Secret Lives in the City of Angels

Santa Monica Beach (photo by Sydney C Light)

article originally published in Medium.com, May 17, 2022.

THE JUICE BAR~NICOLE BROWN SIMPSON~WHY DOESN’T ANYONE TALK ABOUT WHO SHE WAS AS A PERSON?

Trigger Warning: This story is about a wealthy neighborhood with privileged people who it turns out, have many of the same problems as everyone else.

Montana Avenue was a hip street in the early 1990’s, no doubt. Maybe not quite as trendy and expensive as it is now, but it was original and happening.

There was a lovely little health food store and juice bar right at 14th street,long before Whole Foods came in and took over the whole block. A Tibetan woman named Yangki owned the place, running it with the help of her boyfriend, a hippy called Rain. The juice bar was just a narrow little shop with a well-scuffed linoleum floor. Tibetan prayer flags fluttered over the door, and you could smell exotic herbs and incense from the sidewalk as you approached. Once inside, the whirring of the wheat grass press effortlessly mixed with recordings of Tibetan monks chanting.

Yangki usually tended the juice bar herself. She later became a good friend of mine, but this story takes place before I started studying Buddhism, and before Yangki and I travelled together to meet the Dalai Lama. Anyway, I used to go there all the time to get shots of wheat grass and gossip with Yangki, who seemed to know everyone, and everything that was happening in the area. It was a lot more fun than FaceBook, and the conductivity was of a completely different frequency than social media. There was generosity of spirit and real community.

Yoga students just out of class from YogaWorks across the street, often made their way over to Yangki’s juice bar. So, there was always a little crowd gathered, as each juice, made fresh, was labor intensive. Enjoying the interactions, everyone waited patiently to order their juice, and then lingered afterwards to drink it.

It was a different time. YogaWorks was nearing its zenith as the best place to study yoga in the country. That was before Maty and Chuck sold it to a big corporation and moved to Maui. Many of the yogis teaching classes there in the 90’s later went on to become famous teachers in their own right, opening their own studios and kick-starting a whole new yoga craze that swept America only a few years later.

But in 1994, YogaWorks was the 90’s version of the ever-evolving American bohemian scene. Young men and women, their faces flushed from headstands and an earnest desire to understand the yogic mysteries, flocked here from all over the world. They came to learn asana, the third limb of Patanjali’s 8 limbs of yoga,

After three-hour long Astanga sessions with Chuck Miller and the late, great Maty Ezraty, students, including myself, would wander barefoot over to Yangki’s juice bar. But the whole YogaWorks saga is for another installment of True LA Stories. This one is about Nicole Simpson.

A particular fit, thirty-five-ish, blond often waited at the juice bar, talking to Yangki while knocking back shots of wheat grass and fresh apple, ginger lime juice. She stood out, and not because she was one of thousands of fit, body-conscious blonds in LA, drinking green juice and gossiping with friends. Nicole was different because she was so nice.

The term “nice” sounds somehow banal, a phrase that’s tossed around whensomeone can’t think of anything more pithy or interesting to say about another. But there are real layers to “nice,” and Nicole’s went deep.

There are thoughtful people, good people, but the number of individuals who actually listen to other people is rare. Nicole listened with complete attention to anyone she spoke with. I noticed it right away. She gave her attention to others, the most generous gift you can give.

Many of us now squander our attention on the succubus of social media and corporate-engineered news stories, while ignoring the humanity right before our eyes. Nicole was focused and sharp, always in a state I later understood as “being present.”

Sometimes those who are floundering for their lives find that time slows down, and they see exactly what is important. When Nicole asked you a question about yourself, her gaze was so direct and still, it was startling. Her unblinking eyes lacked any judgement, or presupposition about who you might be. Struggling actress? Yeah, she understood, tough game. A Tibetan lady working at a California juice bar? She wanted to know everything you had done, and how you ended up in Brentwood. Nicole was a rare, generous soul who found everyone worthy of her attention. Nicole seemed almost anxious to connect in a real way with whomever she spoke.

I liked her right away. But there was already tragedy written in her face. She was so strong, yet so incredibly fragile.

She didn’t make a point of talking about herself at the juice bar, but when she did, we found out that she was a runner, but also wanted to try yoga. She was a mother and spoke of her children. She was impressed that Yangki had once cooked for the Dalai Lama, and expressed a real desire to meet the holy man in person.

We drank our wheat grass, talked, and became friends. Usually, we met to run up San Vicente Blvd, drink green juice and exchange small talk. I remember noting her harrowed expression.

Somewhere back behind her eyes, there was the look of a caged animal that was meant to run free, and could not. Nicole, despite her beauty, and physical strength, looked haunted, nervous and fearful. But none of that kept her from being kind, thoughtful, and genuinely considerate of other people.

I was not a stranger to abusive, jealous men myself, so perhaps that’s why we connected. I recognized immediately that something was dragging Nicole down. She was a powerful swimmer drowning in a rip tide of expectations, self-hatred, and disappointment. Struggling to stay above the waves, she did not call for help, but instead, took everything around her in, gathering people inside her soul, like someone about to say goodbye.

It took me 20 years of yoga to even understand some of what she was doing naturally. Her presence and attentiveness still amaze me.

In these current days of everyone being closed down, masked, in a hurry, rude, and angry, my memory of Nicole Simpson stands out as one of the brightest interactions I’ve had in this strange, wonderful, awful town.

Nicole and I ran a couple of Ten K races together in Brentwood and Pacific Palisades. She was fit and strong, and usually did pretty well, placing in the first five or ten runners. I was more of a yogi girl, and ended up near the middle, just trying to breath. But she would always greet me at the end of the race with a big high five and a smile, while that unseen something behind her eyes kept catching on that happy expression, and like a hook, pulled it down. Despite whatever was going on in private, she valiantly kept good cheer.

I guess there was a point when I noticed Nicole wasn’t coming to the juice bar so much anymore, so I asked Yangki if she’d seen her recently. Yangki told me that Nicole was having problems with her ex, OJ Simpson, and hadn’t been around in a while.

Then one day, June 12th, 1994, came the news, blaring from every radio, tv station, and newspaper — the onslaught of media attention was a numbing blur. The car chase, Kato Kailen, and the utter incomprehensible horror of realizing that this lovely, vibrant, kind soul had been murdered.

It seemed at times in the aftermath of that horrible day, that no one cared to talk about who Nicole Simpson was as a person. She was always described as a “wealthy, Brentwood blond,” or the “glamorous wife of a sports star.” There was salacious talk about her sex life, but nothing about her goodness. All of the talk centered around OJ, his guilt or lack thereof. There were people who even openly stated that she “deserved it” because she was dating another man, even though she had been long separated from OJ, and he had cheated on her relentlessly.

There were endless stories analyzing OJ, and why he might have done what he did. Or why he couldn’t have done what he did. Stories about his tortured soul, whether or not he should go to jail at all… It seemed that no one in the press bothered to try and understand Nicole.

I’m here today, so many years later, to say she was wonderful. Deep despite her privilege, kind and real. Her daughter and I share the same first name, Sydney.

I haven’t ever forgotten you, Nicole. I said a prayer for you when I finally did meet the Dalai Lama.