“When does enough turn out to be
enough– when do we leave reasonably satisfied, and if so, with what messages
given to the people with whom we have worked? What is our responsibility to
such people … When does honorable inquiry turn into an exercise in
manipulative self-interest, even ‘exploitation’?”
* Robert Coles, Doing Documentary Work
What survived for several months as a collective, familial effort to hold things together among the concrete bridges, ramps, sidewalks and cul de sacs has morphed into something even less optimistic, if that’s a term that could ever be used. Terry and Amy are occupying the narrowest strip of asphalt imaginable on an off-ramp, certain by be rousted out again soon, only to build camp somewhere else in the vicinity or do a spell behind bars; Gracie is now rooming with a couple Craig once denounced as grifters and opportunists; Lynda clings tenuously to a modicum of sane, reasoned hope, with her artworks finally about to go on public display at an Art Walk, on invitation from a local politician’s office.
Discovering Lynda’s new kitty brings a feeling of hope and tenderness that is minutes later dampened by Craig’s terse recounting of his recent confrontation with law enforcement nemesis Officer Diaz, which he retells with tired and pitiless eyes as an impasse during which both men reportedly told the other that they never want to see each other again. With their dead-end encampment now overrun with the hoardings of others and no longer the place of relative solitude it proved to be for several weeks, Craig may be getting harassed (two new tickets and counting) out of what he calls Diaz’s “perimeter,” and threatens now to seek less hostile pastures.
56.11 tent violation, for an abode blocking a remote dead end sidewalk where nobody walks.
I had a very interesting 15-minute conversation with Gracie as she panhandled on the off-ramp this afternoon. As she brought me up to date on the whereabouts and news of the others, I commented on the way most drivers and passengers looked the other way or straight ahead as they passed by or sat waiting for the light to turn green. She responded by coming up with a new slogan for her next sign, “those who can, don’t, and those who can’t, do…” It’s a telling bromide and one that can join “homeless, not hopeless,” and “not homeless, houseless,” among the battle cries written with markers on cardboard.
As much to mollify Gracie as to justify my presence on that freeway offramp, I told her how I wished (and have proposed) that each and every one of the people who are on display as 4x4ft prints in City Hall could have their lives intervened in by the city’s social services departments, with something positive being done for each of them. I swore out loud in frustration that instead, she is still out there… then she swore and I told her not to copy my bad habits and we laughed, and the people looking at us from their car windows might have thought, well they don’t look so miserable after all…
Many people associate the term “skid row” with an end-of-the-line, bottom-of-the-barrel location where the poorest of the poor end up, either mentally ill or strung out on one illegal substance or another. Life skids to a halt here, by this reasoning. But the actual origin of the name refers to the skid marks left by the lumber dragged through the streets in times long since past. General Jeff, known in some circles as the unelected “mayor” of Skid Row, insists that those who want to change Skid Row’s name to something less stigmatized, for commercial or other reasons, are wasting their time. Skid Row’s many problems, including its status as the epicenter of homelessness in Los Angeles and perhaps the entire country, does not mean its people and history should be forsaken or erased, especially not for public relations purposes. To the contrary, he and others fighting for the souls that live there believe that redemption will come not from sanctimony or patronage, but from an insistence on better representation and policies toward the community.
If you want to at least scratch the surface of the mind-bending situation in Skid Row today, General Jeff is the right person to start with. The South-Central native has taken on what should be respected as one of the hardest jobs in Los Angeles– to keep things moving in a positive direction in the face of the common sense deficit that plagues the social service, political and law enforcement sectors… General Jeff does in fact fill the void left by a lack of action from City Hall, involved in all aspects of Skid Row life. Mayor or not, he’s been at the forefront of the ongoing move to obtain Neighborhood Council representation for the community. He wants the local businesses in the area to be more understanding and responsive to the residents. To steer the population away from associations with the lowest common denominators of popular culture he fights to have salacious billboards advertising the sex-industry taken down.
Touring the area with General Jeff is a lesson in both history and civics. He is greeted in the streets with respect and love, fist bumps and handshakes. The landmark mural, created in the image of a traffic sign, is his bold proposition that Skid Row deserves to be respected and taken seriously as something more than the dead end it is dismissed as. Asserting sovereignty for residents who cannot afford or survive gentrification, to use one example Jeff looks at the fishing industry’s use of prime real estate within the Skid Row borders for storage and distribution as a symbol of inequality and the disconnect between the business world and the people. His movement would be happy to see the business owners take a more balanced interest in the welfare of those they are keeping off their properties with coils of razor wire, security gates and fencing, or just dull, windowless, undecorated walls.
The door in the background was once the entry to the Salvation Army kitchen, located in one of the many early 20th century buildings in the area. That this particular building stands is in disrepair is a symbolic and ironic testimony to failed philanthropy.
With four major missions and numerous other charity organizations, Skid Row on a Sunday morning features sidewalk sermons, with people lining up in several locations for meals and other services. General Jeff firmly believes that not enough scrutiny is paid to the operations of the charity industry, and also decries the “shell game” that is too-often played by governmental bodies at the expense of the Skid Row community, hindering real development and making it more difficult for the residents to rise up.
General Jeff is frequently approached with questions and concerns. He is known as a fearless and tireless representative of the community, and does not suffer fools gladly…
Along with the tents and tarps that line the sidewalks on most streets in Skid Row, the most glaring sign of municipal neglect is the sheer volume of trash gathering in the gutters and elsewhere. One of many concerns is the pollution caused by this trash (which includes syringes and other toxins) entering the drainage system openings along the curbs … one wonders how often city sanitation trucks visit these streets.
Outside the Hippie Kitchen, where meals and other services have been provided since the late 1960s…
Mural in progress by Dimitri; General Jeff speaks adamantly about bringing positive imagery and lively colors to the community, to counter the oppressive facelessness and the outdated negative artwork that currently marks much of the industrial and commercial property on Skid Row.
This is the cliché that has come to represent Skid Row. It is a common sight and a sobering reminder of the enormity of the task.
A stark reminder of how dangerous life can be; burn marks on the wall where a tent was torched in retribution for an unpaid debt.
General Jeff, the “Mayor of Skid Row,” before his very informative, frank, generous presentation to our documentary photojournalism class; his message is one that anyone interested in matters of urban poverty, homelessness, the situation in Los Angeles and especially the ins-and-outs of the ongoing full-blown humanitarian crisis on Skid Row had better learn. Not unlike any settlement where the inhabitants are essentially displaced peoples, Jeff is part of the heart that asserts its autonomy and demands self-respect. And not unlike, for example, a refugee camp, where the inhabitants have no real power in the face of violence and levels of degradation most only have to wonder about, his leadership is heroic and essential and relentless.
FLASHBACK: Street kids of Nairobi...
A young boy was recently being interviewed by Undugu social workers. His only possession seemed to be an old burlap sack. When asked why he wouldn't put the sack down as they talked, the boy replied warily, "This is not a sack. It is my father and my mother, my house, my car, my farm and my daily bread. I can't steal without it."
Combined excerpts from two separate articles, originally
published in Kenya in Executive Magazine,
January 1993, and Survival, Spring
1994.
Being at the
forefront of street children-related work in Kenya, it is sometimes necessary
for the Undugu Society to assume the role of advocate. This is especially true
when cases arise where it is obvious that the rights of the children, as
espoused in the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child, have been
violated. One such case occurred when government authorities decided to close
down a rescue center at Kariokor Market, one of the busiest sections of
Nairobi. An extremely harsh crackdown left several boys incarcerated among
adults- - a direct contradiction of the statutes related to child protection in
Kenya. The boys were hounded and even physically assaulted during their ordeal.
While it is true that many of these boys were not model citizens in any sense
of the word, they are citizens, and human beings, nonetheless. And though we
wish in all good conscience to be able to report that this incident was an
isolated case of overzealousness by a few officials, we are sorry that our
pursuit of the truth in such matters does not allow such a softening statement
to be made. To the contrary, such occurrences are so commonplace that to report
them regularly would entail the hiring of a full-time investigative reporter,
to be assigned solely to the juvenile courthouse, the approved and remand
school systems, and the police stations citywide. Reprinted here is the
editorial column from the March 1994 edition of Flash, the in-house quarterly
newsletter of Undugu.
In
the April –June, 1993 issue of Flash, our editorial outlined the work being
done by the Child Law Project, whose proposed Children’s Act seeks to refine
and consolidate the often conflicting and unclear legislation pertaining to
child protection. We noted then that Attorney General Amos Wako has said that
this act should become law sometime during this session of Parliament.
To
date, this has not yet been done, thus the Children and Young Persons Acts,
Chapter 141 (last revised in 1972) remains the definitive legislation on cases
specifically dealing with juveniles and others, including street children. In
light of the recent developments involving the boys from Kariokor, it is
instructive to note the following sections of this act, and we would ask the
proper authorities to pause and consider whether the rights of these children
are in any way being violated:
CAP
141, Section 23: (1) If any person who
has the custody, charge or care of any child or juvenile-
(a)
Willfully assaults, ill-treats,
neglects, abandons or exposes him, or causes or permits him to be assaulted,
ill-treated, neglected, abandoned or exposed, in any manner likely to cause him
unnecessary suffering or injury to healthy shall be guilty of an offence and
liable to a fine not exceeding five thousand shillings or to imprisonment for a
term not exceeding six months or to both such fine and such imprisonment…
CAP
141, Section 5: Arrangements shall be
made for preventing persons under sixteen years of age while detained in a
police station, or while being conveyed to or from any court from associating
with adults charged with or convicted of any offence other than an offence with
which a person under sixteen years of age is jointly charged or convicted…
CAP
141, Section 14: Every court in dealing
with a person under eighteen years of age who is brought before it shall have
regard to his welfare and shall, in a proper case, take steps for removing him
from undesirable surroundings and for securing that proper provision be made
for his maintenance, education and training.
