Hey Family,
I know you guys would have liked to have been here. So, this is the best I can do (you can even see my piano teacher walk out and applaud after the first song). I love you and miss you. Merry Christmas.
Clare and Allison perform at the Neighborhood Music School Christmas Recital (Dec. 20).
Skylark (Mercer/Carmichael)
The Christmas Song (Arr. Brian Page)
Life at the LACW in the past few months has been exciting to say the least. Below are just a few photos to illustrate some of what I've been up to...
At the end of August (yes, I know, ages ago), a few of us LACW ladies participated in a scavenger hunt held by an annual punk festival. The challenges included kissing a dog tongue to tongue, holding a boa constrictor, receiving a pamphlet of information from a Scientology center (extra points if photo documentation of a team member getting kicked out by security) and collecting items such as a human tooth, trophy, report card with an F, and a bowling pin. Another challenge: a team member can get a mohawk (20 points!). I offered up my own scalp. Sybilla, a summer intern and pictured in the background, enthusiastically set scissors and clippers to my hair. Nine inches gone, a great haircut still remains on my head. I've maintained the 'do. How many times in my life will my radical hairstyle couple so well with my radical lifestyle?
The music continues. Margaret and I have been scoping out open mic venues around Los Angeles (so if anyone has a suggestion, let us know!). The accordion is getting a little more playing time, and our music book is in the process of a major update. We are always looking for excuses to bring our music, and philosophy behind it, to others. For Margaret and I, music is not meant for performance, but for sharing. Music, in other words, is community. We cart around a milk crate full of percussion instruments and invite people to pick up a tambourine, shaker or their guitar and join in the experience. To sit back and listen is simply not enough. 
Oh, we also went to the zoo, and Max wanted to spend some face-time with the animals...Speaking with my dad about my recent posts and activities at the LACW, he encouraged me to "write something happy." I laughed at his request, thinking to myself about the men and women I see on a regular basis who struggle and fight for their quality of life. I continued to reflect on the "happy" aspects of the work of the LACW, and suddenly (and, albeit, naively) realized that there had to be something keeping me here. What is it?
The people. Although they can be depressed, angry, annoyed, and have the ability to suck out all stores of energy I might have, the men and women at the Hippie Kitchen are one-of-a-kind. And while there is suffering on the streets surrounding the Hippie Kitchen, we laugh and share entertaining stories of ridiculousness to keep spirits high. So these are a few examples of the simple hilarity we encounter at the kitchen, the way we stay sane, the way we keep up with our work...
There is a woman who frequents our kitchen. I have never spoken to her, maybe because I do not want to ruin the story I have created for her in my mind. Each time she comes to the Hippie Kitchen, she wears a different hat. I cannot say with confidence I have seen her in the same hat twice. Once, she had a banana-yellow foam visor with what looked like a foam fighter jet sticking off of it like a unicorn's horn. Sometimes she has different varieties of cowboy hats: a sequined, sparkly pink one or a black, leopard faux fur-lined one. Whether it is a construction helmet or a delicately knitted stocking cap, she faithfully wears a hat each day.
I wonder where she stores her caps. I imagine a garage full of shelves and hooks that she enters each morning. With her hand grazing her mole-speckled face (possibly plucking one or two of those stray white hairs from her chin), she gleefully picks a hat off of the display and sets it comfortably on her head. She grabs her woven plastic bag, tosses it over her hunched shoulder and presses on for the rest of her day.
Just this week, I saw her with a new accessory that particularly excited me: her shoes. They were silver moon boots (think: Napoleon Dynamite) with an embroidered flaming skull on the back of each heel. Above the orange, red and yellow design was, in Old English font, "Punk" on the left heel and "Rock" on the right heel. This woman is crazy, for sure, but she is pretty awesome, too.
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Our patrons usually have their own routines. Some come around in line exactly seven times to get exactly the amount of food they want. Some sit in the same spot every day we're open. Some bring their own condiments to put on their food. One man comes each day with his own head of garlic. Sweeping up around the garden, I will find clusters of garlic peels. I can count on them being by a certain water cooler and a specific corner of the garden. He can go through two or three garlic heads each day.
Garlic Man is an old white man with white hair highlighted with roots of grey. He wears a white shirt, cargo pants and a black vest zipped up half way. His large black backpack weighs him down and he leans forward when he walks. He always holds a look the same facial expression. I cannot tell if he is angry, frustrated, confused, or just spent too much time staring straight at the eternal California sun.
