A Man Named James

On December 2, 2009 I met a man who changed my life.

This man was born in 1931. He grew up in Texas and was one of six children. He served in the Vietnam War and lived on 1st and C in downtown San Diego.

On December 2, 2009 I met a man who changed my life.

His name was James A. Barrera. I was assigned to be his escort at Project Homeless Connect. We shared a meal together and I walked him around the convention center stopping at all the free services.

On Decemeber 2, 2009 I met a man who changed my life.

This man was homeless. He had been for the last 4 years. He carried all of his belongings in a handheld canvas bag. He slept on the corner of 1st and C in downtown San Diego.

On December 2, 2009 I met a man who changed my life.

His story ripped my heart into a million pieces. I forced myself to hold back tears and not pity this man, for he didn't pity himself. I stood there and truly listened and heard God through this man's voice.

James returned from Vietnam to absolutely nothing. He no longer knew his brothers and sisters and his parents had long since left Texas. He took up working odd jobs like picking strawberries down in Riverside. James has been in and out of every shelter imaginable, and did so by choice. He compared shelter life to prison, and for a man of 79 I can only imagine how difficult the sterile walls, locked doors, restricted areas, mandatory programs, and curfews were to deal with.

On Decemeber 2, 2009 I left James with Kristen, a high school volunteer who was more than willing to be his escort for the rest of the day. I said goodbye to James, hugged him and wished him well. He left me with this... "If I could, I would buy you a hundred roses. Some day we will take a bus to San Francisco. Taylor, I'll see you in San Francisco."

He winked. I walked away. Broken hearted. Full of joy.

I returned to campus that afternoon for class smelling of solidarity. I hadn't noticed the intense smell of life on the street until I sat down in the CASA office. My hair, my clothes, even my skin smelled of urine and sour milk. I wanted to vomit, but was entirely amazed by how oblivious I was to this smell while I was with James. I forced myself to finish the day wearing the extra large green Project Homeless Connect shirt over my navy USD sweatshirt and my hair in my face. It isn't often that we, the privileged, experience even the slightest bit of what life is like for individuals suffering from immense poverty.

James broke my heart in the best possible way, the way in which I respond by pouring out every last drop of love I have in me. I drove down to 1st and C a few days after I met James so I could give him a jacket and a friend. He wasn't there. In the days that followed I returned time and time again looking for my 5'4" friend. I never saw him again. I pray that he is still alive and thriving on the streets, but in my heart of hearts I don't believe that to be true. 50 unidentified homeless individuals died in San Diego last year. No one was informed of their deaths; rather, a small group of advocates held a ceremony in memory of these 50 men and women whose lives were reduced to living on the streets and ended in the worst of ways.

I have a passion. A passion that continually angers me. Shatters my heart. Destroys my spirit. I will never forget James A. Barrera, the smell of solidarity he left on me, and the promise of reuniting in San Francisco. I will never forget the importance of a simple conversation, the warmth of a hug, and the face of this stranger.

I learned a lesson about life on December 2, 2009 - sometimes we must allow ourselves to be broken in order to love.

R.E.L.A.T.I.O.N. ship

We, as human beings, were created to be in relation with one another.

And regardless of the fact that I have been reminded of this over and over by the professors responsible for my over priced liberal arts education, my doubts have remained.

Many of us go through life staring at the ground, keeping our distance from strangers, and only associating with those in close relation to us. I say many of us because as often as I avoid others, others are avoiding me. I've taken a break once or twice from my sidewalk ogling and found nearly everyone I passed as intrigued by the tiny dots and cracks in the surface below their feet as I am. Therefore, I am not alone in my obsession with the ground, yet the University of San Diego's United Professors Gild (USDUPG) has it that we were created to be in relation with one another. Right.

Maybe it's because I'm terribly awkward, (okay, terribly awkward might be an understatement), or maybe it's that I get too caught up in my day dreams to bother with seemingly unimportant people, but for whatever reason, I'm not one to talk to others. I run from the guys who ask me to dance at bars, divert my gaze when I see someone coming towards me, and coop myself up inside my tiny beach house watching Weeds, reading, and blogging.