In
the first two instances (Section 23 &6), readers of our special report in
this issue (the closing of the Kariokor Rescue Centre) will not have to stretch
their imaginations too far to acknowledge the possibility of violations against
our children by the very agencies entrusted to protect them. With regard to
Section 14, a recent visit to the Juvenile Remand Home in Kabete, (one of 10
such home throughout the republic) revealed a situation so shocking and
depressing in its scope, that it is hard to imagine how the courts assigned to
deal with these children would be able to abide by that law.
Built
to hold 80-100 children, Kabete’s population fluctuates from 200-300 and has in
recent months reached as high as 500. With manager Bakala Wambani lamenting a
near total lack of funding from the government, the children held at Kabete
have no salt or milk in their diets. Many appear to be malnourished, a worse
condition than we find them when living on the streets. Scabies is rampant, as
there are precious few medicines to treat this or any other illnesses. There
are only two qualified social workers, with ten other staff members handing
various responsibilities. Even with probation officers sent periodically from
the Children’s Department to help follow-up the vagrancy cases (which constitute
the majority), processing is slow. It is not uncommon for a child picked up on a
street corner to end up spending more than a month waiting for some decision to
be made on his future. In the meantime, those categorized as needing protection
and care (P &C) are mixed together with those officially determined to
require protection and discipline (P&D).
The result—hardcore cases end up influencing and often spoiling the more
innocent children. In December last year, the government released 17m shillings
from the Treasury, to go towards the “repatriation” of children to their home
regions. Already dozens of children have been shipped to police station in places
such as Kakamega and Mombasa.
This
may stem the flow of children to the streets temporarily, but realistically it
is like trying to empty a sinking canoe with a spoon. Long-term solutions are
needed. Just as Undugu Society needs funding to maintain our programs, so the relevant
government ministries need to allocate sufficient funds to improve the quality
of services at the remand home and approved schools. It was pointed out to us
that there was once a “ State Maintenance Fund,” which was used to finance the
education of needy children. There were even cases of children being sponsored
clear up to university level. Reviving this would be a major step in the right
direction.
Without
such efforts of good faith, and until policeman and others in positions of
authority learn to treat street children as human beings, not whipping boys,
the chances are the system will continue to further harden, rather than help,
society’s most unfortunate souls.
Representation and ownership; the delicate case of W. Eugene Smith’s Tomoko image
“Even the most compassionate
photojournalism is under pressure to satisfy simultaneously two sorts of
experiences: those arising from our largely surrealist way of looking at all
photographs, and those created by our belief that some photographs give real
and important information about the world. The photographs that W. Eugene Smith
took in the late 1960s in Minamata … move us because they document a
suffering which arouses our indignation—and distance us because they are superb
photographs of Agony, conforming to surrealist standards of beauty.”
* Susan Sontag
You will be
told we must continuously show these images as a reminder of what must never
happen again! These arguments, I believe, are specious when looked at without
the filter of the mass media. The classic Aristotelian notion of tragedy, which
calls for the dramatic presentation of “
… incidents arousing pity and fear, wherewith to accomplish its catharsis
of such emotions,” seemed prescient in the age of photographic
representation. Yet while such
photographs may arouse pity, fear or anger, it is hard to imagine what
cathartic value the perpetual viewing of, to put things crudely, a dead or dying
body might have, regardless of it’s historical or political significance.
To this end, Sontag
has also written:
“To suffer is one thing; another
thing is living with the photographed images of suffering, which does not
necessarily strengthen conscience and the ability to be compassionate. It can
also corrupt them … after repeated exposure to images it also becomes less
real … The sense of taboo which makes us indignant and sorrowful is not
much sturdier than the sense of taboo that regulates the definition of what is
obscene. The vast photographic catalogue of misery and injustice throughout the
world has given everyone a certain familiarity with atrocity, making the
horrible seem ordinary …”
Outside the
realm of censorship, however exercised, photojournalists, documentarians and defenders of the genre have historically shown little restraint or reflection in the use of more
“important” images. Actions against this deeply ingrained sense of
representational duty are rare, if not blasphemous.
In 1998, pundits
were aghast when Aileen Mioko Smith, the widow of master photo-essayist W.
Eugene Smith, heeded the pleas of the Uemura family to bar all future use of
one of Smith’s most enduring images, “Tomoko is Bathed by Her Mother.” The photograph, a classic example of Smith’s
unabashedly Romantic sensibility, with trademark high-contrast printing to
further enhance the chiaroscurolighting, had been taken
in 1971 as part of an essay on the effects of mercury poisoning in the Japanese
fishing industry. The photographs published in Life magazine, and in the book entitled “Minamata,” came to
symbolize the plight of the families afflicted with birth defects and other
illnesses. Notwithstanding concerns expressed by purists that Smith had engaged in
some decidedly questionable journalistic ethics by staging the image in the
most dramatic light that could be found, the photograph is held up as a shining
example of humanitarian documentary work, nearly as impressive symbolically as
it is narratively.
The Uemura family
eventually prevailed in the first Minamata Disease trial against the Chisso
Corporation, but a few years later Tomoko, only twenty-one years old, passed
away. In an emotional letter written in 1998, Tomoko’s father outlines how the
famous photograph has, over the years since their daughter’s death, become a
crucible, outliving it’s original usefulness:
“ … we were faced with an
increasing number of demands for interviews. Believing that it would aid the
struggle for the eradication of pollution, we agreed … as a result rumors
began to circulate … `They must be making a huge amount of money from all
the publicity’ … I do not think that anybody outside our family can begin
to imagine how unbearable these persistent rumors made our daily lives … in
1977 we were contacted by a French television company who were planning to
produce a program entitled `One Hundred Photographs of the Twentieth Century,’
and they said it was vital for them to use … Eugene Smith’s `Tomoko.’” I
did not want to take part in this program so I turned them down … I wanted
Tomoko to rest in peace and this feeling welled up in me steadily.”4
In response,
Smith, who had worked with her husband on the Minamata project, and had been
intimate with the Uemura family, agreed. In a letter to the media, she wrote:
“Generally, the copyright of a
photograph belongs to the person who took it, but I think that it is important
to respect the subject’s rights and feelings. Therefore, I … promised that
I would not newly exhibit or publish the photo in question. In addition I will
be grateful if any museums who already own or are displaying the work would
take the above into consideration …”5
Aperture magazine, widely respected as among the most excellent
arbiters of important photography, dutifully published a response that brushed
aside copyright concerns. Instead, it served
to chastise Aileen Mioko Smith for giving away what was not hers, violating a
trust rendered sacred forged by an unconditional, long-held sense of protective
ownership. Never! Imagine the precedent!
Aristotle himself might’ve appreciate the manner in which the removal of the
photographs from public view would provide those most personally affected with
the catharsis necessary to complete the dramatization of the tragedy, but it
was not to be…
Eugene and Aileen Smith’s
Photograph of Tomoko and My Family
by Yoshio Uemura
Tomoko was
born on June 13, 1956. A few days after her birth, Tomoko began to exhibit
trembling fits. She cried every day and we were unable to leave her side. We
thought this strange and took her to various hospitals in Minamata City, but
none of them were able to say what was wrong with her. She was later suspected
to be suffering from cerebral palsy. However there was really no treatment for
her but to give injections to her tiny, thin body.
It was not
until November of 1962 that Tomoko was recognized as suffering from congenital
Minamata Disease. At this time she already had three younger sisters. On
December 26th of that year another sister was born and by 1969 she had a total
of six siblings. Despite having so many children, looking after Tomoko took a
lot of our time. A single meal would take about two hours for her to eat and so
just feeding her would occupy more than five or six hours every day.
The first
Minamata Disease lawsuit began in June 1969 and went through forty-nine
hearings before the proceedings were concluded with the final judgment being
handed down on March 20, 1973. During this period, people from all over the
country offered their support and among them were Eugene and Aileen Smith, who
had rented a house near ours in Detsuki from Tadaaki Mizoguchi and were
photographing the families of the victims of the disease.
Among the many
photographs they took, there was one of my wife Yoshiko holding Tomoko in the
bath. Yoshiko told me that Tomoko had let her body lie straight without trying
to curl up. To be honest, we had thought that the photograph would only take a
brief moment so we had agreed to the shoot without giving the matter a second
thought. I was told that Tomoko seemed exhausted when she got out of the bath.
The photograph
went on to become world-famous and as a result we were faced with an increasing
number of demands for interviews. Believing that it would aid the struggle for
the eradication of pollution, we agreed to the interviews and photographs and
the organizations that were working on our behalf used the photograph of Tomoko
frequently in their activities. However, as a result, rumors began to circulate
in the neighborhood and among other people around us. “They must be making
a huge amount of money from all that publicity.” This was untrue. It had
never entered our minds to profit from the photograph of Tomoko. We never dreamt
that a photograph like that could be commercial.