During election season, as I was cleaning up his garlic shedding, he spoke to me about a conversation with a volunteer of ours. "He said that people are getting carried away by this election," Garlic Man said with his nondescript look. I nodded in agreement. "But what does that mean?" he continued. "I mean, where are they getting carried to?" I could see this conversation was going down a road which I did not want to follow and tried to sweep in a different direction. But he pulled me into his sun-squinted musings. "I believe in alien abductions, you know. I was abducted..." and then I stopped listening.
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Occasionally, I am on the receiving end of an entertaining one-liner, pick up line, or random short story. Some examples... (please note: these were all said without preceding conversation--not even a hello)
"Why did you cut your hair? Oh, Allison, it looks horrible. It exposes your jawline... and your face."
"My sister's crazy and an alcoholic. Did you know that you can go onto the bus with a water bottle full of vodka and the bus driver will still let you on?"
(while working in our clinic) "I'd like Tylenol, a vitamin and your number."
"Girl, you got a round ass!" (said by a woman)
"You know who you look like? Sarah Palin. No no! Wait, that's a compliment!"
"Oh, so it looks like for once you're working."
There you go, Dad. I hope you're smiling!
In the realm of Catholic Worker-type service, the subject of "burn out" is nothing foreign to volunteers and community members. It is dangerously simple to put one's nose to the grind and not look up, with the results ranging from loneliness and depression to obsessing over work to rigidity in self and routine. During my 14 months in Los Angeles, I have caught myself with my focus completely on work and consequently heading straight for an early burn out.
Today, however, I shared time with a Hippie Kitchen patron who has crossed the threshold of burnout and now confronts a deeper conflict with the worth of his own life. He has always seemed to be a happy, energetic man, and our exchanges have been quite positive and full of laughter. But I caught him zoning out at one of the picnic tables today, and jokingly asked, "You okay?" I was not expecting him to respond with such melancholy. His exact words do not resonate, but his expression was careless and empty.
Sitting down, I offered a listening ear and for twenty minutes, he spoke to me about his recent struggles. A new friend stole his bike--a crucial tool for his work and lifestyle. He has paperwork for two bank accounts (in a bank that has recently fallen victim to the economic collapse) that he needs to give to his daughters whom he has not seen in five years. He turned 55 in August and spent the entire day alone and depressed in his camper. He only receives $180 each month, most of which goes straight to gas for his camper and propane for his mini-fridge. Minor problems include the wearing of his shoes, the poor condition of his camper, and the heat wave that is passing through Los Angeles.
With my heart at my feet, all I could say with confidence was, "You know, when you come here, you are loved and welcomed. We are always happy to see you."
"This is the only place I can come where people speak to me and use sentences with more than three words. Thank you." His eyes slightly squinted to focus on his thoughts, but his sight was set on nothing. He continued to tell me his thoughts about suicide. "I even have the bridge picked out. I'm going to--"
I abruptly stopped listening, but not early enough to be in denial of his problems. After giving sufficient time to witness him lurch toward his breaking point, I excused myself to help clean up inside the kitchen. Telling a few community members of my concerns, the consensus was to take him to the clinic that is adjacent to our garden.
My friend was unlocking his borrowed bike, suited for a child, when I confronted him. "I'm worried about you. I think we should go see the doctors at the clinic and get you some help."
He pulled his key out of the bolt lock and stared at the ground, "Okay. Anything is better than this."
Getting to see someone at the clinic proved to be more difficult, even after saying the problem was contemplation of suicide. One of the women looked straight at him and, in a disapproving tone, scolded, "Well, why do you want to go do that?!"
Right as he was ready to leave, I snarled, "I think this is a pretty serious issue!" The woman dropped her folded arms in defeat and walked inside to get a nurse.
Now shaking, of nervousness or fear or nearing his tipping point, my friend sat down on a hard plastic chair. The nurse came in and spoke to him across the checker-tiled floor, asking routine questions. After receiving more information about his personal problems than she clearly cared to hear, she wrote him a referral to a social worker who would be able to provide assistance in all the necessary ways. I thanked her for taking her time (past her closing time) to talk with him.
As we walked back to his child-sized bike, I told him that I needed him to make a verbal promise not to hurt himself.
