Vermont & 8th

In 2023, someone died from gun violence every eleven minutes in the United States, according to data from the Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health and the Center for Gun Violence Solutions. That is roughly 128 deaths per day — about 46,000 lives lost each year.

My sincere condolences go out to Charlie Kirk’s family and friends, but when news of his assassination broke, it passed over me with indifference. I felt nothing.

Photo by Mick Haupt on Unsplash

It was not because I despised his politics, though we stood on opposite sides of them. Kirk was a prominent voice among those advocating for Mr. Trump’s return to the White House. I, on the other hand, made modest contributions to the Biden-Harris campaign and to Planned Parenthood Action Fund after President Biden’s devastating debate performance. Later, I donated to and voted for the Harris-Walz ticket — not because I believed they were exceptional, but because the prospect of Trump returning to power unsettled me.

Still, my indifference toward Charlie Kirk’s death had nothing to do with ideology. He was a stranger to me. I did not know him. I did not know anyone connected to him. Why would I feel anything beyond distance?

That indifference is not reserved for conservatives. When I read about former President Biden struggling to book speaking engagements or raise funds for his presidential library, I felt nothing. A $413,000 annual pension, apparently insufficient to sustain the lifestyle he and his adult children are accustomed to, does not register as crisis.

And then there is Vermont & 8th in Koreatown.

For some, it is home to the best fried chicken and fries street vendor in the neighborhood. For others, it is one of the dirtiest intersections in the area. Nearby residential streets are lined with abandoned furniture, broken appliances, and overflowing trash. Bus stops anchor every corner. Storefront signs alternate between Korean and Spanish. The sidewalks bustle with people — and garbage.

It is easy to jump to the conclusion that immigrants are to blame. Spanish-language sermons blast through commercial-grade speakers for hours, sometimes all day. Residents complain. LAPD officers admit that once they leave, the noise resumes. Without meaningful consequences, affordable housing begins to feel like a trade-off for disorder.

In Los Angeles, “affordable” and “housing” rarely coexist in the same sentence. And in a neighborhood marked by homelessness, noise, and visible decay, Vermont & 8th becomes a ready-made postcard for conservative campaigns about what is wrong with America.

All of this forces me to confront what it means to be an immigrant in this country.

I carry a U.S. Passport Card in my phone case as proof of citizenship, just in case I am detained by ICE. It is not a burden. It is the same size as my California ID and fits neatly beside it.

Is it inconvenient? Not really. Do I feel diminished for carrying it? No. But if I were detained after presenting it, a federal government document issued to U.S. citizens, I would be outraged.

I now use my Passport Card whenever I am asked for identification. I have thought carefully about this. Perhaps we should all carry proof of our legal status — citizens, permanent residents, temporary visa holders alike. Not because the act of carrying it is humiliating, but because equality lies in the asking. If the white person standing next to me is also required to show legal status, I have no objection to showing mine.

Would that help someone here without legal status? No. The legal consequence of unlawful presence has always been deportation, long before Trump entered the White House.

Which brings me back to enforcement.

Would we be here, with frustration hardened into ideology, if previous administrations had consistently enforced immigration laws with due process rather than selectively? Would Trump’s immigration agenda have gained such traction?

I keep returning to Vermont & 8th.

Can we do better?

As a neighborhood where Korean and Latino immigrants intersect, can we exercise enough self-discipline to prevent our streets from becoming evidence for someone else’s narrative? Can we care for our shared spaces in a way that refuses to hand political operatives an easy photograph?

The question is not about gaslighting ourselves. It is about refusing to become the caricature.

Vermont & 8th should not become the convenient exhibit in a political case against immigrants.

It belongs to us.

And we can do better.