The truth is
that we did not benefit financially at all from the photograph. I do not think
that anybody outside our family can begin to imagine how unbearable these
persistent rumors made our daily lives. Sometimes we had to face the flashes
and hot lights of television interviews, and although she could not speak
herself, I am sure that in her heart Tomoko felt that because of her, we –her
father, mother, sisters, and brother– were having to go through such pain. As
her father, I found the thought that this concern existed in the corner of her
mind extremely unpleasant. Several years before she died, she began going to
the hospital many times and each time she came home she was smaller than when
she went in. She never smiled any more and seemed to become progressively
weaker.
Despite this,
Tomoko still had a strong will to live and she was treasured by everybody in
the family. I regret so much that I could do nothing to soften her pain…the
fevers from colds, the suffering, the only slight relief she could get from the
injections and medication. The treatments probably provided but slight relief
for her. I have now come to believe that the sole thing that sustained Tomoko
was her parents and siblings, her family’s love gave her reason for living, and
perhaps enabled her to survive as long as she did.
I am sure that
it must have pained Tomoko not to be able to express her gratitude to those who
helped her come as far as she did, but I think it was the absolute love and
affection my wife offered her that made her life worth living. The industry as
well as the national and regional government sent us and untold others to the
bottom of hell. And the whole lot of them neglected to save lives but instead
bailed out the company. And the company that caused thousands to fall victim
now survives as though it has never committed any sin.
The court case
was concluded, but victory has no value to the deceased and the seriously ill.
And even if the government were to apologize officially, this would do nothing
in the slightest to relieve the symptoms of the victims. Tomoko died on
December 5, 1977. She was 21 years old. All we could do was to hold vigil
before Tomoko who had departed us in silence. I could not hear the words of those
that paid homage to her in the funeral procession. Their words could not enter
my ears. In blank stupor, Tomoko departed to heaven ahead of her parents,
leaving behind her sisters and brother…
In 1997 we
were contacted by a French television company named CAPA who were planning to
produce a program entitled, “One Hundred Photographs of the Twentieth
Century” and they said that it was vital for them to use “the picture
that captured the environmental problems of Minamata, Eugene Smith’s
‘Tomoko’.”
I did not want
to take part in the program so I turned them down. I know what television
interviews involve and also, many of the organizations that are working on our
behalf are using the photograph in various media, many of them in places we do
not know about. I realize that this is necessary for numerous reasons, but I
wanted Tomoko to rest in peace and this feeling welled up in me steadily.
Hearing the
way I felt, Aileen came all the way from Kyoto to visit me on June 7th last
year and she promised to revert all rights of decision to the picture of Tomoko
to my wife and I. We later received this promise in writing and a copy of it
appears on the following page [below]. I and my family are filled with
gratitude from the bottom of our hearts toward Aileen. I thank her deeply for
this wonderful gift to Tomoko. I feel that Tomoko is now finally resting in
eternal peace. I ask all of you for your support and understanding.
His letter ended:
1. I, Aileen Smith, return the photograph entitled
“Tomoko is Bathed by her Mother” to Mr. and Mrs. Uemura.
2. This means
that the right of decision concerning the use of this photograph reverts to Mr.
and Mrs. Uemura.
3. In the
future, when any requests are made to me concerning this photograph, I will
explain the following (see separate sheet) and refuse use of this photograph.
October 30,
1998
Aileen Mioko
Smith
Regarding the Photograph, “Tomoko is Bathed by her Mother”
by Aileen
Mioko Smith
The photograph
entitled “Tomoko is bathed by her Mother” was taken in December 1971
by Eugene and Aileen Smith. At the time, Tomoko was a plaintiff in the first
Minamata Disease trial and was suing the Chisso Corporation for damages. Her
parents wanted society to know about their daughter and therefore agreed to the
taking and publishing of the photograph.
Since 1972,
this photograph has been published in Life
magazine, a book of photographs entitled “Minamata” (1975 in English,
1980 in Japanese) etc., causing a huge response, and became a symbol of
Minamata Disease.
The plaintiffs
won their case in March of 1973 but sadly, Tomoko died in December 1977 at the
tender age of twenty-one. Despite this, however, the photograph continued to be
used as a symbol of Minamata Disease in books and exhibitions, leaving a strong
impression on a large number of people. I later heard that this resulted in a
certain amount of conflict within the minds of her family, who wanted to see
the end of the kind of pollution that caused the problems, while at the same
time wished to let Tomoko rest in peace.
Generally, the
copyright of a photograph belongs to the person who took it, but the subject
also has rights and I think that it is important to respect the subject’s
rights and feelings. Therefore, I went to see the Uemura family on June 7, 1998
and promised that I would not newly exhibit or publish the photograph in
question.
For the above
reasons, the photograph entitled “Tomoko is bathed by her Mother”
will not be used for any new publications. In addition I will be grateful if
any museums etc. who already own or are displaying the work would take the
above into consideration when exhibiting etc. the photograph in the future.
“… Marx
asserted, ‘They cannot represent themselves; they must be represented.’ His
doubled sense of representation is a political practice; someone must speak
for, stand in for, perform as, the inchoate and unformed group—not yet a class
because it cannot represent itself, yet surely a class because it can be
represented—to and for itself and others. If representation is crucial to class
formation and expression, then class, like gender, is performative …”
65-year-old women (or men) shouldn’t have to sit on the ground like this. Days like today, you feel the weight of the struggle our friends go through, and get down over the reality of how slow, or non-existent, change seems. “One of us” feels more like “none of us.” Lynda is still largely laid up with her rib injury, working on some new pieces, excited about the possibility that she will be able to show, and possibly even sell, some work, and is more determined than ever to get the hell out her dead-end existence and into a small apartment somehow…. Like her friends Rebecca and Rachel, she’s now hoping that Friday will bring good news when she goes to apply for an HUD apartment.
Her message was loud and clear, though most of the people in attendance at the Los Angeles Housing+Community Investment Department’s celebration of 25 years of achievement in the fields of affordable housing (and homelessness, by proxy) weren’t in the mood to listen … with $1.5 million already allocated to enhance the emergency shelter system into a year-round program, Laura Rathbone arrived to plead that there be no more excuses. She wasn’t on the agenda, and my request to have access to the microphone (I intended to turn my time over to her) was shushed due to “time constraints.” Laura, denied the opportunity to explain the situation in more measured tones, and maybe a little put out by the fact that she had been running all over the city on a daily basis trying to find someone who could unlock the Armory doors, went all Norma Rae…. Lives were on the line– just as there are lots of people who refuse to go into the shelters for a variety of reasons, there is also a segment of the homeless population who do not want or cannot cope with living out of doors. If only the powers-that-be would listen, and realize that hundreds, even thousands of people are on the streets because of decisions like this one.
The thing that sticks with me the most after watching this a few times is how the officials around the perimeter of the rotunda just carried on as if nothing was happening. Laura was just speaking the truth, trying to help people who due to the closure of the Sylmar Armory suddenly have to fend for themselves outdoors. Besides the obvious irony of turning a deaf ear while the gallery is filled with larger-than-life portraits of the class of people Laura was speaking for, it’s absurd that not one person in a position of authority approached her to find out more, to see if there was any validity to her claims, to even recognize that there was a problem. This was during an event focussing on the city’s commitment to finding affordable housing and lifting the homeless up. Yet when my wife went to ask if they could turn down the music that had been cranked up to drown out her voice, she was told “no, there’s a time and place for everything.” Real solutions to homelessness in this city thus remain elusive, or at least move along at what must seem a glacial pace to the marginalized, afflicted and dispossessed.
With curious uniformed officers in pursuit, Laura was long gone by the time we gathered for this photograph with members of the North Valley Caring Services and the Museum of Social Justice. It felt great to be surrounded by so many dedicated activists, family and friends including Richard Conner, a gentleman of many talents.
All the photography displays in the world won’t make a bit of difference if those in power don’t take action… big, beautifully printed photographs become just entertainment for the elite to feel good or bad about. Case in point– I took Gracie to a neighborhood council meeting last December, where she spoke out about her predicament and pleaded for understanding. Two weeks later she was in handcuffs and carted off to jail…
In preparation for an exhibition on homelessness currently in the planning stages at the Museum of Social Justice in Los Angeles, I was asked three very simple and direct questions, which challenged me to define the motivations and expectations of the One of Us project:
1.
Is there one thing, or one experience that
tangibly crystalized the dedication that drives you to pursue this project with
such ferocity? Or is there a significant experience you can point to that
initiated your motivation to provoke change in how homelessness is treated in
Los Angeles?
Homelessness in Los Angeles is a humanitarian crisis that
can’t be ignored. Supervisor Mark Ridley-Thomas recently characterized it as
the defining issue of the time, and better late than never, it is good to find so
much activity and mobilization going on now. I’m personally motivated by a
sense of outrage over the passive-aggressive way much of society deals with the
homeless population, and alarm at the way the problem has been allowed to
fester and grow. The relationships, trust and even friendships I’ve established
with an odd fraternity of homeless individuals (and activists) in my own community has only
reinforced and illuminated these beliefs.