"I won't hurt myself today."
"No," I said sternly. Drawing back to my Resident Assistant training I demanded, "I need you to promise me that you won't hurt yourself until I see you on Saturday."
"Okay," he replied. "I won't hurt myself until Saturday, but I'm saying that because I really like you." We hugged and parted ways.
A community member said I did the most I probably will be able to do. There might not be more I can do to help him, and I have to realize there is so much I do not know about this man and his struggles.
Suddenly, burn out has a new meaning.
The summer program is over. Six weeks of immersion for both the interns and the community. Amazing interns, I might say. The community cites this summer as the best they've had since... well, they can't remember when. I'm grateful to have survived my third consecutive summer with the LACW, and now, I'm off to start my second consecutive year as a community member.
July 18 marked the completion of my first year at the LACW, and I have been thinking lately of things I have accumulated since...
Nicknames
"Allison" turns out not to be the most common name, and actually has birthed many nicknames. Quite possibly more than I have ever had. The regulars include:
Alice
Alicia (for my Spanish-speaking buddies)
Ali (pronounced ah-LEE)
Al
Licha (again, a Spanish nickname meaning "darling" or something to that effect)
Allison (yes, it's different--pronounced ah-lee-SAHN)
Others include:
Baby
Linda
Girl
Hey You
Juera
Juerita
Weight
10 pounds, to be exact. That's what happens when copious amounts of cheese, bread, sweets and coffee are available. Actually, I shouldn't kid myself... there's just a lot of food. Soon, the weight will be all off. Give me another year, I promise.
LA Catholic Worker Tee-Shirts
We have for sale at the house "The only solution is Love" tee-shirts. Community members get them for free, one new one each year. But since I visited a few times during college and was an intern, I have three LACW shirts. And recently a friend went to the national 75th anniversary gathering and bought me a CW movement shirt. And we also have a "NO WAR" shirt. And then Margaret and I made LACW/SOAW Los Angeles shirts last November for the SOAW action at Ft. Benning. I lost count... is it somewhere around too many?
Ball Point Pens
Hoarding is not only a skill, it is a necessity at the Catholic Worker. I can't say anything for other houses, but here, things come and go in a jiffy. You want that muffin that's sitting on the kitchen counter, but you're not hungry right now? Take it. Who cares if you find it under your bed two weeks later. If you don't take it now, you might never get it. As noted above, I am in the process of avoiding the habitual collection of food. But I have continuously, throughout the year, kept a close eye out for nice pens. Ball point pens, preferably. Medium tip is nice, but I quite like the fine tip pens. Currently, I use them to work on the archive project (I'll touch on that in a minute); but mostly, I find the pen, use it once, and lose it. My inability to keep track of the favored pen only encourages the hoarding. I think one day, I'll clean my room and find dozens of them hiding in mysterious places like under all my LACW tee-shirts.
Tolerance for Dirt/Sweat/General Filth
It gets hot here. Really hot. And for an Oregonian, the Los Angeles summers send me into a sweat-induced trance. Add that to working in Skid Row, having limited clean clothes (our washer is known as the "dirtier"), and sporadic showering, and you get--no, not a hippie--tolerance. Even just 15 minutes after getting out of the shower, I kid you not, I already have dirt under my fingernails. I don't walk around like Pig Pen from Peanuts, but I wouldn't be readily welcomed by Howard Hughes. I do know how to accept hygiene as part of my lifestyle, so don't worry. I'll take a shower a few days after I can smell myself.
Useless Information Regarding the LACW
Want to know stories about the LACW that affect you in no way, shape or form? I'm your gal! Recently, I've taken up a much-too-large and self-consuming archive project. With almost 4o years under its belt, the LACW has successfully left no organized path to understand why it is the way it is today. Banana boxes full of unlabeled, undated pictures. Supposed milk crates in the abyss of the back house basement allegedly full of interesting articles, photos and miscellaneous archive material (Jeff, Catherine: you keep telling me they exist, yet you have no solid proof... I wait impatiently). Cassette tapes of interviews from certain people about certain things (again, unlabeled and undated). In a desperate attempt to prove to doubtful community members that my history major is in fact practical, I have decided to put order to this mess. So if you need to know when Jeff was arrested that one time for that one civil disobedience thing, or if you have a sneaking suspicion that something has changed since you last visited, ask me and I just might be able to give you an answer. Chances are, though, you really don't care.
