Make-Believe

There was one 7-year-old boy, at the beginning of the school year we didn’t have a spot for him yet. He used to show up after his older sister, riding in on a BMX bike. And I’m thinking, this is not a safe neighborhood for a boy of his age to be riding around on his own. But he would do that for a while and we’d have to take him back home, because he wasn’t in the program. That was very telling that his mom thought it was okay that he ride around in this neighborhood, when I wouldn’t walk through here alone.

Eventually we found a spot for him in the program. But he was hanging out with older kids for a while, bad influences, 14-year-old truants who were up to no good. Needless to say this boy was hardened to a level that no 7-year-old should be.

Then one day, he’d been in the program for maybe a month, and we took the kids to Universal Studios for a field trip. We went on the Mummy ride, where you’re going through these dark tunnels, and all of a sudden this boy is terrified out of his mind, scared of the things coming out of the walls, crying, wanting to get off the ride. And while it’s never fun to see a crying child, to see him so scared over something so silly was kind of great… because finally he could be a little boy again.

No harsh reality, no BMX rides through bad neighborhoods. Just make-believe.

CV JH

God's Vessel

O Lord, my heart is full of
love for you,
And as I walk in your ways
show me what I must do.

Let my hands touch those who
need healing,
Let my heart have compassion
for all who are kneeling.

Give me a voice that will be filled
with peace.
And the words that will cause
the hurting to cease.

O Lord, let my feet carry me to
those places where
No plane, train, car, or bike
will ever dare.

Use me, as you will O Lord,
and live in me.
Let your love flow for all
humanity to see.

AJG

Gritty Streets

In a few weeks, we will host a party for the families of skid row at one of the two local parks. On a daily basis, these parks are full of transients, and it is not uncommon to see them congregating at the tables, playing chess, sleeping, or any of the things you might imagine (and a lot of things you’d try not to imagine) a homeless person doing at a public park.

What is uncommon to see at either park is children. We throw our party at a park rather than our facility so that for one afternoon the park becomes what it should be – a safe place for children to play.

To get approval from the agency that manages the park, I decided to walk over to their office, which is just a few blocks from our center. These few blocks comprise some of the most dangerous sections in skid row – in fact when I first starting working in skid row I was told to avoid one of the streets entirely. And on that gloomy gray day I thought about how seldom I had indeed walked in this direction. I was painfully aware of how much I stuck out like a sore thumb and regretted that my slightly too long pants dragged on the ground of what others might call a “gritty street.”

I also remembered why it is I ever chose to work here.

I am a person inclined to agonize over the what-ifs, should-haves and the could-have-beens of life. Beyond that, I am also the most pessimistic person I know and in some seasons of my life I believe I was recognizably tortured. But all of my demons – my quarter life angst over how my life is going to turn out – seem pretty frivolous walking down a street as gritty as San Julian.

To look a homeless woman directly in the eyes, smile and say hello knowing she has slept on the streets for quite some time is good for my soul. Even more healing have been the precious friendships I have built with the amazing families in our program – not born out of some sense of condescending pity, but instead out of reciprocity. Other days I might say I choose this work out of some larger conviction for social justice or to live out Matthew 25... and that wouldn’t be entirely untrue.

However, I know I have gained far more from this wonderful community than I have ever given.

JH

Tents

Recently we were hiking with some of the kids in the program. We were in the Santa Monica mountains, walking down a trail. Nearby there was a group of campers with their tents set up. One of the kids in our group, he saw this and asked me, "Hey, do people live here too?"

Recreational tenting was a hard concept to explain to a boy from skid row. We said, "No, they don't live here. They do this for fun." But he just didn't understand. A tent was for someone to live in on the street. Who would do this for fun?

GM

"J"

"J" walked into the office as sheepishly as a gruff, overweight forty plus man could.

He has been in the habit of venturing in my office every now and then. The last time it was to remind that his birthday was the following day. He used to sequester himself in the corner of our center with his girlfriend – barely coming in. Occasionally he would enter the kitchen around meal time. I think I broke the ice by asking him to help me put the tables up. After that we formed a sort of jovial friendship.

