Should Los Angeles Remain a Sanctuary City?

I was coming out of a lovely restaurant in Downtown L.A.—Le Petit Paris. My Uber was waiting across the street, annoyingly parked on the wrong side of a one-way road. As I approached, a homeless man was shouting at the car. The driver didn’t move. Did he not realize I would have to walk right past a screaming, clearly distressed man just to get in?

View of Los Angeles

As soon as I closed the door, the driver apologized. He wasn’t sure he should even be driving. After his last ride in Old Town Pasadena, a homeless man had thrown something at his car, damaging it. He was still shaken. A few weeks earlier, someone had hurled a brick—or something like it—through his parked car window. For someone who drives full-time for rideshare, every dent or crack isn’t just an inconvenience; it’s a financial crisis.

As an Angeleno, I’m often told I’m a rarity—I don’t drive. I gave up my car and license over a decade ago. I walk, take the Metro, and use rideshare. In many ways, I see more of this city than most. And what I see both fills me with love and breaks my heart. Because Los Angeles, for all its beauty, has lost its civility.

To me, civility is more than politeness. It is mindfulness. It is a deliberate regard for others.

Los Angeles stretches forty-four miles north to south and twenty-nine miles east to west. It is home to more than 46,000 unhoused people—many without access to clean water, toilets, or even shoes. The “fortunate” ones live in tents. Others sleep behind dumpsters, on bus benches, in subway stations, or on soiled mattresses in the street. They dig through trash cans for food and drink, some barely clothed, some barefoot. Calling this a “public health hazard” feels like a cruel understatement. It is inhumane.

The situation is so dire that the city has been under a state of emergency on housing and homelessness.

And yet, government agencies and NGOs continue to welcome and provide resources to immigrants who have unlawfully entered the country, many bused here from Texas—while tens of thousands already here remain without basic care. It’s not easy to criticize compassion—but I felt betrayed and confused watching city officials and volunteers greet the new arrivals with open arms and services. Shouldn’t those same services—funded by taxpayers—have been offered the day before to people sleeping behind trash bins, under bridges, or on sidewalks? Shouldn’t we first tend to the people already suffering in our streets before extending help to others arriving from elsewhere?

If there are funds to help newcomers, shouldn’t those funds first go to the tens of thousands living in inhumane conditions right here?

It is easy to say, “We are a sanctuary city.” It sounds noble. It feels righteous. But when I see people digging through trash, sleeping on soiled mattresses surrounded by filth, I can’t help but feel that our so-called sanctuary is, at best, obtuse—and, at worst, cruel.

We are not Jesus. We cannot feed five thousand with five loaves and two fish. The truth is, we can’t help everyone. Our social services have been failing for decades. Our NGOs are overwhelmed. The demand for housing, medical care, and financial aid already far exceeds available resources. And yet, Los Angeles keeps declaring itself a haven for more people in need.

Being a sanctuary city is not just about refusing to cooperate with federal deportation efforts. True sanctuary means being able to provide the resources necessary for people to survive and rebuild. We already know we can’t.

In a city where the elderly are being pushed onto the streets by rising housing costs, how can it be “the right thing” to invite more people who will also need affordable housing? Isn’t that a modern echo of Marie Antoinette’s “Let them eat cake”? It is easier—politically and socially—to say “everyone is welcome” than to make the uncomfortable admission that we simply cannot help everyone.

There are over 300 cities in the U.S. with populations over 100,000—and more than a thousand cities altogether. Sometimes, true leadership means standing up and saying no. It means leaving the table so someone else has a place to sit.

Los Angeles must face the stench of its own inhumanity. Taking in more people in need while 40,000 of our own languish on sidewalks is not compassion—it’s negligence.

It’s time to stop saying what sounds socially correct and start doing what is morally right. Only when we restore dignity to the people already suffering in our streets can we truly call ourselves a sanctuary city.

More essays:

Barbie, Margot & Greta… Thank You, but No Thank You

Trump et Gay

Can There Be Such a Thing as Humanity in War?

And Just Like That, It Isn’t Easy Being Us

Donald Trump and His 74 Million American Voters

ESSAYS | RECIPES | STYLES | IG

Articles sélectionnés

I earn commission on qualified purchases.