Interested in Catholic Worker life? Internship? Volunteering? It's not as farcical as I am... so no fears. Contact us, and look for the Summer Internship issue of the Catholic Agitator!
Los Angeles Catholic Worker
632 N Brittania St.
Los Angeles, CA 90033
323.267.8789
lacatholicworker.org
info@lacatholicworker.org
There are many instances which have led me to truly believe in the desperation of the human soul. We are all longing for connection. Dorothy Day's autobiography, The Long Loneliness, intimately focuses on her journey to find herself. The relationship in which she found the most comfort was the mystic connection between herself and God. Others find the solution to loneliness in family, a lifetime partner (romantic or platonic), or even with the companionship of a pet.
Lately, I have seen and listened to stories of overwhelming isolation. Some of the men and women who eat at the Hippie Kitchen experience not only the loneliness we all know in the physical and emotional sense, but also a spiritually exhausting hopelessness. How do we--as individuals, as a community, as a society and culture, as a family--heal our brothers and sisters?
In April, we hosted a music party at the Hippie Kitchen garden. We brought in the accordion, guitars, some percussion instruments, and a list of songs and music. It was a great hit, and the guys were more than happy to shout out names of tunes they wanted to hear. I remember saying, "We don't have 'American Pie,' sorry!" and hearing roaring groans of disappointment.
One of my favorite guests, and one of the two Persians I know who eat at the Hippie Kitchen, walked into the garden flushed and sullen-faced. It was quite clear he was drunk, and it was the first time I had even seen him under the influence. He is a well-kept man with a gentle and loving spirit. Whenever he speaks to me, he leans in a bit, almost a slight bow, and smiles to say, "Allison, how are you?" His greeting this time was strained as he asked to play the accordion. "You know how to play?" I almost scoffed in surprise. "Yes, yes. Give it to me," he replied kindly, and slightly slurred. Margaret and I helped to strap him into the large instrument.
The moment the accordion rested on his lap, although still intoxicated, his eyes alerted. I believe something was set off in his soul, and his drowsy eyes could barely express the change he felt. As he pulled open the accordion's lung, he recited the chord he played, "A." He continued to expand and contract the instrument, stretching it to his arms' full length and closing it almost completely. The music that emitted from his bony fingers was less than flawless. The heart wrenching tune he gave us lingered in the air as tears welled up in his bloodshot eyes. He stopped, wiped his face and said, "I haven't played the accordion in twenty years." Unable to clear his face of the salty streams, he got up and walked away.
Margaret and I looked at each other, and Margaret, being the braver one of the two of us, jumped up to follow him. A few moments later, I stood, trying to shake off the awe that had paralyzed me. He was ready to leave the kitchen when Margaret approached him and said, "That was beautiful!" Our new found musician muscled a smile and said with shame, "It just brought back too much... My mother and father... They died. And now, all I do is drink." Margaret, again finding words that I could not, set her hand on his shoulder and said, "We love you very much. And we support you." Using much of his remaining energy, he supported a smile, said thank you and left the kitchen.
A few weeks ago, he was telling me about the "mission life" as he called it. He has been mission-hopping for three years now, and is growing tired of the instability, the sermons that precede meals, and the strict hours in which guests are to check in and out. Staring off above my shoulder, he talked dreamily of having a room to stay in. "Nothing fancy," he said.
And suddenly, without prompting, he began to tell me of his journey to find Skid Row. Living comfortably with his mother, he had heard of the Los Angeles Mission, an organization still very much active in Skid Row. He sent a donation to the mission to support what he thought was important work. Soon after, his mother kicked him out because of his drinking problem and he found himself dependent on the very organization to which he earlier tithed.
"And I have to deal with anxiety," he moaned disappointingly. "I worry about so many things and I can't do anything because I worry. I live in missions because I cannot do anything. And my mother never understood why I worried so much."
While I know to keep distance between myself as a volunteer and the patrons of the kitchen, I knew I had to share with him my similar struggles. "I know exactly what you mean. It used to happen to me all the time." I continued to describe the physical manifestations of fear, and my handicaps when I am overcome by panic. He looked at me with his head cocked to the side, a curious grin across his face.
"I'm sorry you have to deal with that," I consoled.
"I'm glad you understand," he sighed.