Photographs and words can only interpret and represent, and
in actuality there are already more than enough dramatic photographs of
deprivation and suffering, and enough anecdotal information and demographics to
convince the powers-that-be to do the needful. The media, myself included, have
been complicit in this. With the notable exception of the few instances where
photographs, reportage and even Art have had a direct, measurable effect on its
subjects, the ubiquity of coverage has only added to an overwhelming sense of
intractability and despair, perpetrating harmful stereotypes and further
serving to objectify the homeless as some homogeneous societal woe.
What harm can there be in listening to and learning from
those who are actually living this nightmare on a daily basis? The concept of
soliciting the personal stories and portraits that became One of Us arose out
of a longstanding collaboration with Wade Trimmer, director of the San Fernando
Valley Rescue Mission. Wade encouraged me to pursue our common interest in
“humanizing” the homeless, a phrase that on its face seems redundant and
offensive because it infers that each person encountered in this work is not unquestionably
and obviously quite human already. So we want to remind the public of this simple
fact of humanity; the motivation for this approach lies in the desire to change
the conversation surrounding homelessness, to bring it back to a human level,
to perhaps nudge anyone who encounters the material to feel more inclined to
enact real, sustainable solutions.
2.
If you were to ask the participants of “One of
Us” what the most important message we need to convey would be, what do you
think they would say?
The conversations we recorded with more than 40 individuals
provide a wide variety of answers to that question. Taken collectively, they
present a pretty comprehensive catalog of the causes of homelessness and the
many obstacles that make it such a difficult situation to rise above. At the
risk of overusing another cliché, in the context of “giving voice to the
voiceless” as a path toward human autonomy and dignity, the most important
messages I heard were connected with the longing for understanding and empathy
from the general public and law enforcement.
Each person’s story touches on
this in some way, whether it is boyish, twenty-something Jesse who dreams of
becoming a doctor or nurse while currently living in his car in the parking lot
of the Walmart store he works in, or
Nancy, an elderly Southern debutante whose safe world was turned upside down
after being victimized by real estate fraud. Ultimately it
doesn’t matter how many stories are told, how many “likes” their images collect
on social media, or any of that. They just need affordable housing.
3.
What is your favorite image and why?
There’s a big distinction between the studio-lit
portraits made in locations where the people were for the most part comfortable
and knew they were in a safe place among friends and allies (possibly having just
eaten a warm breakfast and used the portable shower unit), and those taken out
in the streets and encampments. While I’m gratified that so many of the
close-up portraits reveal a sense of common humanity that transcends their
economic or living conditions, my favorite picture is often one I have just
recently taken, portraying both personal and symbolic meanings.
Right now an
image I feel conveys some measure of universal hope, if not redemption, is that
of Gracie holding up the tiny portrait of a baby girl recently born to her
street-mate Emmy. The baby was the only survivor of twins, and Gracie was
noticeably proud to have been anointed her “honorary grandmother.” As tragic as
the circumstances surrounding the child’s birth may be, and as uncertain as the future is now for Gracie, Emmy and the rest of the people in this one
camp—a microcosm of homelessness in Los Angeles—there is still the desire to
sustain a sense of familial belonging.
How much trouble can one life endure in just 66 years? The joys, the meaningful pleasures, the temporary reprieves from the sameness of living out of doors, these can’t take root when you are suddenly forced to abandon your base camp on the sidewalk next to the 7-11, and follow police orders to clear out in 30 minutes or else… so it was this morning when Gracie suddenly came chugging around the corner into Craig and Lynda’s encampment, pushing a loaded shopping cart in an agitated state. Lynda was sound asleep (so it seemed when I dropped bag of nail polish, this one donated by a student). Craig, thinking with his heart first, quickly said yes when Gracie indicated she needed to move everything into their space, like pronto…
Things did get a little testy when Craig arrived on his bike to help with the move. After a minute of watching her pull back tarps and stuff items into milk crates and carts, he let Gracie know that she would have to take a quick inventory and thin out her belongings, if mainly to avoid upsetting the apartment building dwellers in the cul de sac, who were giving tacit approval to the presence of the little makeshift duplex. (Earlier, while discussing which local stores had the cheapest groceries, Craig told me he was planning to go behind the chain link fence and tidy up the strewn rubbish).
As Gracie sorted fretfully, a guy in a small pick-up stopped to offer three full McDonald’s breakfasts he had somehow inherited, and just around that same time another group of Good Samaritans came over to offer us more food, and were directed over to Terry and Amy’s side. Craig and Mike ate lustily but it was all lost on poor Gracie who now had to wrack her brains and shift into full survival mode again…
A few hours later her blond ponytail was seen bobbing along the sidewalk under the freeway bridge. “Turns out it was a false alarm,” she said into the car window, without sheepishness and still a little beside herself, before continuing along on the way to pick up her clothes at the corner laundromat.
Craig and Lynda are now resigned to avoiding the constant hassle of the overpass life, sharing a dead-end side street butted up against the chain link fences meant to keep people away from the freeway. This new spot is equidistant between where the others still stubbornly squat near the money-generating ramps on busy Nordhoff, and the saving grace of the old Methodist Church and community center run by the North Valley Caring Services a few blocks east. Even though Craig, Lynda, Gracie and rest are loathe to take advantage of the food pantry, breakfasts and other services, it’s not an exaggeration to say that with Manny and others so ready to come to them, their proximity to the mission is almost comforting in itself.
It wasn’t surprising to find Gracie relaxed and pleased to greet company, sitting alone in Craig’s tent, spirits buoyed by her new status as the “honorary grandmother” of a baby girl recently born to Emmy, the raw-boned gal who along with boyfriend Mike were caught up in the ultimately unhelpful New Year’s Eve crackdown that put most of the group (including Mike) in the clink. Now living close to Gracie on the sidewalks off Nordhoff, the couple are part of what Craig somewhat emotionally refers to as their family, which includes everyone mentioned so far plus Terry and Amy. “We’ve had our spirit broken,” he confesses, “but we got it back.”
Gracie Crilley wants to help get Emmy into a drug addiction program, so she can get off the street and care for her child herself.
But there’s more… there’s always more…
The child’s twin did not survive until birth. This happened outside, on the ramp, though in the overall scheme of things was not overly dramatized, and everyone soldiered on. Emmy’s aunt in Santa Clarita has taken the baby in, hence the studio portrait Gracie pulled out of her shirt to proudly share. The printed photograph stabs at the heart, a throwback to a simpler, pre-digital time It will not lose it’s preciousness even as it weathers and fades, as a possession stored in a refugee’s belongings must do, and relatively quickly. Slipping back into the first-person witness of the human condition, I feel an uncomfortable sense of awe at the resilience and capacity to endure hardship my friends often show. What I am moved so much by is not Gracie’s cracked fingernails, or the depth-of-field you can achieve with an iPhone, but her happiness while sharing the news, the photograph, the experience of being a grandmother. Don’t believe this photograph. Or at least believe that for a few minutes, Gracie was smiling.
Can somebody please get this woman (and her family) a place to live?
Strong resilient women participated in a self-defense class to better understand techniques for protecting themselves and fighting back when the time is crucial. Laura Rathbone hosted a self-defense class with defense instructor and senior black belt Michelle at North Valley Caring Services on Sunday, March 26th.
Rathbone is very involved in the community and helping people in need. She works tremendously with the homeless community and says too many people are misinformed about the homeless community. She pointed out that over 25% of the homeless are working and that many people couldn’t come to this event because they were working at the time. Rathbone mentioned that she feels it is important for everyone to take a self-defense class.
“I hope you learn something today that will make you more confident,” said defense instructor Michelle.
Michelle expressed the gratitude she feels from being able to impact women who come from different walks of life. She spoke on her childhood of abuse and has overtime learned to accept herself.
“One thing we have in common is that we are strong,” said Michelle. “We are silent, but deadly. We don’t quit!”
Michelle said it is important to always be prepared to defend yourself because you never know when you could get hit. You must always be ready.
Michelle shows the women different techniques in different situations of being attacked.
Rathbone asks Michelle for tips on how to react if one gets attacked while sleeping on the ground.
She also points out how crucial the “metal box” is. It is a guard with our arms that must be put to use in any situation in which one is being attacked.
“You must move quickly in all situations” said Michelle. “You must stay close. When you decide to go in, you have to get back out quickly.”
When fighting back, Michelle says it is important to allow your strike to go further than just hitting someone. To act as though you are aiming for something beyond them so your hits and swings are much more powerful.
“There is a lot of wavelength movement,” said Michelle. “That is used as a particular point of power release for a strike.”
Michelle teaches the women how to react when being attacked by a weapon and the different hand techniques one can use.
“I love being a woman and what we stand for,” said Michelle. “I think we have forgotten who we are. I love the idea of being able to express who we are because we are powerful.”
Michelle says it is important to learn how to forgive ourselves when things happen to us. We need to learn to not blame ourselves and let things go.
“As we learn to love and accept ourselves we are able to love and accept others” said Michelle.
Michelle says to silence all the voices because through this silence comes the physical power one has within.
“You are capable of anything!” said Michelle.
I don’t re-blog the work of others very often, but this photo story by Lauren Valencia, done as part of our Documentary Photojournalism project on homelessness, is worth sharing.
“Photography for me is not looking, it’s feeling. If you can’t feel what you’re looking at, then you’re never going to get others to feel anything when they look at your pictures.”