I'm a homebody. I always have been and am confident in saying that I always will be. I love my Taylor time. In fact, I need my Taylor time. More time than most people need. I certainly enjoy people - occasionally forcing myself outside of my comfort zone and mingling with new faces, having quality bonding time with the people I love, and sitting around doing nothing, or everything, with close friends, but for about every minute spent with someone, I need five minutes to myself.

My mother has reassured me that I will never meet anyone if I continue to live my life this way. And as fond as I am of my life, I am doomed. Unless of course I plan on marrying one of boys I've already met, closely associate with, and don't run from. Chances? Sadly... slim, but maybe I'll hold out hope so I don't have to change my life style and actually make eye contact, plant my feet firmly on the ground, and say hello to a complete stranger. Yikes. Someone come to my rescue. Any takers?!?

Anyways, this blog posting isn't going to be entirely about my less than hopeful quest for a soulmate outside of my current community...

I found my inspiration to blog about being in relation with others by three separate individuals in the same day. I think I'm a pretty happy person. I'm usually full of energy. I smile a lot. And I spin in circles with my arms spread wide and my head thrown back because its fun, really, really fun - plus it makes me a much more pleasant person. But, last Sunday these three encounters with total strangers made my day so much better and made me feel so much happier. Honestly. I sat in traffic completely content for three hours and only became frustrated twenty minutes from my destination because I had to pee so badly that I thought I was going to puke. Who has ever been that happy? Three hours. Bumper to bumper. Stick shift.

The first two comments happened within minutes of each other. I decided I needed caffeine, an excessive amount of caffeine, before embarking on my trip to Newport to surprise my mom for her birthday. So I pulled into the only spot left in the parking lot at the bottom of Linda Vista, and needless to say it was a tight fit. I had to carefully open my door, suck in my gut, and maneuver my ant like body out of my dreadful Mitsubishi. To my surprise I had an audience and upon slamming my car door shut an attractive 20 something year old guy said "NICE JOB!" I started laughing, awkwardly smoothed out my skirt and walked into Starbucks where my second humiliating yet surprisingly uplifting meeting took place. I ordered a $2.75 venti iced coffee with room and made my way to the... um... supply station? where I poured my beloved half and half into my caffeinated beverage of choice, when upon doing so an attractive 30 something year old man says "that's a lot of coffee for a Sunday afternoon." My response - "*awkward chuckle* I have a long drive." "Are you driving to San Francisco or something?!?" I should have responded with "EXACTLY! How'd you know?" to save myself from owning up to this stranger that no, in fact I am only driving to Newport but I have a terrible addiction problem and 20 ounces of coffee is by no means a lot for a Sunday afternoon thank you very much. Oh and by the way, I'm 21, not 17.

So why did these two statements make me glow for three hours in bumper to bumper traffic? Well, for starters, I was noticed. I love being noticed. Who doesn't? And secondly, I get a sick satisfaction out of aimlessly getting a response from people for doing something that seems completely normal to me but is entirely strange to another. I often tell people I don't know how to swim just to see what they say...

The third encounter came from a very attractive 4 year old boy on Balboa Island who ran out of his front door onto the patio with his shoes on his hands and shouted "HHHHIIIIIIIII!!!!" and proceeded to have a long conversation with my mom about what he was going have for dinner. He was my favorite, for multiple reasons. How cute are 4 year olds? And 4 year olds with shoes on their hands at that? 4 year olds also aren't intimidating and the cuteness factor doesn't have to be weighed. Plus, I look more like a grown up in the eyes of a 4 year old and less like a girl pushing 17.

All three of these boys/guys/men/males added a little something to my already wonderful day. They made it brighter, made me smile wider, and made me appreciate this "we were created to be in relation with others" business that I've learned so much about. People, yes, people, bring happiness to our lives. They also bring sadness, anger, and misery, but we are rational beings, we have the ability to reason, to think, to choose, to act. After Sunday I'm more of a believer in this theory or what-have-you; still skeptical, but slowly edging nearer to pit of belief-hood. If these three totally random and incredibly insignificant exchange of words brightened my day, I can only imagine what a conversation, or a compliment, or a question can do for me in the future. Like I said before, I'm not completely sold on this idea, and I'm certainly not ready to give up my cozy couch laying, frumpy haired, make-up-less, pajama-wearing evenings with myself to run off and say hello to strangers and make an ass out of myself, but I'm willing to take a break from my relationship with the ground and see what is standing in my five foot one and a half inch line of vision.