But tonight he asked if he could speak to me. When we walked into my office he shut the door. I knew it was going to be bad. We hadn’t seen him, his girlfriend or her two boys all week and there wasn’t much of an explanation. He asked me for money – he skirted around the issue a bit – they needed to be out of the hotel they were staying at by tomorrow and his girlfriend was going to get paid and he had a doctor’s appointment at 8:40 – but $57 would solve all of these variables.

I really wanted to give it to him. I wanted to believe that all of the complications would be reduced by this little bit of money that he would of course pay back tomorrow.

But I didn’t give him the money. I listened to the whole scenario he had painted, all the while trying to figure out what to say. He broke down the back story some more. It seems that his girlfriend and the boys got kicked out of the shelter they had been staying at because of hygiene issues – whatever that meant. "J" was staying with his sister, but since the eviction they were all staying in a hotel somewhere near the airport. They didn’t have the money to pay the next night’s rate but would get it in the afternoon when his girlfriend got paid. Meanwhile they would have to take out all of their belongings, only to move back in after four when she would have enough cash to pay.

In the end I told him my hands were tied and I wasn’t allowed to give people in the program money. He wasn’t upset. He genuinely seemed to understand. We went over how fraught with problems this scenario was for them – the nightly rent over the course of the month would be more than their income. It was more than my rent for a two bedroom apartment. He recognized that it wasn’t a good solution and I gave him an application for transitional housing at midnight mission, which he seemed hopeful about.

I believe he really was swallowing his pride to come in and ask me for money in the way that he did. I felt so helpless. This situation pointed out that there often is very little that we can do. I knew a few months ago that their situation was temporary but he and his girlfriend seemed to have a plan. She could have stayed in Union Rescue Mission. She could have been applying for Section 8. She could have been doing so many things to not be in this scenario.

All I can do is listen and point. I can’t put paperwork through. I can’t file their Section 8. I am completely helpless.

JH

Conflict Resolution

The other day I asked a staff person, “How’s it going?” And she was very excited.

She told me about one of her students, maybe second or third grade, that originally came into the program and didn’t know how to read or write the alphabet. And she said that today she sat next to him while he read an entire story to her. Hearing him do this literally brought her to tears.

And then another staff member came over to us and said, “Did you know what else happened?”

This same boy, when he first came in three months ago, he'd gotten into a fight with another student. They sat him down explained that he can't just hit someone else. "Oh yes I can," was his response. "If someone hits me, or says something, or bothers me, I'm going to hit him." Then, a couple days ago, another argument broke out with the same child. Once again they sat him down, except this time the boy was asked to write his response to his conflict. So he did. You could see in his handwriting - complete with words misspelled - how "if someone says something to me, I want to think how it makes me feel and tell a teacher instead of hitting them back."

Just to see this child who started with “I’m gonna hit you” to be at this point - and to have WRITTEN that when before he couldn’t even write... that was very powerful.

GM

Lost Bags

A few weeks ago, I walked out of our building and there was a dump truck on the sidewalk. A bobcat was scooping up tons of baggage - homeless people's items - and throwing them into the truck.

I don't know where the owners of that baggage were. You kind of have to wonder how many people those bags belonged to. And what else was in there? Someone's social security card? Pictures of their daughter or their parents? In some ways the things we have are very much our lives. And here I was, watching as those very items were being casually thrown into a dump truck. It was striking. I couldn't forget it.

But it goes on.

There was also an unattended dog on the curb, a friendly little lap dog, and a dog-catcher pulled up to take it. A few weeks later, I saw a homeless woman with the very same dog. She was someone we had known before. A woman who had never seemed to light up until the subject turned to her dog. So I asked her, "Your dog was taken, wasn't it?" And she spent a long time sharing with me the story of how long it had taken her to find the dog after it was picked up on the curb. How the police said it went here, and she went and searched, and they said, no, maybe it's here. She searched two days, probably eight or nine hours each day, until she finally found her dog.

