By Ja’niyah Blanton-Carter
There was no warning, no time for farewells, no chance to salvage memories–just the intense shock and vivid image of their neighborhood up in flames.
In the blink of an eye, the Eaton Fire ripped through Altadena, California, on January 7, decimating multigenerational homes, Black-owned businesses and the historic Black legacy the neighborhood was built on. Its destructive path displaced nearly 1,000 residents, causing damage estimated between $28-$53 billion and leaving ashes that form an economic recovery mountain to be scaled.
Months after the fire, survivors continue to navigate a multifaceted recovery process. Their journeys encompass wrestling with financial stress, managing mental health and finding the strength to rebuild the future while they mourn the loss of a cherished community.
A beloved Los Angeles County neighborhood in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains, Altadena was best known for pioneering one of the first Black middle-class communities in the area. It was a peaceful haven for notable figures such as novelist Octavia Butler, Black Panther leader Leroy Eldridge Cleaver, first African American Major League Baseball player Jackie Robinson, former Mayor of Compton Aja Brown and many more. However, the neighborhood did not always promote inclusivity and diversity.
Before President Lyndon B. Johnson signed the Fair Housing Act of 1968, real estate agents heavily enforced redlining in Altadena and neighboring Pasadena and refused to sell homes to Black families in predominantly white neighborhoods. Locals would go as far as to harass, intimidate and enact violence against African American families that purchased homes west of Lake Avenue. Their failed attempt to force non-white families to relocate backfired. Instead, it compelled their white neighbors to flee as Black residents stood their ground and fought for the community they had the right to be a part of.
Altadena began to experience a surge in Black homeownership thanks to community groups advocating for a safe space where Black and white residents could live harmoniously. The Great Migration to Altadena caused the Black population to skyrocket from below 4% in the 1960s to 27% in the early 1970s. The number of Black residents nearly doubled to 43% in 1980.
‘Disasters don’t discriminate’
Among those many middle-class newcomers who settled in Altadena’s booming neighborhood to build a better life was the Vance family. They planted their roots in 1967 by securing a 900-square-foot residence within the then-affordable price range of $10,000 to $40,000.
When Rand Vance II inherited his father, Rand Vance Sr.’s childhood home, he inherited more than a 60-year-old property; he inherited a home filled with priceless memories. And like so many other Black homeowners in Altadena, the Vances watched the Eaton Fire reduce their past, present and future to rubble and ashes.
No amount of savings could have cushioned the blow of such a devastating loss. The Vances’ initial lifeline did not come from official organizations or the government but from the heartfelt aid of family and friends. In the immediate aftermath of the fire, Rand II, his wife Jessica, their three young sons under the age of five and his father found themselves utterly reliant on the unwavering support of their community.
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Among their support system was Rand II’s longtime friend, Brandon Lamar. The president of the Pasadena NAACP, Lamar has noticed that the lack of government and organization assistance has a lot to do with relief funds not funneling to the Altadena community
“One thing I’ve learned about disasters is: disasters don’t discriminate, recovery does,” he explains. “We’ve seen so many people from our area throughout Los Angeles County doing relief funds and everything else, but what we are seeing now is that those monies [are] not trickling down to our communities, which is important for us.” Lamar has proactively advocated for and connected the Vance family with vital resources and opportunities, emphasizing the power and value of community despite facing overwhelming adversity.
The outpouring of love and support for Rand II, Jessica and their children was evident in the success of their GoFundMe campaign, initiated by a coworker. It reached 88% of its $26,000 goal within months, demonstrating strong community ties. However, this success greatly contrasts Rand Sr.’s experience, whose own GoFundMe campaign, launched in hopes of similar support, had recently garnered only 7% of its $20,000 goal.
“A lot of [my father’s] friends are in the same boat that grew up in that neighborhood,” says Rand II of his father. “He’s lived [in Altadena] for over 60 years, so it was a little bit more difficult for him to get the resources.”
Rand II’s brother and sister-in-law were the first to step up with help, providing hotel accommodation for five days. Shortly afterward, Rand II and his family solidified temporary housing and moved into his in-laws’ home in Pasadena, leaving him to figure out accommodation for his elderly father and dog.
Fortunately, Rand II secured a $2,000 Airbnb credit for his father through 211LA, an organization that provides financial assistance and disaster relief for community members in Los Angeles County. Once the credit maxed out, Rand II turned to FEMA/Red Cross, which supplied Rand Sr. and his dog with a hotel room until January 18. “. . . but that was basically it,” Rand II says when asked about additional housing resources they could receive for his father.
