I live in the upstairs of an old, thin-walled 4-unit apartment building in Highland Park in Northeast Los Angeles off of Figueroa. The two units downstairs are occupied by two Chinese families. The women stay at home – all day – while their husbands seem to be out for part of the day and their kids are at school. Most mornings the wives chat outside, often with company. They speak in Chinese, loudly and all at the same time. Sometimes it sounds like they’re fighting, or disagreeing, but then by the end of their chatting, they all seem to be chipper and glad to see each other.
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