A place where they plan funerals, not futures
Approximate finished packing time – 12:30 a.m.Flight time- 5:20 a.m. LYN
Sleep time- none, in fear I’d miss my alarm in just two hours.
Experience flat tires- 3:00a.m. (worse I was alone in the dark and thought I had just rolled over a body)… sat in my car, too scared to look until 3:20 a.m. .. filled tires until 3:40 a.m.
On the road- 3:45 a.m.
Missed Exit- 4:30 a.m.
Car shuffle from airport to hotel to opt out of parking fees- 4:40 a.m.
In terminal- 5:00 a.m.
Boarded plane- 5:10 a.m.
Arrive in CHL- 6:30 a.m.
Board time- 7:00a.m.
In flight- 7:20 a.m.
Sick- 7:21 a.m… 7:22 a.m …. 7:23 a.m… 7:24 a.m… 7:26 a.m…. with a six hour flight to go…
Land in LAX.- 10:45 a.m.
First call to explain to above events- Jean Bean at 10:45 and 30 seconds am.
It’s easy to say the last place I wanted to be on Saturday at 10:45 a.m. was Los Angeles, California. What an unlikely statement I would have never dreamed of saying. Completely unprepared and furthermore unsure of what I was getting myself into (a reoccurring theme), I missed everything, the smallest of things and couldn’t fathom the strength needed to come.
But, before I could even gasp at my favorite palm trees and search for the HOLLYWOOD sign upon the infamous hills, we had journeyed outside of the glamor ‘n glitz into the projects of Boyle Heights: Home.- at least by day 7- this place, despite it’s tarnished and abused exterior, became more inviting and love stricken than the Hollywood Hills just 6 miles down the road.
Day 1: Nothing to take the previous edge off like... well I didn’t even know. But then Mass began-Amazing how in a place so foreign, so broken, so questionable, and doubtful, you can feel so simultaneously relieved, guarded, and strengthened. The most incredible part, the Homily. Apparently, the week before our arriving this community had yet again been bestowed more trouble and turmoil in the form of a recent drive-by and a hard hit scandal. The Bishop of this particular diocese had resigned from his position. It was soon revealed the Bishop voluntarily resigned in response to the discovery of his double life as he secretly had been hiding a family of his own. Besides your feelings/opinions on this issue regarding priests and marriage, the real inspiration and moving tell-all was what happened next, the congregation talked about it- actually held a dialogue and it wasn’t out of the ordinary. One by one, member after member stood to give their wholehearted and honest opinion. The miracle- none of the responses were in respect to one another, for this wasn’t a debate, but very much still Mass- a celebration in communion with one another with brothers and sisters- a family I came to not only to witness but oddly (to me) join among. Some stood to say they understood his humanness- “that he should be congratulated for being human.” Still, others ventured towards their own commitment as a wife or husband and the sacred vows their marriage holds despite their own struggles to uphold them day to day, year to year. Whatever the case, whatever the side, the most awestricken thread was Honesty. Imagine that- honestly. Because without it you can’t form a community and in no way a relationship worth loving. Yet, regardless of the slip-up’s, the mistakes, the hurtfulness, the outright and purposeful damage that occurs in this community, there is always forgiveness. Not in the simple words, but rather the heart weighing and triumphant actions of a family who stands before their church and asks the family of the son-who attempted to kill himself, but in doing so drove his truck through the house killing instead his wife and 7 month old child- to embrace them. Where does this strength come from? The single question I begged to have answered in my next 168 hours.
Day 2: They call it “a place where you plan funerals, not futures.” When the priest has presided over 174 gang violence funerals, this phrase becomes an all too familiar broken record. I gasped at this recognition, more so at the normalcy of its tone and the fallen hope it entails- for this statement could only be made by an outsider- one, unwilling to find the truth.
I believe Fr. Boyer's book Tattoos on the Heart describes it in its best... or really worst:
Francesca. The proud, proud mother of 2 strapping young boys turned honorable men each in their own way (Quite the assumption to make, though I didn’t know either of these two men, someone, somewhere constantly held them on their mind- made them honorable to them.) One, enlisted to serve his country whom I’m the first to thank. The other, remained at home to stay and look out for their mother. It was the first son’s trip back home for leave and the pain, shock, terror he once encountered minute to minute, heartbeat to heartbeat soon became no match for a late night burger run to the neighborhood Jack-In-The-Box. He died instead from the hate, uselessness, and senseless cruelty of his fellow neighbors. Francesca couldn’t bare it. How could she? She wore black for the next 6 months, rarely dressed to impress, and became swallowed by the hurt of a thousand knives. Months later, perhaps even a year, the pain still hadn’t subsided. But how could it have? Her second eldest son decided his part wasn’t over – he still was needed to look after his mother. What an honorable gesture. He asked her to please come back, be the woman, the mother, she once was, for he still needed her as she was. So it didn’t take long for her to suppress what pain she could and mask it with a cleansing shower, a pretty face of a make-up, and her hair neatly pulled back in a direction unfamiliar to her normal part. Her son happened to gaze in while walking past and while looking at her reflection in the mirror, could muster only two words with a clenching smile, “you’re back.” The corners of her mouth slowly mimicked one another as each side shifted upward- I’d imagined it was as if God were pulling two strings from heaven, or perhaps even her oldest son asked for the reigns.