‘Recovery is not equitable’
A more stable housing solution eventually emerged a few months later through Rand Sr.’s professional network. As a freelance electrician, he had recently completed work on a property that luckily became available, and the homeowner generously offered to rent the residence to the Vance family. They secured a lease in early March, and Rand II was grateful to establish a much-needed sense of stability after immense uncertainty.
However, this was only step one of the recovery process, and he foresees a lengthy rebuilding journey that could take up to three years. His most significant hurdle with rebuilding currently lies with the insurance company, where he awaits funding from his coverage. Despite his swift action in filing a claim just two days after Eaton, the insurance company’s continuously delayed responses have become a great source of frustration.
“If the insurance company gives us all of the funds, that’ll give us about 18 months of housing,” Rand II says. “I’m thankful for the 18 months, but then, what’s the next step?”
No one knows how long it will take to rebuild what was lost. If the rebuilding process takes longer than 18 months, Rand II will be responsible for paying the remainder of the lease and the mortgage of their now-empty lot out of pocket.
Not to mention, if he pursued a traditional rebuilding process by securing a contractor and building their home from scratch, the amount they would receive from the insurance would not cover the costs. They would be short a couple hundred thousand dollars. Instead, he plans to work within their budget and contract a company to build a three-bedroom, two-bath ADU (accessory dwelling unit) on their existing lot.
“If I could get that approved where we could move forward with [the ADU company], then our insurance will cover it,” explains Rand II. “But if not, then I’m going to have to get an SBA loan, and we’ll basically be paying a second mortgage.”
If the ADU is not approved, the Vance family could end up in severe debt, which is a frightening idea. Selling has crossed their minds, but they would lose more than they would gain because they still owe money on the property. “Even if we were to get $500,000, after closing costs and everything, we’re literally walking away with nothing,” Rand II states.
“After closing costs and everything, we’re literally walking away with nothing.” — Rand Vance II
The Vance family is determined to reconstruct and reclaim their generational wealth, regardless of obstacles. They are optimistic that their resilience will ultimately yield a prosperous future. However, two questions remain: will the insurance companies continue to offer coverage to Altadena residents in the future, and if so, will their policies skyrocket after Eaton?
Rand II and his family are not alone in their mental and financial struggles after the Eaton Fire. Everything they have endured thus far mirrors the collective battle of their Altadena neighbors. Eighty percent of African Americans who lived in the area have been displaced by the fire, “and that’s the thing that we have to uplift,” Lamar declares. “We want everybody to rebuild, but we also understand that while we want everybody to rebuild, recovery is not equitable, and it hasn’t been equitable.”
Hoping for a phoenix from The Little Red Hen
Residents of Altadena didn’t only lose their homes in the Eaton Fire—they also lost the community’s heartbeat in the destruction of The Little Red Hen. One of many businesses also consumed by the flames, the family diner was a long-time pillar of the community.
“I’m still kind of in disbelief,” says Barbara Shay, the owner of the first Black woman-owned business in the area. “Time heals all wounds, so I’m just dealing with that part of it, but it is an emotional experience for sure.”
The loss is deeply personal for Shay. Running The Little Red Hen was a continuation of her mother’s legacy. A trailblazer, Rena Shay against all odds established the thriving diner in 1972, building the beloved establishment on the foundations of community and resilience.
The Little Red Hen was a staple, where laughs were shared, stories were told, celebrities like Richard Pryor and Flip Wilson once gathered and where every visitor was family. The fire destroyed the physical structure, the diner’s original Coke machine and precious, irreplaceable mementoes—photos of celebrities that ate in the booths, a personal letter from President Obama and a unique drawing from 90-year-old Floyd Norman, Disney’s first Black animator. These were not just decorations but milestones documenting the restaurant’s journey.
The path to recovery is riddled with challenges—insurance hurdles, lack of government aid and the uncertainty of rebuilding costs pose significant obstacles.
“I haven’t gotten any money from the government yet, and it’s almost like a joke,” Shay says. “We can’t do everything out of our pocket to rebuild; we have to have fundraisers.”
Love, Peace & Spades, a community of creatives and grassroots organizers who curate free, donation-based game nights to celebrate Black family heirlooms, recently hosted a community game night fundraiser to support the Shay family restaurant.
