One afternoon in the 1950s, my grandmother was gardening in the front yard when she saw three men coming up the street with rifles. My grandfather was at work, so she was at home alone with a small child. This was a threatening scenario on its own. And then it got worse.
She told me that she immediately sat upright and the men told her not to worry—there was a mountain lion in the area. They were planning on killing the animal before it hurt anyone. They advised keeping children inside. That’s when the threat changed; the alteration giving her a kind of weightlessness that assumes mothers when seconds matter. My father, then only five years old, had been playing unattended on the other side of the property.
There weren’t a lot of homes in the area at the time. Most of the neighboring land was open and rural, with sheep farms nearby. The sudden appearance of a mountain lion behind the brush or near the oak trees wouldn’t have been out of place. Quite the opposite; it would have fit right in.
The way she later recounted flying around the back of the house—the part of the garden that my young daughter loves best—has always terrified me. There were stretches of time where my grandmother did not know in what state she would find her only child.
Beasts are changing form all the time out here. But when you’re a valley girl, they always come from the hills.
She found my father physically unharmed, probably playing with sticks. But when the circumstances were explained to him, the terror was transferred yet again.
My father told me that he would lay in his childhood bedroom at night—the bedroom that my daughter sleeps in now—terrified that a mountain lion was going to jump through his window. He was convinced that he would not survive the night. Vivid nightmares became full-on delusions in the way that they can when you’re little. But the final moments were always the same: the mountain lion would get him.
My family’s fears of predators are not hyperbolic; they are an enduring part of living here. Since the San Fernando Valley is pushed right up against the Santa Monica mountains, there are many animals that come down when they are famished and can’t find food: mountain lions and coyotes have been known to pick off pets and even small children if they are desperate enough. Last summer, a mountain lion killed a pit bull, spurring a “wildlife warning” in the Valley1. In 2022, a coyote in Woodland Hills attacked a toddler in broad daylight from the driveway of her home2, her parents dutifully collecting her toys from the car.
When you’re a valley girl3, the predators are myriad and multi-faceted.
My grandparents always warned me as a kid to take my pets inside “when the shadows got long” and to be mindful of rustling at dusk. The searing realization that those random dogs in my backyard aren’t dogs at all: they’re a pack of coyotes. I have so many memories of looking up and seeing one of their faces; there and then suddenly not there. A bobcat. A mountain lion. Occasionally, a creepy opossum. As a little girl, I used to wonder how long they had been there, watching me. How long had they seen me before I saw them?
And then there are the other predators from over the hill4: the film producers and the model scouts and the directors and the actors. The people who professionally and recreationally look for young girls along Melrose and in cafes in West Hollywood. Who tell us we’re pretty and have we ever thought about being models and we look so much older than we are.
They point out which fancy car is theirs and say they will take us for rides whenever we want. The ghost of Samantha Geimer5, the 13-year-old girl director Roman Polanski assaulted in a house off Mulholland Drive6, wafts like a cautionary tale. Beasts are changing form all the time out here. But when you’re a valley girl, they always come from the hills.
The valley girl has historically been of particular interest to Hollywood predators, in part, due to her stereotype: a suburban teenager who is just enough out of the purview of the town that to groom her will go unnoticed. At the same time, the enduring narrative of her “desperate” designs to get over the hill and move into more prominent powerful circles predisposes the culture of Los Angeles to see her abuse as transactional. Across generations, the Valley Girl7 has been a way for Los Angeles to tell itself that abuse, predatory behavior, and manipulation of young and underage girls is “just part of living here.” That it’s, essentially, OK.
To this day, when my father says “be careful of the mountain lions,” I know he is speaking both literally and figuratively.
My family’s fears of predators are not hyperbolic; they are an enduring part of living here.
Next week: the original valley girl.
Asperin , Alexa Mae, and Christina Gonzalez. “Rescue Pit Bull Killed by Mountain Lion in San Fernando Valley.” Fox11, 12 Aug. 2024, https://www.foxla.com/news/mountain-lion-kills-family-dog-san-fernando-valley. Accessed 2 July 2025.
Chow, Vivian. “Coyote Attacks Toddler in Woodland Hills in Broad Daylight: Attack Captured on Video.” KTLA 5, 2 Dec. 2022, https://ktla.com/news/local-news/coyote-attacks-toddler-in-woodland-hills/. Accessed 2 July 2025.
Lowercase “valley girl” to indicate a female-identified or pangender individual who happens to be from or inhabits the San Fernando Valley.
“Over the hill” is an expression I used to hear my grandmother use when referencing anything over the Santa Monica Mountains.
Samantha Geimer was a valley girl. She lived in Woodland Hills.
Lewis, Andy. “Roman Polanski Rape Victim Unveils Startling, Disturbing Photo for Book Cover (Exclusive).” The Hollywood Reporter, 24 July 2013, https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/news/general-news/roman-polanski-rape-victim-unveils-591015/. Accessed 2 July 2025.
Uppercase “Valley Girl” to indicate the manufactured caricature.