Comments

Scallops with Cucumber Salad

Summer without cucumbers is like summer without shorts. Unthinkable. Crisp and cooling, cucumbers are indispensable when the heat sets in. While I love them tucked into an icy bowl of naengmyeon, they’re equally persuasive in a quick salad that refreshes without effort. Paired with scallops, they make a meal that feels considered without demanding much time at the stove. This is the kind of dish that understands restraint: clean flavors, minimal heat, and just enough acidity to keep everything awake. INGREDIENTS [serves 2 as a main course] six large scallops half of an English cucumber, thinly sliced one-quarter of red onion, thinly sliced four basil leaves zest and juice from one lemon one twig of French thyme one garlic clove, chopped one-third of a cup of white wine vinegar two tablespoons brown sugar a light pinch of sea salt a sliver of unsalted butter In a bowl, mix the white wine vinegar and brown sugar until the sugar dissolves. Add the cucumber, red onion, basil leaves, an...

French Green Bean Casserole

No entrée stands alone. Even the most confident main course benefits from a supporting act that knows how to hold its own without clamoring for attention. The green bean casserole, in its most American form, is often nostalgic, sometimes heavy, rarely subtle. This version leans elsewhere. French green beans retain their snap. Gruyère and crème fraîche lend quiet luxury. Pancetta and shiitake deepen the room. It is familiar, yes — but composed, deliberate, and just decadent enough to feel dressed for the occasion. Served with turkey roast INGREDIENTS [serves 4 as a side dish] eight ounces of French green beans, trimmed one shallot, diced two celery stalks, sliced three ounces of shiitake mushrooms, sliced a quarter pound of Gruyère, grated two ounces of pancetta, small cubes two tablespoons of butter, melted one cup of panko a quarter cup of heavy whipping cream six ounces of crème fraîche Preheat the oven to 375°F. Bring a pot of water, enough to cover the beans, to a boil. Boil the ...

Haemul Pajeon, Korean Seafood Green Onion Pancake

Whoever coined the phrase “bigger is better” clearly never consulted a five-foot-three-inch woman. I have long maintained that fabulousity often comes in small packages. There are exceptions, of course, and Haemul Pajeon, the Korean Seafood Green Onion Pancake, makes a rather delicious case for abandoning my principles. When it comes to this Korean favorite, thickness is everything. Packed with shrimp, squid, green onions, zucchini, and yellow onions, these savory pancakes are a glorious celebration of excess, at least where ingredients are concerned. While many recipes favor thinner pancakes or arrange the ingredients neatly on top, there is a reason the thicker, generously stuffed versions served at Korean restaurants have gone viral. With their crisp, deeply browned exteriors giving way to tender, seafood-packed interiors, they deliver a combination of flavor and texture that thinner versions simply cannot match. Sometimes, bigger really is better. Or, in this case, thicker. INGREDI...

Samgyetang, aka Korean Ginseng Chicken Soup

Healthy. That is the best word to describe Samgyetang, Korean Ginseng Chicken Soup, made with ginseng, daechu (Korean jujubes), leeks, and asatsuki (Japanese chives). While I didn’t appreciate this Korean chicken soup as a child, my appreciation for its soulful flavor and power-boosting health benefits has grown over the years. Before I start talking about its health benefits, let’s talk about the chicken—because it matters. I used a four-pound chicken purchased directly from a ranch at the Hollywood Farmers’ Market. It was a bit on the expensive side, but it was organic and pasture-raised without machine handling. It was handled and butchered by hand. This chicken soup is medicinal, so the quality of the chicken matters. Now that we’ve gotten the topic of chicken out of the way, let’s talk about the other ingredients that give Samgyetang its restorative depth. “Sam” of Samgyetang comes from ginseng in Korean. It brings a distinct earthiness to the broth—slightly bitter, grounding,...

Mongolian Beef

Mongolian Beef is my all-time favorite Chinese dish—savory, slightly sweet, garlicky, and finished with that irresistible glossy sauce that clings to every slice of beef. Despite its name, the dish isn’t from Mongolia at all; it’s a Chinese-American creation inspired by flavors and cooking techniques from northern China, popularized in Chinese restaurants in the United States. The combination of tender sliced beef, aromatics like ginger and garlic, and a rich soy-based sauce makes it both comforting and bold, the kind of dish that feels special yet familiar every time it’s served. Ceramic bowl was wheel-thrown and glazed by me. INGREDIENTS [serves 3 to 4 as a main course] one pound of boneless ribeye steak, sliced one and a half tablespoons of cornstarch two tablespoons of Tamari soy sauce two tablespoons of vegetable oil one tablespoon of cooking Michiu two teaspoons of oyster sauce two teaspoons of Sriracha sauce one tablespoon of roughly chopped ginger two garlic cloves, sli...

