| | “Hey white people! Hey, people! Hey, HEY!!!” The call was repeated until we had walked well past the group. I almost felt like a celebrity for a second, tapping a quick rhythm with my feet as I hurried along the sidewalk, until I remembered where I was. 5th and S. San Pedro. Downtown. Skid Row. The sun was quickly falling behind the tall buildings and a chilly wind was sweeping through the alleys. We hurried to reach the safety of the mission lest we were caught outside with the locals in the lengthening shadows.
Some friends and I spent the day at the Union Rescue Mission in Los Angeles. It is the country’s oldest mission, currently housing between 300-350 temporary “guests” each night, and another couple hundred spread throughout their various programs. They provide three meals a day, an estimated 2300 plates distributed daily. Many of the same faces return day after day, meal after meal. Children. Elderly. Sick. Proud. Clean. Insolent. Crazy. Each face has a story, with details that are incomprehensible to orderly suburban minds. Each heart beats with pain that isn’t healed with a plate of food.
Five little fingers, stretched wide, reached for my yellow folder. She ran up to me when we momentarily crossed from the mission into the alley. I touched her tiny palm and smiled at her, but that wasn’t enough. She insisted on procuring my bright visitor’s packet, so I opened it up and gave her the business card. The smile I got in return made my eyes burn with moisture. Innocence and heavenly enchantment were made immortal in that brief exchange. Her face is unforgettable.
What can be done for the wide-eyed children of our broken world? It was not their doing that put them on the street, but the folly of another. I echo Jenna’s (jennamartin.voxtropolis.com) words... these people are fighting for their lives, and they need more than our mere sympathy. It’s time to act. |
| | Posted 12/29/2006 11:39 PM - 6 Views - 2 eProps - 1 Comment
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