The community’s support has been a silver lining and a testament to The Little Red Hen’s powerful impact over the years. The outpouring of support the Shay family has received has provided glimmers of hope in these trying times.
“We’ve already been threatened that we better hurry up [and rebuild] because [people] need the food,” Shay says. “It was an Altadena thing . . . we definitely want to rebuild and continue serving the community, God willing.”
‘Everyone means well’
It’s not only homeowners who have been affected. Aurielle Hall relocated to Altadena in 2020, driven by a desire to provide her daughter, Jade, with a close-knit community and connection to her late mother’s roots. She rented a two-bedroom duplex alongside her cousins and aunts on her grandmother’s land.
“I’ve been wanting to be closer to family all my life,” Hall says. “My grandmother passed when my mom was only 15 . . . so never having to be able to meet my grandmother or have any experience living [in Altadena] with my mom’s side, I just really wanted to give that to my daughter.”
Hall’s grandmother, Pauline Townsend, purchased two single-family homes and a duplex in the 1970s for only $50,000 and passed them down to her daughters. Each of the properties was reduced to ashes in the Eaton Fire, a life-shattering event that stripped Hall of every prized possession and family heirloom she desperately wanted to hold near. Being displaced with her daughter has only compounded her grief, triggering memories of being homeless years ago.
“I’m feeling kind of out of sort sometimes, like I’m not mentally connected to the present,” says Hall. “I still feel like I’m in January 7.”
On that day, she received a troubling text that flames from the Eaton Canyon blaze were charging towards her home. Glancing at her cherished memorabilia—her mother’s jewelry, handwritten letters from her brother before he passed, irreplaceable family photos—she reminded herself to remain calm and dismissed the urge to pack them, convinced she would return home soon.
“Everyone means well when they say these are just things, but they don’t really understand the capacity and the depth of the connection to the things when you don’t have them anymore to make those memories with anymore,” Hall says with tears in her eyes. “I feel like I’m losing all of them again, and it hurts a lot.”
Beyond the emotional toll, the Eaton Fire left Hall in a precarious financial situation, forcing her to navigate today’s competitively high-priced rental market on a low income. She evacuated the flames with only $200 in her account, a handful of vital documents, her driver’s license, a debit card and a credit card, regretfully leaving behind a $12,000 cash emergency fund to burn in the fire.
In retrospect, Hall recognizes that the GoFundMe campaign her cousin’s husband insisted on her creating provided a critical lifeline for her and her daughter. “If it wasn’t for that GoFundMe, we would still be in an Airbnb or a hotel, probably with the type of income that I have,” Hall says. “I wouldn’t be able to sustain in this market down here or anywhere, really.”
Hall’s low income did not allow her the luxury of paying for renters insurance on top of all her bills before the Eaton Fire. As a result, she has had to rely entirely on donations and community-based organizations for recovery funding. Battling sleep deprivation and trauma makes it difficult to even drive to donation centers or stay vigilant online for new opportunities. However, Hall is reminded that, as a single parent, she can’t afford to take a break or tag someone else in to help with the brunt of the load. So, she intends to push forward to provide for herself and her daughter despite the obstacles.
“It’s just a really unfortunate situation, and in a very tough community for people that were relying on generational wealth, because I know I was banking on it,” she says. “As tiny as our place was, it was ours and it was family, and I just planned on being there.”
Left to pick up the pieces and rebuild their lives, Hall and her daughter’s first steps were to adjust to the new apartment and community they relocated to in late February. Although the rent is $800 higher than what she paid in Altadena, and her income-to-debt ratio remains the same, Hall is hopeful that God will work everything out.
She envisions therapy being at the forefront of their recovery. Having spent the past few months advocating for others—her community, neighbors, family and friends who faced the same disaster—she’s exhausted all her resources pouring into others. Now, the next few months look like self-care for her and her daughter, making their space feel like home again, and cultivating a new community.
Along with many others affected like them, the Vance family and Hall and her daughter bring unwavering determination and optimism to their efforts to rebuild their own lives and revive their community. In doing so, they draw on Altadena’s rich legacy as a tight-knit community that endured prejudice and rallied together to fight for its place, confident that the bonds forged in shared experiences and joint support will be the cornerstone of its rebirth.
Ja’niyah Blanton-Carter is a first-generation graduate from Georgia State University with a B.A. in journalism, a former freelance writer for BET and a current digital strategist for political campaigns, including the recent Harris-Walz campaign.
