Angeles traffic. It features a gazebo in the center, surrounded by old cobble stone streets that are red and beige. Olvera Street proper is a street that runs from the east edge of the circle eastward for about one block. The buildings are one and two-story brick buildings; along the fronts of the buildings are then again in the middle of the street are kiosks built of wood and painted green and grey. The street is thus bisected into two smaller walkways. The Mexican tourist shops bustle outward with wares. Draped over the street are sun screens; all this gives Olvera Street a claustrophobic feel.

I have seen such shops before in the downtown district of Los Angeles, below its towering skyscrapers. The kiosks, painted the same non-descript greens and greys, seemed very minute in contrast to the tall buildings they huddled against. Los Angeles is outsized now; the Old Los Angeles of Olvera street plays second-fiddle to the kiosks; it is bordered by the implements of modernity, the cars and trucks and SUVs that roar and hum. The Old Los Angeles was frontier country; it was the edge of the known for the Spanish, for the Mexicans and then for the Americans. Now it is shuttered by tall buildings and the endless whirring of automobile engines; it is cluttered with shops; it is choked with smoke; the stars are marred by the city lights. Yet as I gaze out east down the street I can begin to see signs of the Old Los Angeles. There are cables strung and from them hang dried grape vines, still thick with dried grapes. Pepper trees (so old they have grown into the buildings) line the avenue as tantalizing brush strokes that guide the imagination into the canvas of Old Los Angeles.

I must confess that the claustrophobia and the gaudy appearance of the wares in the shops led me through the rote thinking of an American tourist. I felt exasperated at the wares and the tightness of the shops; it was too tight for polite window shopping; the shop-keeps gazed out imploringly. They must want that greenback dollar pretty bad, I thought, wincing. As I inspected a few leather wallets, I imagined I knew why the shop-keeps were so nervous; they knew their wares were truly sub-standard. No artisans here, just eager new immigrants trying to make a buck. I felt sad and lonely, and felt the familiar ennui descend. I stifled a yawn and paced back and forth. I spied a glass shop, set back along the side of an Old building. There! Artisans, at long last-I had found a remnant of pre-Industrial Revolution culture. There were glass roses of blown glass, and impossibly complex carriages and animals built of glass tubes molded together. All was so intricately constructed; I saw an older man at his workstation. He seemed to belong there, and had been at his craft for some time; this was clear from the notches and stains of his work bench. I was mesmerized by the skill of his wares, but also the speed with which he crafted such delicate and graceful work.

The clue to unlock my complex of thoughts was there before me-$8 for the rose, and anywhere from $50 to $100 for the other art pieces. The artisan could charge no more than this for his craft, tourist dollar included. I had come to see the Old Los Angeles, and it was bundled into Modernity's tight, indifferent embrace. I had come to see cultural objects; instead I saw class prejudice. If an Old Italian community featured a glass blower he could charge at least three times what Olvera Street 's artisan charged. My feeling of scorn and ennui faded; in its place I felt anxious, and perturbed. My bubble had been burst; I was no longer just a tourist, I was a sympathetic pair of eyes to the subtle degradations of Modernity, and American Capitalism. The beautiful land had turned into a concrete jungle. When I said to myself "you don't need any of this crap-it's all just made cheaply in a factory in bulk," I forgot about the poor souls manning the machines and fitting into our tried and true capitalist method-mass production of cheap goods. The workers fit in as cheap labor, which is the essential ingredient to mass production, low prices, and most importantly mass profit for the capital-holding class. It fit logically then that the artisan should get no more than $8 for his beautiful rose; he was part of the wonderful system that provides us with reasonable quality goods that we, as tourists, bless with our greenback dollar.

And yet I seethed with anger at the glass-blower; had he not the pride to ask for what he deserved? And when I walked north to the Mission , I saw nothing more of these little creatures, furtively praying to a god that spurned them; their land is but a paltry reservation in our grand city of the West. How typical of a plebeian to be murmuring soft prayers in quiet joy? The sheep are content; so my thought went that day, as I paced. The gold art seemed insipid; it wasn't real; the paintings were shoddy; dim light filtered through the murky windows. I wanted to think these people had had more than this paltriness. In 1781, poor pilgrims from New Spain had migrated north to this valley: Mulattos and Negroes and Spaniards; all alone in this vast, empty and achingly beautiful landscape. For some time after its' founding, and even as the Frontier was closed, this valley of Los Angeles was a place of natural beauty and material bounty; the earth was sown, grapes grew thick on vines, and wine flowed freely. Now, after so many waves of new immigrants, and the American closure of the West, the chapel no longer looked out onto the vast wilderness, nor did it look onto fields of growing things. Now, all that is left are dried grape vines, a token carelessly draped in the wake of Industrialization. Didn't these plebeians at least know what they had lost, now that their idyll in this beautiful place had ended in concrete and barbed wire?

Yet I am perhaps only envious-these plebeians I watch with such disdain are calm, sincere and from what I could glean, genuinely grateful for what they have before them. My claustrophobia is a foreigner's claustrophobia; I can go anywhere, my feet are restless, and my dreams and hopes spur me on. I am a tourist, and now I am a sympathetic mind; I will not forget the glass ceiling set atop Olvera Street . Whither the plebeians? As a person privileged by modernity and education, I cannot endure the squalor of the present day Olvera Street . I need wide open spaces to dream of new beginnings; I need the frontier. The sight of its closure: the denouement of American expansion in the tight frame of Olvera Street -grips me like a vice. I tip my hat to these plebeians, who have made the best of an unfortunate situation, and when I get my car washed I will free a few more dollars from my wallet and give it to the excellent fellow who endures hard labor. Maybe my dollar will go to feed his family; and yet I hope that he will use it fuel his tank, get in his car and drive somewhere so that he can see, unspoiled, the land that is his birthright as much as mine.

Justin Beck says, "I am an anthropology major from Pitzer College. I write because I have a unique perspective that I cannot easily communicate; somewhere in the tangle of threads of thoughts I hope to find a gem of meaning. This essay illustrates an attempt that was not wholly in vain."