No, yeah, I packed the Chappell Roan sword.
My go bag, my YouTube debut & a stab at hope.
I took a break from staring at the fire maps on my phone, and stared into my closet instead. I’d already packed up the essentials, the cozy sweats and warm layers that could get me through the next couple of days curled up on a friend’s couch — and on second thought, the more durable jeans and canvas top and steel toe Docs that would come in handy if things actually took a turn for the worse. But there was so much more staring back at me. Thrift finds. Designers that no longer exist. Garments tailored to my specific measurements. Pieces from my very first clothing collaboration, launched just months ago. Limited edition and discontinued items from my favorite small brands. And several suitcases full of clothing cleared from the racks but never from my life.
I stood in the doorway of my small closet, rods and shelves stuffed to the brim, at a loss. I love it all. And yet, in that moment, I didn’t give a singular shit about any of it. I couldn’t distinguish one favorite thing from the next. The pattern continued as I moved through our 1100 square foot home, bursting with old books and family heirlooms, and still adorned with Christmas decor. There’s only so much room in the car. There are only so many bags I can fill. There’s only so much I can take.
My partner and I have a notoriously well-stocked earthquake kit. We’ve got water bricks and first aid supplies, food and a crank radio and a rebar cutter, spices and a corkscrew and emergency bourbon. I feel extremely prepared for our home to become a base camp in the event of a disaster, and I know what bins to grab from the garage in case we have to flee. But I’ve never seriously considered what to take if we couldn’t return. I’ve thought about digging possessions out of the rubble, but not about everything turning to ash.
When the winds started picking up earlier that afternoon, I assured my partner (checking in from a work trip in Alaska) that I was prepared for a blackout, and he asked me to pack a go bag just in case. We laughed about his list. I loaded up the car with his essentials, including a replica of Chappell Roan’s VMA sword, and put my bags in a pile near the door, never cavalier about a fire but realistic about the minimal risk of danger from the other side of LA. And then came Eaton.
I spent the rest of the night glued to Watch Duty, stress eating Sumo Citrus (instead of pouring that glass of wine I really wanted, for fear I’d have get behind a wheel any minute). Around 5am, my adrenaline finally gave way to exhaustion. I took a few minutes off the map to wash my face and brush my teeth, then checked it one last time before crawling into bed. I watched as the evacuation zone jumped the nearby freeway, moving blocks away from my house. I popped right back out of bed, knowing that the car needed to be locked and loaded before I could get a wink of sleep. The moment I stepped outside, it was clear I couldn’t stay.
When my partner and I chatted hours before, I told him that if it came to it and I really did have to go, I’d just start tearing art off the walls. And so I did. A few linocuts from a women’s art collective in Nicaragua, a collage of polaroids of our friends, a framed photo of his grandpa as a young man. I made a quick and decisive sweep, after an evening full of slow and delirious ones.
It took me a full two weeks to unpack the car. They kept saying the winds were going to pick up again, and my anxiety told me to let it ride. When I finally brought everything back inside, I was amazed at how much I’d managed to pull together. Some bags were a little haphazard — my retainer was separated from its case, flying free in my camera backpack — but everything was there. Tiny utensils and tarot cards, crocheted crowns and cameras, grandma’s fur coat, my strawberry apron, and yes, Chappell Roan’s sword.
I unpacked it all in my first YouTube video (not the introduction I expected to make on that platform, but certainly one for the moment).
snippets.
Where I’ve been and what’s been on my mind.
January has been a hell of a year.
The Traitors. The fashion. The drama. The castle. I just finished season one and immediately started season two, so don’t tell me anything. This is my escape.
Prompted by the horrors of this month, I asked folks in my IG story what was bringing them hope right now (and how they planned to hold onto that feeling for the next four years). The answers were heartening.
Severance. I just watched the first season and I have never in my life been so happy to be three years behind on a show. I have so many theories and such high hopes.
SUAY textile recycling. Buy a bag. Fill it up. Pay it forward.
Your trash is not our treasure. LA is being flooded with trash in the name of donations. This is not the time to clear out your closet of raggedy old clothes, of soiled or damaged garments, of fast fashion from micro trends past. Clothing donation sites are overflowing with unusable garments, and volunteers are wasting precious resources sorting through what is essentially garbage. If you have new or lightly worn, high quality clothes or goods to donate, the best thing to do right now is hold onto them. Catalog what you’ve got and store it for the coming weeks/months when people start rebuilding their lives. The coverage will fade, but the needs will not. I have a list of resources (for both victims of the fires and those who’d like to help) here.
No buys. I think we’ve lost the plot. Longer rant to come. In the meantime, shop small & shop local.
Mask up, LA. Painters tape still lines my windows and doors. Air purifiers run 24/7 inside, while the air outside remains toxic. I haven’t relaxed quite yet. (I fear I’ll be a puddle for a couple of days once I do.)
I havent been able to fully understand what this experience must have been like for y’all there, even as I shift into the “live like its an emergency now” mindset i think i’ll use for the next 4 years, but this really truly put me into your mind and body. Thank you for sharing, and this is not how we die.
This essay is incredible, Becca. I can’t wait to read more from you here. It’s you and it’s different, all at once.