Are We Ready for the Truth? I’m Fat.

I am fat. That is neither a confession nor a plea for reassurance. It is not coded self-loathing nor an invitation for affirmation. It is a description of my body. Yet the moment I say it aloud, people rush to correct me, as though I have misidentified myself. “You’re not fat,” they insist, with the urgency of someone extinguishing a small fire. The discomfort is not mine. It is theirs. Las Alcobas Hotel Staircase, Mexico City, Mexico Fat is not an identity. It is not a character assessment or a moral condition. It is a descriptor of a body. The body is a vessel that carries who we are; it is not the entirety of who we are. When I describe my body as fat, I am not reducing myself. I am describing the state of the vessel. We have constructed a culture in which self-acceptance is treated as a moral virtue—but only when it follows approved language. Love your body, we are told, but do not describe it in ways that unsettle others. Do not call yourself fat unless you meet some publicly agre...

Homemade Balsamic Glaze

There are ingredients that demand complexity, and then there are ingredients that reward quiet. Balsamic glaze belongs firmly in the latter category. At its core, it is nothing more than vinegar reduced with a touch of sugar. No emulsions. No elaborate technique. Just heat transforming sharpness into depth. As the vinegar simmers, it thickens into something darker, glossier, and quietly dramatic. A proper balsamic reduction carries contrast. It is sweet, but not cloying. Acidic, but softened. It pools against burrata, streaks across roasted vegetables, finishes a steak, and cuts through the richness of duck with precision. It does not overwhelm. It punctuates. And unlike many bottled versions, which can taste flat or syrupy, a homemade glaze retains the complexity of the vinegar itself. The flavor concentrates. The texture becomes silkier. The control is yours. INGREDIENTS a half cup of balsamic vinegar one and a half teaspoons of sugar In a small saucepan, combine the balsamic...

Curated: Autumn 2026 Style Makers

Autumn has a way of making getting dressed feel interesting again. Perhaps it is the cooling air, or simply the relief of no longer negotiating with heat, but suddenly there is room for texture, layers, and a little more intention. The closet does not need to be reinvented for the occasion. As I wrote in Curated: Summer 2026 Style Makers , style is about curation: knowing what belongs, what still works, and what deserves the occasional addition. at LACMA There is confidence in that kind of restraint. It is the difference between wearing what fashion tells us is new and knowing ourselves well enough to decide what is worth bringing home. A beautifully cut jacket, an unexpected shoe, or a sweater with just enough personality can shift pieces we have owned for years into something that feels entirely current. The point is not to become someone new every season, but to become increasingly certain of the person already standing in front of the closet. And then there is color. Summer’s white...

The Art of Calabrian Chicken

I spent yesterday afternoon at the Lucas Museum of Narrative Art. Newly opened last month after years of anticipation, it was a visit I approached with some hesitation. My disappointment with LACMA's David Geffen Galleries earlier this year had yet to settle. I felt as though I had wandered into a fabulous space where art and artifacts had been arranged without much intention, without stories to tell, rather like an art fair with booths. I carried that impression with me as I prepared to visit the Lucas Museum. After the Prom by Norman Rockwell I knew I would be mesmerized by its architecture. What surprised me was the storytelling within. I hadn't expected Norman Rockwell's gallery to captivate me quite as much as it did. There was something profoundly beautiful about the smallness of life he portrayed, the ordinary moments of family, childhood, and everyday rituals elevated into something worthy of our attention. Rockwell's America was often idealized, certainly, bu...

Inspired by Bar Santos: Piri Piri Sauce

It is one of those rare places in Los Angeles where I can feel authenticity and genuine warmth. When I first stepped into Bar Santos in Cypress Park, I was still recovering from my Portugal trip. If you recall from my IG Stories , a canceled flight, another delayed flight, lost luggage, falsely confiscated jamón ibérico, and the mystery of how airlines cannot distinguish between hotels and motels were traumatic enough to leave a mental scar. However, Bar Santos healed whatever wound remained. Piri Piri Chicken at Bar Santos The second time was to sip their Porto Tonico. I rarely talk about prices when it comes to bars and restaurants, but $9 for a drink, and a refreshingly delicious drink at that, is unheard of, especially in Los Angeles. While Porto Tonico got me back to Bar Santos, it was their Piri Piri Chicken that made me fall hard for them. It is very rare for me to try to duplicate a dish. Partly because I don't like to intelligently dissect what I am eating because it takes...

Exhaling Life

Search This Blog