On an entirely different and completely unrelated note, my blogs always turn in a different direction than I originally intend.

And my dad referred to me as Robinhoodette on Sunday.

Bye!

For My Daddy

Saturday mornings were exceptionally special in my house growing up.

I vividly remember walking down the hall through my parents bedroom and into the family room in one of my dad's white t-shirts and a pair of Limited Too pajama shorts (purple with cows jumping over crescent moons) hidden underneath the sea of Hanes fabric hanging down to my knees.

I didn't willing wake up, nor was I gently awoken by my dad rubbing my back whispering "good morning sweetheart" into my ear. I didn't smell the thick aroma of bacon and french toast emanating from the kitchen, or hear Abbey whining to be taken for a walk.

I woke up to

Let's dance in style, lets dance for a while

Heaven can wait we're only watching the skies

Hoping for the best but expecting the worst

Are you gonna drop the bomb or not?

and

I'm turning Japanese

I think I'm turning Japanese

I really think so

and

Mirror in the bathroom please talk free

The door is locked just you and me

Can I take you to a restuarant that's got glass tables

You can watch yourself while you are eating

and sometimes

When I'm with you baby, I go out of my head

And I just can't get enough, I just can't get enough

All the things you do to me and everything you said

And I just can't get enough, I just can't get enough

blasting out of the stereo in the family room loud enough to not only wake up our whole house, but our neighbors as well.

At my Los Feliz address, our Saturdays were spent cleaning and organizing our uncomfortably small house. We didn't go to the beach, the park, or even get to ride our bikes. We went to the hall closet, the kitchen, the backyard, and the bathrooms. The jobs were tedious and we fought over who was assigned to which job.

You might think cleaning out the Toy Closet was the easiest, but you're wrong. Because that included the dreaded red box (an old plastic crate that contained anything and everything from black widows to monkeys out of their barrel). Everything in the red box had a specific place and you had to figure out what each piece of plastic was, where it belonged and then put it back in it's respective home.

The pantry was a close second in the difficulty department. Sure you could sneak cookies when no one was looking and count how many boxes of jello were stashed away in the back of the cupboard but that just prolonged the process and left you sprawled out on the floor surrounded by cereal boxes, soup cans, and bags of chocolate chips with a wicked stomach ache.

I liked cleaning out the drawer in the kitchen the best because I got to sit on the green carpet of our family room and my dad would place the drawer in front of me. And because a 7-year-old girl lacks the ability to distinguish nails from screws, a flat head from a phillips, and an x-acto knife from a razor my Daddy helped me identify the objects and told me where to put them, then let me color code the coupons in the coupon book.

I'm pretty sure every child hates household chores and responded with complaints like "Morgan had the easiest job!" "No one is helping me!" "This is child abuse" and "I can't believe you're making me do this!"

But these Saturday mornings are among the memories that hold the most detail because from what we claimed to be child abuse and unevenly distributed tasks were days when my dad brought out the orange string ball and played catch with us in the family room and my mom made grilled tuna sandwiches for lunch that we would eat while sitting on the patio in the backyard. Saturdays always ended in a game of Sorry! with my dad on the floor of the family room and slices of pound cake and coke floats as rewards for our hard work.

And every time I hear a song by Alphaville, The Vapors, English Beat, or Depech Mode, my stomach does a flip and my eyes start to burn and I smile enormously wide because I think about waking up Saturday mornings and walking down the hall through my parents bedroom and into the family room in one of my dad's white t-shirts and a pair of Limited Too pajama shorts (purple with cows jumping over crescent moons) hidden underneath the sea of Hanes fabric hanging down to my knees.

We cleaned our house this Saturday - not my family, but Kenny, Kara, and I. We traded in waking up at 7:30 for 10:30, Alphaville for the Beach Boys, and cookies for beer. And although I became a little (okay a lot) nostalgic and felt a deep desire to blog about my dad waking me up ridiculously early to strange music, once again I am thrilled that I have such opportunities where new experiences constantly bring up old memories.