Skid Row

I'm writing this on the first part of my lunch break. Over the weekend, our ministry had an all-day outreach at Skid Row consisting of a chess tournament, free hair-cutting services, and some freshly grilled hotdogs cooked a la "dirty dog". I headed the "dirty dog" service, firing up twelve fiery sterno cans over a thick hotel pan right next to Gladys Park in Skid Row, in the shadows of Downtown LA's towering skyscrapers.

There's something so sobering and gutteral about the first contact one makes at Skid Row, an infamous polygon of concrete wasteland known for its immense homeless population, substantial drug use, and overall destitution. But what is often portrayed (correctly) is that Skid Row is an actual community, a body of people who live a common life in the rugged and dangerous subsection that few Angelenos ever experience. The stench is what hits you first, that dizzying, noxious blend of urine, garbage, sweat, and scum. Then the grit, the seemingly endless layer of dust and grime that pervades everything, from the asphalt to the buildings. Numerous wanderers clad in nondescript clothing and meandering cyclers on decrepit bikes cruise by the casual observer standing on a busy street corner.

On a typical weekend, a number of charitable groups and churches set up shop to give away food and supplies, cut hair, and evangelize using loudspeakers, guitars, and microphones. A food line usually summons a few hundred inhabitants. Benevolent volunteers offer free hugs and warm smiles to the locals.

The typical Skid Row resident has a rather meloncholy expression of joyless hope. You might wonder what that hope is. Hope that one day, their family will accept them. That one day they will escape the perils of homelessness and hunger.

As our group set up in the nearby "Hippie House" as the locals refer, we noticed immediately many observers come and see what we were going to provide. We promised a delicious, hot lunch but offered free haircuts from untrained barbers (a few brave, hapless church members). In the meantime, one of the guys set up a chess tournament involving a few dozen local guys. It was a pleasantly spent morning and afternoon for those chessmongers, a quiet respite from the streets.

We heard a cop had sickeningly dressed up like an Easter bunny that day and was issuing jaywalking tickets. We were appalled by his tasteless behavior. We resorted to waiting for the slow light every time we had to cross the street between the Hippie House and the chess tournament.

As I prepared a table for the dirty dogs, I found many people stopping to ask us what we would be serving. The prospect of grilled hotdogs seemed worth the wait. I realized at this point that offering food to the residents was only a temporary solution. A mouthful of comestibles offering a few hours of satiation while the body yearned for more in less time than desired. Hunger is a harsh reality. Interestingly, one local told us that no one actually goes hungry in Skid Row because there are so many services and opportunities for them to obtain a meal. That's great to hear, but proves that it's just a short-term answer to the long-term prospect of nourishment.

Yet what struck me while I grilled two hundred crispy, oily wieners was that I was going to run out. Twenty pounds of Farmer John meat wasn't going to afford a meal to each person in the line. As the hot LA sun beat against my right brow, and as the radiating heat of the sternos nearly melted the hard plastic table upon which they were set, I bleakly realized that some people wouldn't eat. I didn't eat. Neither did anyone else from our church. We were supposed to eat the hot dogs too, to show that we weren't above eating the humble hot dogs (which I'm never above as evidenced by Pink's Hot Dogs). But we ran out. We'll always run out because there just isn't enough food we can buy to feed them forever, or feed us for that matter.

That's the terrible thing about food is that no matter how much you eat, you'll need more of it again later. For some, it's a blessing, as Cervantes says, "hunger is the best sauce". For others it's a sign that they'll need additional sustainance to survive another day. In fact, most of the world is in this mode. As a food writer, I can't ever forget this reality about food, that there will never been enough to perpetually, or eternally satiate hunger. It's no wonder then that Jesus calls himself the Living Water, whose quench will cause us never to thirst again. Or to dine at the table of the Lord in the heavenly banquet, where we will receive an everlasting fellowship and feast with God.

I'm glad we took a small step, gave a tiny glimmer of hope through our love and care for the residents of Skid Row. Our love isn't founded in humanitarian empathy or altruistic graciousness, but on the truth that God is revealed in our expression and action to show others that there is something more to satiation than what physical food can bring. That the act of grooming through a clean haircut doesn't possibly clean one up enough to be presentable to God in light of our licentious hearts. But we'll gladly give glimmer of hope, whether that be through outdoor grill or hair clippers, and despite discomfort or unfamiliarity or disparity of lifestyle. I work on possibly the most outlandishly wealthy block in the country, but I should know that I was no different spiritually than a homeless person The glamourous sheen of Beverly Hills covers no blight in the hearts of men, and neither does the grime of Skid Row shroud the hope of Christ.



Time for lunch.