When I got to UCLA, I realized that half the people I met who grew up in the LA area had no clue where Hacienda Heights was located. I had to mention the general region of my small, unincorporated corner of Los Angeles County in order to erase their blank expressions. Once I explained, “it’s about 20 miles east of downtown,” or “it’s in the San Gabriel Valley, northeast of Whittier” a little light bulb of recognition lit up behind their eyes.

The people who actually knew about HH had one basic response, “oh… you’re from the suburbs. You must be rich.” I’d then have to clear up their misconception, at least about my family being rich. HH is a suburb and plenty of middle and upper-middle class families call it home, but my family isn’t one of those. My mom always used to say, “we don’t live in the heights of Hacienda Heights.” Translation? We’re not rich or comfortably middle class.

Sometime around my senior year at UCLA, I got a different and unexpected reaction.

“Oh, Hacienda Heights… hmmm,” my friend said. “I have to drive my uncles there all the time. They like going to the strip clubs.”

“Oh.”

The strip clubs.

The exotically named strip clubs popped up about ten years ago. Ironically, I first heard about them in church. Of course, as Catholics we didn’t like the idea of strip clubs in our community. I think someone organized picketing or a petition, but I can’t remember and it doesn’t matter since the protests were unsuccessful. A few months later, the garish neon signs appeared.

After high school, I moved away to college and never really gave much thought to the fact that there was a strip club half a mile away from my house, and another one about 1.5 miles away. That all chaged early this summer as I made one of my frequent trips home to play with the puppy, have some home-cooked meals, and do laundry.

As I slowed my car at the intersection of Gale and Stimson, I noticed the new sign. Suddenly, it was no longer Cathay Bank Plaza. The half circle at top featured “Showgirls” in pink against a black backgrond. Right below that, “Deja Vu Plaza” was written in pink above a pair of pink stilettos in fishnet stocking-clad legs. An electronic sign announced the opening of a new adult store adjacent to the strip club. Below the LCD screen several smaller rectangular signs showed the names of neighboring businesses.

The strip mall is just half a mile away from the home where I grew up and my parents and siblings currently live. My mom used to work at the intersection of Gale and Stimson as a cross guard for children walking to Glenelder Elementary School. I’ve eaten several times at the greasy spoon, opened an account at Cathay Bank, had my hair cut at a small beauty salon and visited my old dentist just a few doors down from the strip club in the corner.

I was never comfortable with a strip club at that location, but at least back then there was no huge sign and the neon lights only blinked on and off at night. It was never hidden or discrete, but at least I could ignore the strip club.

I suppose my mild outrage comes from a bit of feminism mixed in with Catholicism and a healthy dose of NIMBYism [not in my backyard]. I hate the sign and the fact that a small part of Hollywood Boulevard, Market Street or Times Square has been transplanted to my neighborhood. I don’t want to one day take a precocious child to visit his/her grandparents only to hear “mom, what’s a showgirl?” coming from the backseat.

Sure, my hate for hideous sign, new store and strip club come from the -isms listed above, but I know the greatest one is my general opposition to change. The conservative in me is coming out, and it’s not in the way HP would like. I simply want to conserve my hometown just as it was when I was a kid… when Hacienda Heights was known more for it’s suburban way of life and large Buddhist temple rather than strip clubs.