TLBMiSF earned a lot of credit in its slightly off-kilter but beautifully framed opening scene, combining flavors of both Spike Lee and Barry Jenkins right out of the gate. It continued on, just strange enough to feel like a dream, gorgeous enough to look like a painting; but that level of abstraction can also put you at a slight distance. Is this literal, or metaphor? Are these characters and their challenges meant to be related to directly, or are they meant to represent the ways in which we’re victim to much larger forces — the ones driving people out of their cities and homes, and away from their sense of history and self?

Thanks to heartfelt performances from the two leads, the answer ends up not mattering so much, because the film accomplishes both. Home is a place. Home is a feeling. Home is people that matter. We find a way to hold on to what we can, or to take with us the things we can carry from one place to wherever we find ourselves next.

Crucially, the film isn’t purely us-vs-them. The detail that the three-generation black family of San Franciscans were only able to buy a house in the city when the Asian families that came before them were forced out should not be overlooked. The home Jimmy fights to preserve from a new wave of invading residents was once someone else’s too. We only ever rent our right to call a place home, in the larger sense. All of America is that way. For almost everyone, none of us were first.

This idea left the biggest emotional impression on me, walking out of the film. I have never lived anywhere for even twenty years. I’ve never had, and may never have, that kind of history with a block, or neighborhood, or town. Am I going to lead a poorer life for that? Will everywhere I ever live be the result of pushing out someone who does have that, diminishing the overall level of rootedness in any city I call home? Should I rearrange my priorities to achieve that? Or is it mostly nostalgia and revisionist history to prize a place so highly? Can we only hold on to a sense of home if we also refuse to move on, move out, and move forward?

More practically speaking, when does a place become home?

When do you earn the right to call a city or neighborhood yours, if you weren’t born there?

If it’s not just a matter of time, what do you have to do to earn that?

Alternate question: who actually likes disaster movies? They’re terrible.

So I finally got around to reading that terrifying article about the impending Pacific Northwest earthquake from The New Yorker, and how can these sort of comforting thoughts not raise some questions?

In fact, the science is robust, and one of the chief scientists behind it is Chris Goldfinger. Thanks to work done by him and his colleagues, we now know that the odds of the big Cascadia earthquake happening in the next fifty years are roughly one in three. The odds of the very big one are roughly one in ten. Even those numbers do not fully reflect the danger—or, more to the point, how unprepared the Pacific Northwest is to face it.

…

Ian Madin, who directs the Oregon Department of Geology and Mineral Industries (DOGAMI), estimates that seventy-five per cent of all structures in the state are not designed to withstand a major Cascadia quake. FEMA calculates that, across the region, something on the order of a million buildings—more than three thousand of them schools—will collapse or be compromised in the earthquake. So will half of all highway bridges, fifteen of the seventeen bridges spanning Portland’s two rivers, and two-thirds of railways and airports; also, one-third of all fire stations, half of all police stations, and two-thirds of all hospitals.

…

“Together, the sloshing, sliding, and shaking will trigger fires, flooding, pipe failures, dam breaches, and hazardous-material spills. Any one of these second-order disasters could swamp the original earthquake in terms of cost, damage, or casualties—and one of them definitely will. Four to six minutes after the dogs start barking, the shaking will subside. For another few minutes, the region, upended, will continue to fall apart on its own. Then the wave will arrive, and the real destruction will begin.

The part about the odds makes the reality of this particularly sobering. If those are firm numbers, and we are to the point of using phrases like, “when, not if,” and governments are historically bad at preparing properly for these things, what is a resident of Seattle or Portland to do?

You know a disaster is coming at some point in the next 50 years — and when it does, it is going to be catastrophic, and the odds are that something terrible will happen to you personally, and merely ‘being prepared’ is not enough to save you from some level of tragedy.

Assuming every passing day or month, the odds are ever so slightly higher that this will be it, what finally gets you to leave?

How long do you stay and enjoy the life you have in the city you love and gamble with your life?

Do you convince your friends and family to leave when you do? Do you stay if they won’t leave?