Manny Flores and his outreach team from the North Valley Caring Services bring warm meals, hygiene kits, human kindness and even prayer to people living outdoors. Encampments, alleys, sidewalks, the wash, even groups camped inside the bushes of public parks are visited each Wednesday night. It requires just the right blend of missionary zeal, street cred and unconditional love to gain and keep trust. Some of the spots, such as the “Trails” encampments that line the 405 freeway, are home to the hardest cases of chronic homelessness, notorious for tough, sometimes fatal living conditions. Deaths among the homeless and other street dwellers in this repressed section of North Hills are surprisingly common, and Manny talked about some recent incidents while driving his loaded-down pick-up through the night traffic between spots.
Randy, an elderly gentleman surviving the elements and lung cancer, talks to volunteer Lauren Rathbone and her service dog, and unburdens himself to a sidewalk ministry.
MOTEL LIFE
Outreach includes regular visits to families who have secured temporary shelter in motels along Sepulveda Boulevard, through a voucher program provided by Los Angeles Family Housing. Kids and adults congregate on the balconies as doors open to greet the visitors. One of the motel rooms we visited housed a family of ten…
Chaos reigns at the 405 and Nordhoff. Officer Diaz of the LAPD’s purportedly “compassionate” HOPE program has got a “hard on” for certain members of the homeless community there. This is exactly how it was characterized to me this morning, in remarkably similar language in separate conversations with Lynda, Amy and Terry. The small refugee camp that had once again grown into something that was appearing semi-permanent along the northbound onramp was forcibly dismantled a couple of days ago, and in what appears to be a coordinated effort between state and city officials, sanitation moved in quickly with the LAPD. Most everyone (except Craig and Gracie it seems) was once again ticketed, this time for illegal use of shopping carts. Terry and Amy moved to a nearby residential sidewalk, Lynda and Gracie to another, and once their carts were taken away, all of their belongings remained strewn on the sidewalks. Thursday (tomorrow), they have been warned by Diaz, is “arrest day.” How they are to move their things without the carts, is a Catch-22 level head scratcher…
Stress and anxiety rule the day. Lynda, while still managing to show me her latest artwork, is now desperate to get out of this area, and Terry has plans to move their stuff to another location (which I will not disclose here for the time being). Being out of the jurisdiction of Officer Diaz they believe will lower the threat level to their freedom. Nobody is in a hurry to go back to jail.
Terry showed the most frustration, sifting through their belongings which were organized to look like a yard sale where there was really nothing worth buying. Meanwhile today is Amy’s birthday; considering she was coming off a night where she spent most of Terry’s earnings ($70 on a bag of heroin), she seemed in a reasonably light mood a few blocks away at the North Valley Caring Services Methodist Church site, picking out a free bicycle with help from Manny, Jose Ruiz, Jr. and the others. Terry desperately wishes she would do what she has done before, go into a rehab environment and kick her habit; it’s a decision she has to make for herself and is apparently just not ready…
This week’s events bring to mind what Gracie said during her interview late last year, which bears repeating here:
It is unacceptable that
such conditions exist, and that so many are allowed to fall so low. To sleep outside, no matter the weather, while churches, temples and mosques shutter their doors to keep them out. So much of the most passionate and inspiring writing remains relegated to the comments sections of social media activists. Why aren’t the
professional media people trumpeting this humanitarian crisis? Inexplicable….maybe not. It could be that the media has done all they are entrusted to do, and have done it well.
There is no shortage of intimate and revealing photographs of want and despair, degradation and madness. Stories, too. What is left is for the municipalities and business interests to marshall the resources and strategies to end the scourge. The scourge– in broad terms, that’s how it feels when considering the ubiquity of urban squalor that has taken root. Those out there in the streets, alleys and cars tonight, who have navigated the social services and judicial systems only to land back on their feet in pretty much the same place, wonder when will real change will come …
#oneofusarts #oneofus
“I trusted people too much because of my Christian religion. People would just take advantage and advantage and advantage of me and say, ‘trust me, trust me, I’m a Christian also and lend me, oh I see that you have great credit, but my credit is bad. Can I borrow your social security number?’ This was an escrow lady that’s living in one of my houses right now. Well, it’s her house now. I had sold to her and because of my good credit, she was able to buy my house, but before she could transfer her name over to my name, when the market crashed and everything, she stopped paying me. So the banks were foreclosing on me, not on her, even though I had already sold her the house. It was a big, big mess, a big paper mess. Everything was done crooked.”
Linda Zazanis has a need and ability to continue producing
her nail polish-brushed canvases, knick-knacks and jewelry in the face of
obstacles that are discouraging and sometimes outrageous. Those in the
community who are aware and supportive of her can recognize the use of color
and abstract creations as more than therapeutic.
Linda keeps a small black bag containing tiny
bottles of many colors, some glittery, and she delights in showing off a new
shade of green brought to her by a friend like Gracie in their camp. Her
studio, as it were, is under the cover of a tarpaulin that shelters her from
the elements. It’s a cluttered place to live and work, and one that has been torn down and rebuilt
more times than I can count in the last year. Few in the camp can put together
a shanty like Linda’s.
Late last year, when the city sent a garbage truck to clean
up what was deemed as an overabundance of personal property cluttering up a
public space, Linda was not on site to salvage or protect her possessions, and
along with a lot of other items not considered by her to be expendable were
several of her artworks—finished canvases, and most of the jewelry, statuettes
and other items she had been collecting. Linda, having survived on the streets
for enough years to learn how to balance toughness with grace, is rarely prone to total despair, but during the conversation printed
below she became understandably emotionally when explaining how the lost artwork
affected her.
So they took some of your artwork? What happened?
“They took it. They took it all. For two years I’ve been
doing my artwork. For two years I’ve been collecting jewelry, so I could open a
store. In January, ok, I had two of the counselors from LA Family Housing that
were my helpers, that were willing to go and say that I was highly recommended
to get this loan. Ok? I was going in January. I was ready for it and sanitation
took it all. I mean, took my future. I tried for two years to get up out of
here and it’s like now I’m right back where I started. It’s been 15 years, come
on, give me a break! A person doesn’t try that hard and work as hard as I have,
18 hours a day, 7 days a week, to try and get out of here if they didn’t want
to get out of here, get out of this situation. They wouldn’t do it. They’d say
“Hey screw it!”
There was a three-day notice, but I wasn’t in town. And then
I had some of my stuff over there and then this police officer comes up to me,
and I had five carts sticking out, and he said,
“How many carts are you going to take” and I said “Well, I’m gonna take
all of my carts.” And he said, “No you’re not. You’re taking two.” You know? I
mean who are you to tell me after everything I’ve done for the last two years,
to get out of here? Who are you to put me back at the bottom? By taking
everything I own that was of value, that meant anything to me”
Canvases donated by friends and well-wishers have allowed Linda to resume her work.
“ … you know, when you don’t have income… and now at 62
I can’t get a job, because I’m too old. You know? So, I tried… well, you know,
somebody said ‘Linda, you know so much about jewelry, and about stones, and
about emeralds, and about metals, when it comes to jewelry. Why don’t you try
and open up your own store?’ And I have a friend, there’s a couple, that are
real good friends of mine, and we all recycle and we have all found, beautiful,
wonderful, expensive valuable things. And a lot of them aren’t valuable, but
they’re beautiful and they’re still able to be sold. So, I was going to open a
store and then that went into the trash. And they put it in a trash truck. A
smelly, stinky, dirty trash truck. That goes around down the street and….and
puts… you know, empties the blue bins and the black bins, and you know all of
the bins that are in front of your house. That’s what they put our stuff in and
then they want… you know, they say you have 30 days to go pick it up, by
appointment. Get ‘em to answer the phone.”
Most of the artworks in this last series of photographs were lost…
“Anyway, she was all white when I got her and I happened to
just start, you know, messing around with nail polish and painting, and trying
to get a little color on her. And people were commenting and saying ‘Wow that’s
beautiful.’ You know? And so I decide to paint her dress all black and I built
her hat up to make it look like it had a feather on it. There was a lot and the
thing that is so hard… I was gonna have my grand opening at night and I was
going to auction her off for a shelter for single women. It was gonna go for
good.”
Breaking down the current and enduring situation for our friends at the 405, life seems to have a taken on semblance of normalcy for the inhabitants of the camp along the northbound on-ramp. Of course “normalizing” the lifestyle is an absurd temporal trick the campers might seek solace in, and a dangerous fallacy the rest of society do better to discard. Linda’s stock response to any question of whether there’s been any new problems with city or state officials is a fatalistic and annoyed “not yet.” She has gotten her mojo back after receiving some small canvases from a friend, starting to produce new nail polish paintings. There is talk of having a little show at the nearby #North Valley Caring Services site soon, and I hope I am not making promises I can’t keep when telling Linda we would like to feature her artwork and profile on social media, ideally to her benefit.