These stories are infinitely numbered, tragically true, never boastful, and piercingly honest- much like love ironically.
Day 3: It’s difficult to say exactly where Boyle Heights stands but it seems ever so caught between a fierce reality and a wishful dream. On one hand it remains completely isolated- untouched from its bordering Hollywood onlookers, yet is filled with a spirit of community, shared dependence, and unrivaled love- even more so untouched by its Million Dollar neighbors. Likewise Boyle Heights screams guilty and criminal at a glance, but pleads an attested innocence stolen from the world’s forgetfulness. Two of the Homeboy Industries employees were asked to attend a speaking conference in Washington, D.C. … at the White House. Not only had Boyle Heights been their home for the past 25-27 years, but it has also been the only panoramic view in sight. Unaware of Virginia and the East Coast, I normally had to describe where I was from as, “Well you know how you all have a really big ocean next to you?- We do too, just farther away.”- Isolated. They’d never owned a suit, worn a suit, or dreamt of buying a suit, but this occasion called for nothing less than a suit. Of course the gift wasn’t the suit, but instead the man he was made once embraced by it. One man had blurted out in his excitement, “I can’t wait to see the Statue of Liberty!”- Innocence forgotten by the world.
Elaina. The proudest exgang member I’ve ever seen. No. The proudest woman I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet. She stole the room when she spoke and me within the first minute. Among her description and anecdotal stories about the life changing works of Homeboy Industries, I was even more amazed as she riddled off her life’s story as it if it were her day’s grocery list: Kidnapped, raped, left for dead, beaten by mother, both parents’ drug use, gang entrance, her road to renewal, facial tattoo removals, in and out of jail, and finally, “Here I am today.”
Aside from the work with exgang members at Homeboy, the rest of my time was spent with the kindergarteners of Dolores Missions School. What a group, occasionally a headache, but more often than not, a reminder of the need to laugh despite whatever gloom ever so unwelcomingly chooses to loom.
I was asked, “What’s your name?”
And I responded, “Elise.”
The boy said, “Elicia?”
I smiled as that sounded much prettier from the smile on his face.
“Yes.”
I hope the White House was the trip of Junior's dreams and I hope the Statue of Liberty across the Lawn was even more amazing in person. I hope Elaina stands tall and I hope from time to time my kindergarten class thinks of the girl who taught them to count to twenty-five and dream beyond.
Day 4: “We are healthy and wealthy. We may get hungry, but we don’t know what it feels like to go without food for days. We may live in the projects, but we don’t know what it’s like to be homeless.” - Community of Boyle Heights
Day 5: 3AM came quicker than I could have lied down to process the previous day’s events and my part in this place at this time. I still questioned, “Why was I here?” A question which dismisses any kind of substantial sleep and furthermore any type of answer. I’ve come to believe despite worrisome thoughts and questions, you do what’s love despite it’s difficulties, faults, and less than thrilling moments. Simply enough when you’re searching for the right decision, it’s somehow always automatically linked to love. On this particular morning, the community of Boyle Heights reminded me of a love rooted in strength, forgiveness, a future, but even more importantly a present earth-shaking, life changing, makes me smile emotion. Surprising enough to myself, quite the authentic Mexican Chef I turned out to be:
3:15 AM- Arrive at Dolores Mission School Kitchen
3:20AM- Speak my best broken Spanglish to Nadia in desperate hopes I’ll understand her replies
3:30AM- Sort through molded potatoes for “useable” ingredients
4:00AM- Crack cincuenta huevos, stir, and mix with pimientos, onions, tomatoes, y papas fritas.
4:30AM- Brown la carne, add to mixture
5:00AM- Steam la arroz, add crushed flavor and spices
5:30AM- Set the tables
6AM- Flip the tortillas!
6:30AM- The Men begin to arrive… and begin picking up their plates from the kitchen as I did my best to serve in a haste knowing their stomachs ached for something to fill it. I counted the smiles my eyes met rather than the plates I handed out… wouldn’t have mattered either way- it was the same number.
6:30-6:40AM- I stand in awe as the first Men to enter begin to fill the room and their places, yet ever so calmly remain standing with their hands placed behind their backs until the very last brother has filed in. Then, in the same calm and gentle manner, a Man is humbly chosen to lead the blessing. I didn’t catch everything he had said, but no language barrier could mask the sincere tremble of gratitude in his voice or the welcomeness he shared in its soft and patient delivery- for there is no rush, no time when it comes to love.
Day 7: I didn’t solve world hunger or build a family’s house (a dream and longtime aspiration-and still at the top of my list)
I came to find the only strength there is, is forgiveness. A kind of forgiveness that sees past our humanness and into one another’s identical hearts.
And finally I looked to answer, “Why did I stay in L.A.?” It must be because I realized: you don’t turn back even when all signs seem to be pointing that way, you manage because others are always managing to do so much more, you pull yourself through because you trust someone is there, and you do it because it’s not about you.
I may not have all my questions answered, as life doesn’t seem to always provide even the most needed responses to “Why?” But what I came to find is: A place where funerals were yesterday and futures are today. No need to question “why?” or “how?”, but rather I believe search for the love, in return you’ll surely find your heart and perhaps change a life or even a community’s way of life.