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The beginning of January in Los Angeles was sunny and dry, the polar opposite of Oberlin, where I had just traveled home from. In LA, I was excitedly preparing for my first Winter Term project. I would be returning to the Pasadena Waldorf School, where I spent 16 years as a student discovering community and music. I often think of the school as a beautiful second home with a loving second family. This time, I was in a different role; I had made arrangements to assist the fifth grade and middle school wind ensembles and teach some of the brass students. I had never given trombone lessons before and was nervous as the first day of school approached. I felt confident in my ability to set a positive example for the kids, but I was also aware that this was new to me. I was excited to learn as I went along.
The first day was spectacular. I arrived early, had lunch with the teacher, and we talked about our plans for the month. We briefly looked over potential pieces for the band to play, and for the first time, I felt I possessed sufficient music theory knowledge to have a meaningful conversation about some of the musical aspects of it. We then met with the middle school wind ensemble; fifth grade was the next day. I sat with the trombone section, and we all played a warmup together. The students all seemed excited to be playing music, which is something that every teacher hopes for, and it made me happy to see. It reminded me of my days seven years ago, learning in the same room. I then played for the class and introduced myself. We tuned, played together, and class was dismissed. Afterward, the teacher and I decided on a few pieces to play this semester. It was a fantastic start to the month, and I could picture it playing out quite nicely. I now had a lovely introduction to teaching and was looking forward to the rest of the month.
The next day, school was canceled due to the wind. We were warned a few days in advance of the expected windy conditions, and since the climate hadn’t seen rain in many months, the risk of fire was heightened. This wasn’t an entirely uncommon thing in Southern California, but I couldn’t help feeling on edge.
That evening, the wind had continued to intensify, and with the house shaking around us, my family and I sat on the couch and switched on KTLA 5, our local news channel. A small brush fire had come to life in the Pacific Palisades, far from our house but still in the city. We watched as the fire grew. It kept spreading, and now it was approaching a neighborhood. We could not take our eyes off the TV as the Palisades burned, just as they had predicted. We switched to NBC. A second fire had been spotted in Eaton Canyon. And now one in the Valley, too. We knew the firefighters were standing guard, ready for these events, and we trusted the fires would be extinguished quickly, but there was little they could do. The Santa Ana winds were strong, and they simply blew the fire west. It was too dangerous to fly a helicopter, eliminating the possibility of water drops on the flames.
The Eaton fire was approaching Altadena, where I had grown up. Despite its name, my school, the Pasadena Waldorf School, was in a beautiful neighborhood of Altadena, full of oak trees and sunshine. I have many fond memories there: skipping around the maypole, carving wooden stools, playing handball, making music, the Elves’ Faire, drawing in Main Lesson Books, and making rice balls with my class—just a fraction of the list that immediately comes to mind. My family now lives about six miles west of Altadena, but I lived there as a kid, and many of my classmates and friends still lived in the community.
The Eaton fire was unstoppable. NBC reporters were on the site, giving us a clear view of a house crumbling, and another, and another. We were far enough away that we did not seem to be in peril at that time. The power went out, and after some time, I went to sleep. I woke up a few hours later and checked the news; the fire was spreading at an even greater pace now. The trees outside were whirling, and the house’s walls were speaking to us, rocking back and forth. We heard from one of my brother’s friends: her house was gone. We knew the fire was devouring parts of Altadena, but we could not be sure where it currently was or what parts it had hit yet. No one was. I fell back into a rocky sleep.
I awoke at 5:04 a.m., with my phone spinning in circles beside me on my bedside table. It was screaming at me, and all I could make out were the words:
EVACUATION ORDER. LEAVE NOW.
I leapt out of bed, threw some clothes into a duffle bag, grabbed my backpack—which I had packed the night before just in case—and took hold of my trombone. Into the car now. The cat was in her carrier, the dog on her leash. Five minutes later, I was turning right out of my driveway. I saw a red glow in the distance. There were dozens of other cars pulling out of driveways and driving up and down the street. Halfway down, a tree was lying across the length of the road, with a power line down precisely on top of it. We turned around and drove the back way out of the neighborhood. I turned onto the freeway, and after a minute, I looked to my left. There, in the distance, were the flames. Bright and red, like the mountain was bleeding from a deep wound. I had to bring myself back to the road and away from the destruction nearby. We arrived at the Eagle Rock Mall parking lot and sat there for an hour. The sun was still down, but it was far from dark outside. The sky was orange; the streetlights were flickering. I stepped out of the car to talk to my mother and inhaled what seemed like the direct smoke of a campfire, even now a few miles away from the burning city.