Meanwhile three very kind high school students stopped by with supplies for the camp; water, snacks, that sort of thing. There seems to be enough of that goodwill in the air to keep the stomachs and sometimes the hearts full. The girls expressed their desire to work with any local community agencies in the area…
Measure H, which will impose a ¼ cent tax to raise money for homeless services, is on the March 7 ballot. There was a spirited but sparsely attended event on Hollywood Blvd. yesterday. In contrast to the recent Women’s March, which drew estimates as high as 700,000 in Los Angeles, there were only somewhere between 500 to 1,000 people walking yesterday. The march was so small that all the participants were able to fit on the sidewalks between Vine and Highland. This did manage to ruffle the feathers of several movie-goers exiting theaters, and the organizers instructed the marchers to bombard social media with images and hashtags meant to shame the Hollywood elite (and their reported six-figure swag bags) on the eve of the Oscars. But overall, in spite of the best intentions of the organizers and dedicated advocates, including representatives from city government, the turnout was disappointing….
Dori Sill was one of a handful of actual homeless people who participated in the march. Permanently hobbled from the brain aneurism which upended her life more than 15 years ago, she gamely limped the entire route, eventually fading to the back of the pack, but never losing her positive spirit and humor.
Resources. Shopping carts and tarps, cardboard and polythene. Often-dirty blankets, especially in this weather. Another rainy night in store for our friends and others outdoors. Chronic homelessness is an apt title for the living conditions of thousands of human beings. Not unlike the conditions of refugees and other marginalized populations, as they work the days and survive the nights, frustrating thoughts of the glacial pace of real change in their situations are dulled by the relentlessness and the seeking of stress relief. Good humor doesn’t exactly abound, but is in evidence rain or shine. Who can say– maybe it is not so much an indictment of the officials and advocates and charities who are at least trying, but of society as a whole. Structural issues need to be reconsidered, but for that to be recognized society has to consider all priorities. It does come down to resources. Unless a person has made this kind of living a lifestyle choice, and is on a permanent campout …
This morning I visited the Holy Family Center at St. Charles Borromeo Church in North Hollywood, to deliver some items to Dori, one of the homeless women who agreed to participate in the One of Us project. (I wrote an update on her situation in my previous post). She was sitting with a few others around a table eating breakfast, and I broke the news that it looks like the exhibition at city hall is going to be cancelled. When I explained that the main reason was that I refused to allow their portraits to be used as office decorations, and was standing by my promise to them to carefully control the use of their stories and images, to ensure they would not be used in any way that objectified them or did not provide appropriate context, their reaction was to thank me for that. If you look back at the emails I was writing to LAHCID in November, you will find this to be a consistent theme.
When we started One of Us, the driving philosophy was to humanize the homeless by “changing the conversation.” No longer allowing society’s most unfortunate members to be randomly selected and displayed as symbols of a dysfunctional society that doesn’t do nearly enough to help them is part of that change. Unlike the good people at LAHCID, Dori and the others in the group this morning understood that while it is a shame that the stories we recorded will no longer have the high-level audience of influential politicians, and that this would have been a rare opportunity for them to actually have their voices heard by people in power, the more important principle must be given priority, if we are to ever truly change the conversation.
Perhaps this concept is too revolutionary to grasp; it is easier to fall back on tired and ineffective methods, including coveting images for their “value” over what they actually represent. What I was led to believe was a partnership turned out to be little more than just another one-sided power play. If necessary we will find other venues and audiences for these images and stories, with or without the real support of the City of Los Angeles.
When I first met and spoke with Dori last August at the St. Charles Borromeo Church in North Hollywood, the most enduring impression was her cheerfulness in the face of great hardship. As her story printed below testifies, Dori’s life was shattered by a tragic fate, a brain aneurism which derailed her dreams, put her at death’s door, and still affects her physically and otherwise…
Revisiting Dori’s story today, after finally locating her cluttered but homey RV (a camper shell) parked for now on a residential North Hollywood street, I’m struck by how little she talked about her early career in music. She had told me about a song she had once written that was included in a high-profile movie soundtrack, but not much more. Today she shared an old CD which contained that song and five other well-written and produced tracks, recorded by the band she sang and played keyboards in. The music is lovely, her voice sweet and strong. As she sang along with the CD, it was still her song, still her voice. Dori also took out an old 11x14 portfolio that held several high-quality black and white portraits of her in those salad days, portraits of a beautiful and sensitive artist. There were also pictures taken with Rick James, Gary Wright and other luminaries of that era. Most surprising, among the memorabilia stuffed in the side pockets of the portfolio, was a card (a love letter really) written to her by Prince. It’s envelope also held a color Polaroid of Dori and the legend, taken sometime in the late-70s before he hit superstardom. She mused about selling it to some collector, but seems to have decided that in spite of her dire straits, it’s not worth it.
“Because of my aneurism I might
forget some of the things you ask me, My name is Dori, my age is 58. Before I
had a brain aneurism, I owned a spa called the Oasis Day Spa in Studio City and
we did facials, massage, nails. I had about ten employees and I was working
about eight days a week. And I think the stress of it all just got to my head. One
night I was working in my studio at home and writing music and then I suddenly
started to feel lightheaded so I went down to the bathroom and looked at myself
in the mirror and I saw this black blood that was under my skin and I had white
circles through my eyes, then I just fainted and then went in a coma from that
point.
I was in the hospital when I
woke up … I came out of that stroke and was like ‘okay I have to get back
to work.’ You know, I was telling everybody I’ve got to get to my spa because I
just started it four years prior and I really wanted it to do well. And it was,
and I was very busy that day, so my receptionist kept calling me and she said
you always answer the phone so what’s the matter with you Dori? So she came to my house and found me in bed
with the two dogs next to the bed lying there and I couldn’t move so she called
the ambulance and they took me into the hospital and said that I was
experiencing a brain aneurism.
Actually I could talk or think
about what people were saying but I couldn’t respond. So that was what the
scene was all about for three weeks. They were going to take me off life
support and then Greg, my ex-husband, came up to me and said Dori, I want you
to know that it’s okay if you go but if you want you can stay. But they are
going to take you off life support so you need come to and give me a sign that
you are going to come to so I squeezed his hand and he said ‘I think she’s
awake come on in,’ and they all came running in saying ‘yep she’s out of the
coma,’ so get it out so we can get her going.
Now I didn’t have my business
because it had died probably a couple months before I was out of the coma
because they just didn’t know how to keep it running you know, which I
understand. So that died and then I had a house that was going to have to be
put up for sale, which I went bankrupt on. So I went into bankruptcy from that,
and then I got an apartment, which I could afford because I was babysitting
dogs on the side too as well as getting money from the government.
And then the rents went up and
from there I lived in a house on Irvine. For six years I rented a room and he
let my dogs in and let me do music and everything so it was fine but then he
decided he wanted to sell the house. And when he sold the house, looking at
rents and stuff and how much they are, it was so expensive I couldn’t afford
it. So I got an RV. And that’s where I live now, in the RV. Since probably, six
months now. The police say that neighbors are complaining occasionally because
I was living with a guy that we’d fight a lot. And so he’s gone now thank God. I
got a ticket the other day for being there for more than three days because the
police had come.
I love the homeless people that
I meet. To me it’s like another family you know, it’s a good family and the
food is good that we get too because we can go to different places everyday and
get fed. So that’s helpful. I’ve never been homeless, I never ever thought I
would even be in this position. I get money from the government. Every month I
get like $889 for disability. And then I’ll house-sit on the side and (watch) animals
you know, which brings in a little cash. And that’s really what I live on. Six
hundred of it is already spent with the storage that I have and that kind of
thing.
My family, both my parents died
and my sisters, one lives in Nashville and the other one I’m not sure where she
lives. They don’t even know. Because I don’t know if they know how expensive
rents are …
Yeah it would be nice if I could
write a hit song, that would be good. That’s about what I want to do now. And I
have a whole studio setup. I’m trying to get the electricity so I can plug it
in and work on my keyboards. But I’ve got 15 songs that I wrote on my own that
are pretty good.”
Extraordinary encounter this morning with “Mama” Gloria Kim of the Zion Gospel Mission, who we first saw praying from a mountaintop in Griffith Park, facing the Pacific Ocean. Squeezing my arm as I escorted the 70+ year old former nurse down the steep trails of Mt. Hollywood (after she conceded that her legs aren’t as steady as they once were), I learned that she has been delivering fresh vegetable soup and other foodstuffs to the homeless in MacArthur Park for the past 27 years. Reaching the bottom, she held our hands up for an extended prayer in the Observatory parking lot, then climbed into her van (loaded with bagels and bananas) for today’s mission work. I hope to see her again….
Linda’s art making continues, despite having had most of her artworks trashed during a series of clean-ups by the city
Necessity dictated that Gracie would have to panhandle to eat, so out she went to the ramp, damn it all…
The winter storms of 2017 have been a blessing for California, a succession of cold and heavy rains finally breaking the grip of several years of drought-like conditions. We can relax a bit, knowing there will no longer be a need to closely monitor our lawn-watering quotients and other givens, at least for the time being. On the other hand, those unlucky enough to be living outdoors are that much more uncomfortable and disadvantaged. So we find the fraternity of 405/Nordhoff, right back where they were swept up from and jailed less than a month earlier, but now banned from at least taking refuge under the expansive, concrete freeway bridge. “Where else are we supposed to go?” Linda asks with exasperation. The group is holding it together through ingenuity, teamwork (yes), and the resolve to endure. To think of them by this time as anything less than a family is unfair.
