My Little Town

The town I live in, a suburb fifty miles east of LA, used to be a great place to live. It was called "the city of country living," and unlike other suburban areas in SoCal, there was open space and no congestion. Then they came. They put down cash for expensive four- and five-bedroom homes. They created a demand for housing that got developers excited about denuding hillsides and using up every square inch of open space to accommodate them and make money. Signs started going up in their languages and congestion became the order of the day. The cultural landscape changed radically. Their numbers meant they could elect a mayor, and elect one they did, a corrupt politician that takes kickbacks and appoints public officials based on cronyism. Natives started moving out, and with every departure there were more of them moving in to fill up the vacancies. Suddenly it wasn't America anymore. Call me xenophobic. Call me nostalgic. Call me sentimental. But all anyone really wants is to live in the country he grew up in, but that's all changed now. I am an alien in my own country, surrounded by immigrant hordes that are as different from earlier immigrants as day is from night. Their huge number means they don't have to assimilate. They do not patronize American businesses nor have much else to do with the native population. Those natives that remain find themselves living in a bizarre and unfriendly alien dimension from the Twilight Zone. Beam me up, Scotty, and will the last American to leave, please bring the flag.