On our way to a friend’s house, the stoplights were out, drivers were speeding through intersections, and branches were falling around us. We were lucky to stay with them for a few days. We all kept an eye on the news. The fire was spreading faster than ever. I don’t remember who we heard from first, but soon enough, I learned that four of my friends’ houses had burned down. Stuart, one of my teachers and musical mentors, lost his house very early and went to drive by the school. He reported that it was up in flames. The campus, which had so much soul and a community that I loved, was gone in an instant. We stayed inside all day.
I realized I couldn’t complete my Winter Term project anymore, and in the chaos, I was able to think about how I could change it and how I could help the school. I slept on an air mattress that night, and the next day was the same. We learned of more loss. A senior living home had been evacuated and burned down. Pizza of Venice, where I worked for two years, was also gone. Our house was still okay, based on the maps. The fire, still zero percent contained, was moving away from our house. The evacuation orders were lifted in our area three days later, and I slept in my bed again. The power came back on. More and more of my friends from Waldorf, six of whom I have known since the first grade, lost their homes. Teachers’ houses, pet stores, restaurants. It didn’t stop. We wore thick masks outside, and the days passed as blurs. We saw a friend whose family had lost everything. I had never seen him like this before; he had dark circles under his eyes and he seemed to be in shock, as if he had lost a small part of himself, too.
I reached out to some of my students’ families, who now had nowhere to go for school, to see if they would be interested in free trombone lessons, and a short mental escape from the chaos and stress surrounding us. I received a resounding yes. I drove to Angelo’s house, and we played music together for two hours. I was thankful, and his family was too. I loved showing him small tips I had learned over the years and guiding him through basic fundamentals that I have so many memories of learning. We played some duets, and it was fun. It seemed to motivate him, and he and I both enjoyed it. My Winter Term project would now consist of me teaching Angelo, taking lessons myself, practicing trombone on my own, recording for auditions, and finding resources to help replace the instruments that my school lost in the fire: many brass instruments, recorders, pianos, djembes, string instruments, and countless others.
A week later, I went to the Colburn School in downtown Los Angeles, where I had played in brass quintets for much of high school. It was wonderful to see some of my old teachers, and the first exchange was always the same: ‘I’m glad you are safe, is your family okay? House safe? Good. It’s awful.’ I mentioned the fate of my school to one of my favorite teachers from Colburn, and asked if he knew of any way to replace the instruments. He said he would get in touch with Yamaha, who may be able to provide some new replacements. I made a large list of organizations raising money for musicians, for general support and replacement instruments, and sent that to my teacher as well.
Despite the troubling and tragic days, I tried to make the most of my time in LA before my second semester at Oberlin. I contacted Derek Pyle, a professional jazz trombonist in the area, and he agreed to give me a lesson. It took place in the backyard studio of Dick Nash, an absolutely legendary trombone player, and it lasted six hours. Derek gave me the solid building blocks of jazz. So much knowledge, so many stories, so many tunes, so much playing, so many exercises, so many books, and so much music. We played for five straight hours, and in the last hour, I got to meet Dick Nash, who turned 97 last Sunday. It was an incredible experience — one that I will never forget.
Toward the end of the month, it was time for me to record auditions for a few summer orchestra festivals. An old high school teacher was kind enough to let me use his studio space in Pasadena, just south of the now-scorched Altadena. After many frustrating tries, I finally got a take I was happy with of the first excerpt. An hour later, I decided to grab lunch. I drove to a restaurant a block north. From my table inside, I saw a National Guard vehicle parked at an intersection, which was previously blocked off, not allowing the public up into Altadena.
After I finished my tacos, I drove up Allen Avenue. For a few blocks, nothing had changed. The trees were green, the houses were standing, and cars were parked in the driveways. I turned left onto Mendocino Street, and right in front of me, there was nothing. Well, there was a chimney. And ash. And a melted Nissan. I was staring straight at where a house used to be set. The ground was covered in burnt debris. I was short of breath. I kept driving, and next to the ruins was another house, this one fully intact. It looked like the fire had jumped right over it. It went on like this for a few blocks: one house burned, a couple still standing, and a few more gone. I drove until I came upon my friend’s home, where I had just spent New Year’s Eve. She used to have very tall, vibrantly green shrubs growing in front of her gorgeous Spanish-style house. The bushes were still there, but they were an unpleasant brown, and behind them, the ground was flat. No house. No fence. No doorstep, no garbage bins, no garden. I had seen enough. I turned around, finished my recording session, and submitted the videos.
That was the eerie conclusion to my Winter Term project. My family: my mom, dad, brother, and I, have all become much closer with each other. My heart aches for all of my friends and all of the people who have lost everything. Altadena was rich in art and community and gave me the most beautiful schooling experience, my first job, and friends I will have forever. In fourth grade, my class left Altadena to hike through Sequoia National Park. We learned that the trees need fire to survive, and have for millions of years. The flames open the trees’ cones and release hundreds of new seeds. Altadena, like the great sequoia trees, will grow back from the fires. It will be a long process, but it will not be left desolate to be blown away by the wind.