Craig, Terry and Amy, lacking tents or even the materials to put up structures as sound as Linda and Gracie right now, spent the night under a narrow awning against the windows of the businesses that share the space with 7-11. The owner of the Thai restaurant was good enough not to be any more direct than was warranted when telling them it was time to open soon and they would have to remove their possessions– which included bikes and shopping carts– from the vicinity. So it was done with the help of Manny Flores of the local North Valley Caring Services, who arrived with red backpacks stuffed with tarps, food and plenty of warm winter wear.
Craig, always the most demonstrative, was profuse in his thanks for a new winter coat, a big improvement over the jacket which had left him, in Terry’s words, “shaking like a wet mouse… without teeth.” He said it with a smile and a cuff on the shoulder, everyone feeling a bit better banding together holding hot coffee. Craig gets good-natured ribbings like this from the others at times, like the brother who is not above being teased. Manny called a contact he had at the Mission Hills Police to see if the ban on sleeping under the bridge could be relaxed until the rains passed. He reported that yes, he had been told that officers would not press the matter. Everyone seemed skeptical, with Craig relating loudly that Officer Diaz had been emphatic that there were no ifs, ands or buts about it. Everyone seems to believe that it is just this particular bridge that is off-limits, though no one wants to relocate to the Plummer underpass a half-mile north, where there are no freeway ramps and anyway it’s a huge ordeal to move that far, especially in this weather.
The recent incarcerations weigh heavily on the group, and Linda, living almost snugly now after combatting leakages all night, was content to stay put. She and Gracie both have small candles burning in their tarp-roofed abodes. They were both indoors this morning as the latest torrents beat down; Linda contentedly back at work painting small objects with glittery nail polish, pleased with a news shade of green Gracie recently brought her. Gracie herself was more restive, managing to put on a welcoming, friendly face for me when I stuck my head in. Noticeably feeling the weather, she told me she had been in custody for an entire week, due to what she alluded might have been a harsher judgment than some others received … Meanwhile Mike, under the awning with the other guys, vented boldly that he would like nothing more than to take a swing at the officer who had locked him up.
A more thorough report would provide the reader with details of the health conditions of this group. Though much younger than either Linda or Gracie, Amy’s situation is the most dire at the moment. She had taken shelter inside Jack-in-the-Box this morning, suffering from the flu and now, according to Terry, determined to kick her habit. A lot of negative influence and peer pressure from others in their realm will continue to make that a difficult proposition, Terry knows.
In their own words, members of the homeless community of the San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles tell a little about their lives, and share their thoughts about the status and stigma associated with being stuck on the bottom rung, economically speaking, of our society … each portrait in this gallery features a link to an audio recording.
Much of society ends up treating the marginalized outdoor people differently in ways that are, intentionally or not, dehumanizing and
sometimes even darkly comical. Our culture dictates that there can not be enough collective will and inspiration to find solutions that outweigh the costs; how can the average citizen, not to mention those who live tangled in safety nets, be expected to understand the intractable economic inequalities and social injustices this breeds?
Most self-respecting homeless folks in the San Fernando Valley know about the generous feasts offered at St. Nicholas Episcopal Church in Encino. Photography is not allowed at the Tuesday night dinners, I learned from a tall, deep-voiced
gentleman who sidled over to me with the muted warning. Minutes later a young,
fit man with slicked black hair, matching black clothes and a plastic-coated identification badge pinned to his pocket approached me with the demeanor of a no-nonsense bodyguard. Without a greeting, I was told to delete
whatever photographs I had taken. With some impatience he immediately offered
to delete them himself. Instead, like an idiot photographer I told him I knew
how to operate my equipment, and showed him the few randomly composed
snapshots I had taken of the crowded room. He was about to repeat his order
when I told him why I was there. His tune changed quickly upon learning that I
had come mainly to introduce myself to the pastor and learn about the dinners. He seemed as skeptical as he was apologetic when telling me
that he had thought I was one of the “clients.” I imagine he had been watching me
mill around the crowded dining room, chatting, maybe acting a bit too
comfortable. When, as sometimes happens, I’ve been mistaken for a member of the homeless community, I find it disconcertingly humanizing. Orders to delete my photographs ceased.
Attention turned to Shane, in his 40′s a playful, lunkish Bill Murray kind of guy I met at a community breakfast at the North Valley Caring Services months earlier. We had a
jolly reunion under the circumstances, until cold water was thrown on it when Shane himself was admonished, even though this was several minutes since he had used his own cellphone camera to make a selfie
of us. The friendly Polish-American with the bull neck and shoulders didn’t
take kindly to what seemed at the
moment an unnecessarily strict rule. He snapped back, keeping himself in check though fuming, and for a moment could not be
placated. “It’s OK,” I offered to the guard in our mutual confusion, “he’s my
friend.” As though my credibility overrode Shane’s violation of the no-photography rule.
The guard, or whatever his official role is, was only reacting to the stresses that come with experience and knowing that Shane was just one of many in the room of 200+ experiencing emotional trauma and other issues, some bubbling under the surface, some on
full display. The room was loud, conversations flowing freely, as men and women enjoyed a warm meal and a few hours indoors. Keeping the lid on is likely part of the job
description, resulting in the occasional heavy-handed rebuke or warning … One can begin to understand why such a large percentage of homeless people prefer life outdoors to shelter systems and other institutional oversights. I compartmentalize the sadness of remembering Nancy, who when returning to meet us at a church breakfast where we were working on portraits and interviews last summer, met a harsh rebuke. Entering a side hall from the dining area, the aging, still proud southern former debutante was humiliated after being scolded for entering a section of the building that was off-limits. Weeping, she complained about being treated like “retarded kindergartners.” Goes with the territory sometimes, to be filed under tough love.
In an effort to mollify Shane and diffuse the situation, our guard leant in and apologized. Like a finger snap Shane was on his feet going for a hug. Life is better these days, he told me. Turns out he has found employment
again as a waiter, something he had talked about enthusiastically months earlier. He’s met Wayne Gretzky at his Malibu café, and later texted a
selfie he took with a game Cindy Crawford. Still homeless.
“Most addicts will have similar stories – they are victims of rape, child abuse, and all manner of horrors. Many lack even the barest chance to get help, or any kind of family. I think what many fail to realise is that every man and woman has a breaking point. I’m no longer homeless, yet to this day it upsets me to see people ignore the homeless rather than give them money ‘to spend on drugs.’ If you’re going to be generous, if you’re that lucky to be able to do so, then do it without moral judgement. Those who use drugs will stop when they are able to, not when they run out of money.”
* John Doe, from an article in The Guardian
Update (Jan. 10-11) A chance meeting with Rachel and Rebecca on Sepulveda Boulevard provided some insight into what transpired back on December 30, and the fate of some of the principles…. it appears that the proverbial last straw was not a wheelchair-bound man’s tumble off the curb, but an incident in which one of the heroin users in the vicinity was found lounging in a folding chair on the makeshift patio her group had constructed on the southbound onramp, nodding out with a needle sticking out of her arm. Just then, if the story is to be believed, the local politician and their arch nemesis (and this is odd– everybody has stories about this man but none know his name or actual title)– happened by with a Caltrans worker. He allegedly vowed then and there to clean up the area once and for all. He had been raging and blustering threats to the campers for a long time, even, I was told by a Caltrans supervisor, considering having the homeless sprayed with a high-powered hose. So the signs that went up in early December, which were followed by the issuing of tickets, turned out to be not a bluff but a definitive strategy for clearing the area. Craig, at least from a pragmatic standpoint seemed impressed. “He said he was going to do it, and wow, he really did it!” What, how and with whom exactly our mystery protagonist did it with remains unclear, and could be the subject of some real investigative journalism, if such a thing still exists at the local level.
Contradicting what I overheard one officer explain on the day of the eviction, that if they had followed the law closer and not blocked the sidewalks during the daytime, they might have stayed, within the strictures of the existing and inconsistently enforced laws regarding camping on city property, authorities recently nipped in the bud any thoughts of re-establishing the camp, naysaying two small domiciles that had already sprung up on the sidewalk under the bridge again. One might have been Gracie’s, and the other one was Craig’s, identifiable by the large propane tank he insists on keeping for warmth, even though he has set a few accidental fires with it already, burning his own legs and hands in the process. Fireballs have been seen rising from his quarters, miniature mushroom clouds, Rebecca recalled with some alarm.
The words “no loitering” and “no soliciting” on “the entire block” on the signs planted with jackhammers in the sidewalks on both sides of the street indicate to Craig that the actual letter of the law (which allows citizens to sleep on city property between 9pm and 6am) no longer applies to bridges in general, or maybe just this city block under this this particular bridge. Still, just as plants sprout from the cracks, they are here. Craig, Mike and Terry are working the ramps again, while Amy reportedly just got out, Rebecca explained, because she had threatened suicide upon incarceration, but was inexplicably not sent for evaluation until after she was released from her cell several days later. Craig tells me that the two folks I had encountered scavenging under the bridge in the aftermath of the crackdown were wanted by the law, homeless grifters at least. They cannot be trusted at all, the word is out; in this subterranean world, there is a code of ethics, honor in poverty, even among thieves if survival dictates.
