Sam and the Hundred Dollar Bill

My congregation helped serve hot meals today. They did a great job (as always), and I was impressed with their hard work and great attitudes.

I translated the brief sermon from Spanish to English and afterwards spent some time milling around and talking with the people who came. After the meal a certain gentleman waved me over to his table from the other side of the room.

His white, week-long beard stood in sharp contrast to his russet-colored skin. Some curling silvery hair spilled from under his baseball cap and over the back collar of a faded blue jacket. His clothes were in bad shape, and his hands were grubby from living outdoors. His eyes, however, were very much alive.

He asked, "How do you say 'carpenter' in Spanish? Because, you know, Jesus was a carpenter right?"

I was somewhat taken aback, as I expected him to be Hispanic. I asked him to repeat the question and noted that his accent didn't quite fit with my preconceived notions. I answered his question, and then learned that he was from India.

If I've done the math right Sam came to the United States in the mid 1970's. He grew up in Delhi and graduated with a double major in Economics and Political Science. He moved to Chicago because he wanted to further his education by studying computer science.

He told me, "I remember when I first moved to Chicago. I got a job as a quality inspector at a local factory. I was always a perfectionist so it was the perfect job for me." He laughed. "You know it's cold in Chicago. I stepped outside one day and the wind-chill factor was -87 degrees. The first meal I ever had in the US was at Denny's, and that day I wanted to go to Denny's again. I went to the restaurant and looked inside, but no one was inside. I looked up at the sign and it said 'Open 24 Hours' so I walked right in. It took a while to get service that day; I think there were only a couple people working."

Sam and I talked about all kinds of things: politics, religion, and the Vietnam War. He told me that he grew up as a Muslim, but wasn't one any longer because the founders of the United States were brilliant men and they were Deists, so he figured he should be a Deist too. I don't mention this to slight him at all. He wasn't a dull man. He told me when he first came to LA he would spend all day in the library at UCLA and eat meals they handed out at night with outdoor moving screenings.

I tried different ways of asking him why someone as educated and intellectually capable as himself would choose to live on the streets, but he deflected my question each time. He chose to tell me instead that he grew up in the Merchant/ Business caste in India. "My family always told me that if you work for another man you will be poor your whole life. That is the way we were brought up, to have great success in business." Even though he was a Muslim it was supposed to be his destiny.

A well-read man, literally bred for monetary success, had a degree in economics, and was sitting before me homeless. The most ironic part for me though, was he had rejected a personable, knowable God because he wanted to emulate Benjamin Franklin, but didn't seem to follow any of Franklin's maxims about wealth or hard work. I hope I get to speak with Sam again.

100s of Names

I have had the privilege of helping our church's food ministry serve hot meals over the past couple of weeks.

Hispanic women clack and clatter away in the sweltering kitchen (Hermano, ya estas sudando?) serving up delicious plates of food that would easily pass muster in a local restaurant. The can-opener went down this week so we had to use psycho-sized knives to free the canned carrots, corn, and cranberry/apple juices for consumption.
Stir that rice. Cut the bread. Oh, look they're already at the door. We are ready to go.

The homeless file in, one after another. They are mostly men, mostly Hispanic, and mostly middle aged or older. Their first stop in the air- conditioned basement is by the counter where they "sign in" and then receive their utensils: one napkin, one Styrofoam cup, and one plastic spoon. Some of them are amiable and greet the workers, others are apathetic, staring sullenly down at the paper and pen, still others are mentally incapable of any response beyond sticking to the routine as best they know how.

Everyone attempts to write their name, but some are more successful than others. There were Mikes, Albertos, Eduardos, and Johns along with Ms. Park, only the second homeless Korean I have ever seen. There were exotic names too: Angel de Maria, G, XX, along with various lines and squiggles. Some wrote their names quickly and sat down, some bit their tongues and forced the pen down in the painfully laborious strokes of a first grade education. A couple took up more lines than were necessary, straying into other names and margins, like drunk drivers in the world of the literate.

The jobs in the kitchen and serving the food kept me from getting to spend time with many of them. I spoke briefly with John, who was so excited to have someone to talk to that he continued the conversation even while he left the table to get more to drink. He was still talking when he sat down again; I am not sure how much I missed. I did catch that he used to work in construction up in Fresno, before he lost his job. He took some classes at LA City College studying, "a little bit of everything."

I met up with Mr. "G" as well. Thick jacket and a braided beard. He says he is staying cool even with the recent heat. "It doesn't bother me at all."

Hundreds of names, hundreds of stories. Can't wait to begin exploring them all.