Of course, she had a little bit of frustration and anger. She didn’t know if the police were really being honest with her, or even cared. And here she was living on the street, and this was maybe that single piece of comfort in her life. Something she loved and something that loved her. Something she could take care of, and yet in that moment for some reason it had been taken from her.

I think she liked being able to tell her story.

When you're really hurt, when you’re really frustrated or disappointed, if you have someone you can share your pain with, at least you can begin to release it. That's when I think that just listening is really important. Letting someone know that you're there to hear them and that their problems are real.

To show they're not alone... and that hopefully they never have to be.

GM

The Good Samaritans of Skid Row

Recently a paraplegic was “dumped” near Gladys Park.

The LA Times described the man as having been essentially thrown out of the hospital van where he was receiving care. He had no walker or wheelchair and was dressed in a soiled hospital gown. In his teeth he clutched a plastic bag containing the sum total of his personal effects. The LA Times piece painted the van driver as especially callous, offering no help to the man, instead complaining he soiled the van seat. Also, she did not respond to witnesses’ questions about the man’s well-being because she was applying makeup. The man said he did not ask to be “dumped” in skid row, but when the hospital informed him that his course of treatment was over, he said he had no place to go.

Recently I listened to a Rob Bell pod cast about the story of the Good Samaritan. I couldn’t help but see the parallels here. The paraplegic man was essentially in the same boat as the victim in the Good Samaritan story. I don’t know if priests or Levites passed him by but I do know I spent most of the day a mere stone’s throw away, indifferent to his plight. Just as the Good Samaritan in Jesus’ parable became the unlikely hero, so too did a host of homeless people who knew Gladys Park as home – carrying him to safety, finding him a chair and getting him back to a place where he could receive care.

Rob Bell likens the Good Samaritan’s actions to those of a priest, as he offered him oil and wine, in contrast to the priest and Levite who passed him by. The half dead man had been coming back from a temple where he believed the presence of the Lord dwelled. Yet he encountered the presence of the Lord on the side of the road vis-a-vis a religious bastard.

Here the paraplegic was “dumped” by a hospital – our vehicle of modern healing in the twenty-first century – only to find healing through the most unlikely aid… a host of homeless people in a section of our city that is abandoned by most.

JH

"What's Parole?"

Sometimes I think we have to tell the whole story. But maybe often it’s just a moment, an observation, a snap shot.

The other day, I was standing with a staff person and we were joking around with a kid. All of a sudden this kid, a lilttle girl, turns around and asks us, “What’s parole?”

All I could think was that my daughter has never had to ask me that question.

GM

Introduction: What We're Doing Here...

So it's got to start somewhere.

For some time now, we've been throwing around the idea of putting together a site that could act as a forum for our observations --- "our" being us, the L.A. Central City Community Outreach, who work every day on the streets of skid row, the largest single population of homeless families in the United States.

Often people don't get a chance to see what poverty actually "looks" like. What homelessness looks like. What families face while living on the streets.

As staff, we see unique situations every day. We hear stories, we see kids respond in interesting ways, and there's a real desire in us to let other people see what life is like here. So the purpose of this blog is to provide a slice of life, a snapshot as to what we experience, what families experience, what kids experience, even what we might see on the street. It's just a picture, a momentary glimpse.

We don't want to be political, or judgmental, or to say this is what we should or shouldn't do. That's not for us to decide on this site. Not here, at least. Not now. We want to show what is experienced and lived on a daily basis, and to reflect on how it FEELS to hear that story.

Because feeling is important. Exploring our responses, interpreting them, learning from them... it builds compassion. And that's everything where we come from. Raising the question, "How does this happen?" If we can drive other people to wonder, to think, to question, then there's hope for what we all might be able to accomplish in the future.


...oh, and before we go, we should also mention that we're just as excited to see how people will comment or respond in the talkback area below. Slice of life observations are one thing, but it's the responses that can give these stories true meaning. So please, by all means, comment on these posts. And don't feel limited. Politics, opinions... the talkbacks are a forum for free expression.