I Don’t Care that You Hate the Valley by Chelsea Corry

A narrator reflects on an adolescence spent in the San Fernando Valley.

When bright-eyed 20-somethings scurry from their hometowns and into the bustling, but not-as-intimidating-as-New-York city of Los Angeles, they take their vlog cameras with them to capture every moment. Every manufactured Pretty Little Thing party, every stop at a Whole Foods underneath a luxury apartment, and every hangout with a fellow transplant; they broadcast the glamorous (white) West Hollywood dream to their online audience, leaving behind a flat, lifeless portrayal of LA.

When I would hear people call my city “shallow” or “inauthentic,” I thought, surely I’m missing something. I am an LA native, and this has never been a part of my experience or the experiences of the people closest to me. I don’t spend my time in the packed, trendy coffee shops with neutral color palettes. I’ve never found myself at an influencer event on the roof of a hotel. 

The LA I know is the San Fernando Valley, an urbanized valley that stretches from Calabasas to Glendale and makes up most of Los Angeles County. It's also where Cher got robbed in Clueless and Samantha bought a knock-off designer bag in an episode of Sex and the City. It’s home to 1.8 million Angelenos with various backgrounds, economic statuses and experiences. In the 22 years of my life, I’ve lived all over the Valley, from Sherman Oaks to Granada Hills. Every grade school I attended and every collegiate institution I attended are all about a 20 minute drive from each other.

The Valley sits just outside the glitz and glamour of LA proper but it’s close enough to touch it if and when you want to. I got to live the middle school dream of doing my homework at my local Starbucks and watching famed Canadian actor Vanessa Morgan from My Babysitter's a Vampire walk in and order a drink. I stared her down until she turned and awkwardly smiled at me, each of us silently acknowledging that I was the only person who seemed to notice her. It was the perfect moment. Best of all, this Starbucks had ample parking and no one was worried about a ballet flat or a bloomer short. But if I wanted to live the bloomer short fantasy, my friend's parents could drive us 30 minutes away into the city to whatever trendy spot or niche pop-up we saw online.

The negative assumptions that outsiders made were never something I considered when I was growing up. When they talked about “Northridge girls” on an episode of Victorious, referencing a town that sits in the north San Fernando Valley, I didn't realize the negative connotation of a “valley freak,” looking to get in with the “cool” Hollywood teen crowd. I was just excited to hear a city that I knew well mentioned on TV. In reality, it seemed to me that nobody was all that clout-hungry at Skateland, the Northridge roller rink that we went to when we just wanted to skate to T-Pain and eat frozen pizza.

When my family lived in Sherman Oaks, I’d take walks with my dad at the park down the street, the sidewalk lined with Pinesol-scented magnolia trees. We’d walk the entire park and share a cheese pizza at the pizza shop around the corner. It was 2009, so small eateries with charm were still around. I’d sit on the green velvet chairs waiting for my dad to order at the counter and stare at the fat-backed TV in the corner that always had on a sport. They knew us by name. It was the same shop we often stopped at after my first-grade class let out right across the street. I remember those moments a lot more than any celebrity encounter.

No matter how deep into the Valley I moved, the joy was all the same. In Sylmar, where I finished elementary school, kids lined up with their parents as soon as the bell rang at the back gate where the elote man waited every day, and when he wasn’t there, the raspado man took his place. I’d always hoped it’d be my lucky day and I’d see my dad waiting with a bag of pinwheels for me, which never happened. Now, instead of our small pizza spot, my dad would take me to the Little Caesars around the corner, where, without fail, I’d see one of my friends in the parking lot with my exact order: a deep dish combo with a Manzanita Sol. In Porter Ranch, I went to the same AMC Nicole Kidman strutted through, looked at big, pretty houses, and, for some reason, saw some of the nicest sunsets I’ve ever seen. 

I didn’t leave the Valley after high school, but instead moved further North to Santa Clarita, which at the very least gave me the illusion of a new place. I made a 35-minute drive to Northridge to my university. I began to wonder if I needed something other than mountainous terrain and the 210 freeway (my favorite). Maybe there was something better than my favorite sunsets, perfect weather, never being bored and always finding parking. I explained to my coworker, a Studio City native, that I was beginning to feel like I was a small-town girl who needed to get away. I told her I should probably move at some point to experience something outside of my familiar suburb.

 Her response was, “Why would you need to?” 

She, another Valley native, said that when she went to Oregon for college she went through a culture shock that sent her right back to LA. It made her realize just how good she had it as a Valley girl. She remembered how she didn’t see the sun for months and had to drive an hour out of town to find a panaderia. She told me she didn’t think she would ever leave again. She took for granted how much culture we have at our fingertips. It felt good to know I wasn’t crazy. Why would I act like I don’t have everything I need here? I have pizza shops, constant heat, Disney star encounters and the Raspado man. That’s more than enough to sustain me.