These days Gracie and Craig are waxing philosophically about their predicament. Craig has helped his friend and ally realize and accept that the way their presence affects property values and such makes their claims that this is “their turf” moot. Powerless they may be, but cleverness, luck, stoic determination and whatever lubricants can oil the joints between these variants are the currency. In the cold late afternoon gloom of this remarkable winter, unconcerned that President Obama would in a short time make his farewell address to the nation from Chicago, Craig boasted that he never got the stay-away order the others received, and is free to eke out his living and feed his habit with some sense of security. I ran into him just two days after seeing him in handcuffs, when he was the first one back on location. He explained how he parlayed a severe heroin withdrawal into an early, unconditional release. Showing a “get out of jail” card he was given by a police officer (really a standard-issue business card), he explained how he has been befriended and somewhat buttressed psychologically by the police, asked to at least help keep an eye out for the grifters, (still in the vicinity and sneaking in a few ramp shifts now and then). Officer Diaz in particular, who heads the homeless task force in the area, has been supportive, compassionate and reasonable with him, and is willing to take an “out of sight out of mind approach” to his transience as long as he stays out from under the bridge, no ifs ands or buts, rain or shine. Get a tent, that’s advisable.
Sitting on a deflated rubber mattress along the fence on the wide expanse of concrete that borders the northbound ramp, he spoke frankly about his heroin addiction. Craig assured me that unlike others in the area he was not a “junkie,” that is to say not all-consumed by the narcotic. Still, his need for the drug and a general sense of independence makes him, like so many others, reluctant to surrender to the strict regulations of cold-weather shelters. He spoke without a trace of desperation, buoyed by comments made to him by officers and others. He is a capable person. There are some people who would like to see him rise up out of his predicament. He appreciates that his better angels, and his intellect and reasoning skills are recognized, and that he is not considered a hopeless case.
Scratching the surface is the layer of inquiry that still seems too much like voyeurism, not leading to any solutions quickly enough. The prospects seem glacial. Society definitely needs to put a higher premium on finding lasting solutions to poverty and neglect.
It was a harsh and dehumanizing end to the encampment, inevitable under the circumstances.
A garbled, hurried text message from Gracie, before she was put in handcuffs clutching only her phone and an avocado, informed me that the police were on site at the 405 & Nordhoff. Linda had already been taken away and others were also being detained while officers and Caltrans workers moved in to clear the area once and for all. That the bottom fell out of their tenuous little community settlement was not surprising. A miniature skid row had formed in the vacuum created by lack of cohesive and comprehensive policy. Proper intervention requires compassion for those members of the public often derided as bottom-feeders, and are in fact survivalists hindered by their own impoverishment, vices and bleak prospects. The sidewalks had become unbearably overcrowded and filthy, with trash piling up in bags and pooling up in loose piles against the walls. There were as many as 8-10 separate makeshift living quarters in use, and complaints from residents had increased. Students from nearby Monroe High School and other pedestrians were finding it increasingly difficult to pass. The tipping point, according to accounts from both the campers and the police I spoke to, occurred when a man in an electric wheelchair could not navigate past some of the temporary structures on the sidewalk under the freeway bridge, and toppled off the curb. (see update for clarification)
The good-natured twenty-something leader of the orange-clad Caltrans team (ten or so workers) told me that he had tried to warn everyone that “something big was coming,” and it was clear that he was taking no joy in this operation. It was true, the oddly contradictory Municipal Code 41.18 signs that had been planted on the sidewalks a few weeks earlier declaring “no loitering or solicitations,” and the tickets citing violations such as “illegal encampments” that had been written just days earlier were all a portent of doom for the squatters. Now Caltrans and city workers ripped apart the tents and other makeshift shelters, exposing a hoarder’s bounty of all manner of personal possessions, some essential, many not.
Terry and Amy were handcuffed, standing fifteen feet apart against the wall under the bridge. Stressed out, they snapped at each other like the old married couple they have become. Amy, who had been on yet another drug-fueled downward spiral in recent weeks pleaded for matches or a lighter so she could have one last smoke before being loaded into the squad car. Sitting against the wall with her hands behind her, she asked me to take her Chihuahua so that it wouldn’t be confiscated. The police agreed I could save the dog, which I ended up leaving with Rachel and Rebecca, who had a pup of their own. The mother-daughter team had been living in the most expansive tent/compound, on state property (the northbound onramp). They were being allowed to hang onto most of their supplies, including their tent, having convinced the police that they were going to receive enough money later that day to afford a motel room. They didn’t get off completely unscathed though, as the usually good-mannered and thoughtful Rachel lost her cool when told she couldn’t salvage her dog’s bowl, and injured her foot kicking a post.
Across the street, Gracie, Craig and others were being sequestered along the freeway onramp. Those with previous warrants like Gracie (”misdemeanors”), along with Craig and another man named Mike were in handcuffs. Sixty-six-year-old Gracie’s hands were bound uncomfortably behind her back. Craig, apparently in the early stages of narcotic withdrawal, was completely despondent, wondering aloud what was going to happen now. After sitting slumped in a plastic chair for more than an hour, he told the officers he preferred to lay prostrate on the warm cement while waiting to be taken away. His posture led one officer to approach me and ask how my photographs would be used, well aware that images of a man laying on the ground, hands bound behind his back while officers hovered around, didn’t look very good from a public relations standpoint. I assured him that I would provide the proper context. Rebecca and the others sort of rolled their eyes, telling us that Craig, the former child actor, tended to be “dramatic” at times.
Still, it always pricks the conscience to see humans shackled…
I watched as Gracie, and later Craig, were escorted in cuffs to where their things were, as an officer asked them what was essential, sifting through the piles of clothing, foodstuffs and personal effects for the items, stuffing them into black plastic garbage bags. Everything that was not salvaged would be trashed. I managed to find one last piece of Linda’s fingernail polish-painted artwork and tucked in my back pocket …
The police were professional and patient, for the most part displaying at least a requisite amount of empathy, bound as they were by the statutes they are entrusted to uphold, and their own daily involvement with these situations. “We’re basically social workers with guns,” one young officer with a military background half-joked. He spent several minutes explaining all of the various programs available through the city’s new H.O.P.E (Homeless Outreach Pro-Active Engagement) program, revisiting the litany of reasons why many homeless don’t feel comfortable or even able to stay in shelters or seek other forms of assistance. Watching a young woman light another cigarette, he expressed quiet frustration at Emmy Lu’s refusal to accept an offer to move into a woman’s shelter, preferring instead, even in her seventh month of pregnancy, to live in the street and indulge in bad habits. She was hurriedly and tearfully trying to gather whatever belongings she could pull together before their domicile was destroyed. Mike, her child’s father, sat on the sidewalk across the street with his hands cuffed behind his back, taking everything in stride with disconcerting calm.
If anything this incident points to the serious need for consideration and thought on how to avoid these kinds of environments from being necessary at all…
I rode back to the site on my bike several hours later, in the late afternoon, and found Rebecca and Rachel still waiting on a corner with the possessions they were allowed to keep. By nightfall they would be in a motel room … Terry, Amy, Craig, Gracie, Linda and Mike were presumably in the Van Nuys jail. Another couple, who had been living under the bridge for the last month or so, (part of the influx of new campers that Gracie had warned was making the place too overcrowded and dirty), was sifting through the meager remains, debris that had been left behind, deemed to small to be swept into the trucks. The man told me that they had “ducked out” when the law enforcement first arrived that morning, and had waited until now to return, to see what if anything was left behind for them.
As his partner Debra poked through the detritus, someone yelled at her from across the street, warning her to “keep your hands off that, it doesn’t belong to you!” It was a pathetic scene, heavy with portent. I asked Debra where they would go now. She glanced around furtively, and told me that she didn’t feel safe going anywhere after this. They had been warned not to even panhandle on the ramps any more. (Note: in a later post it will come to light that this couple Jeff and Debra, are among the lesser-liked for reasons legal and otherwise). It seems that there has been a shift in policy, though what it is exactly is unclear. One hopeful thought to hold onto– one of the officers confided openly that he thought this should lead to a more cohesive squatting policy between city and state bodies.
Hard to believe that just a few weeks ago Gracie had stood in front of the North Hills East Neighborhood Council and tried to plead for understanding on just this issue. She specifically expressed the desire of the more responsible members of the Nordhoff group to keep the area clean and not be a nuisance to the community, which she said in her characteristically straightforward manner, “gives to us so generously.” Yet while she may have been listened to politely, nary a finger was raised on her behalf or on behalf of the others, and the alternative to her laying in the soot of traffic (lest we forget her respiratory health issues) turned out to be a jail cell. That we can’t do better than this for our most unfortunate citizens is just a low-down dirty shame …
Unusual for Southern California, winter came with cold, wet and windy weather. While several of the occupants of the 405/Nordhoff group were given holiday gifts of “Notice to Appear” tickets this past week, citing “illegal encampment,” the bad weather has actually earned them a reprieve from the impending evacuation of the area by law enforcement. It was supposed to have happened as early as yesterday.
Rachel, still holding out in a tent with her mother Rebecca on the corner of the Northbound freeway entrance, explained that LAMC 56.11 allows them to stay as long as there is rain and temperatures below 50 degrees. That might give them a few more days.
Meanwhile, Terry works the ramp, Craig compulsively sweeps the sidewalk, Amy and Shay discuss their dilemma while Linda sleeps off a very rough night under the bridge. Alcohol, pot, meth and heroin serve to keep these folks down while also anesthetizing them from the harshness and uncertainty of life….
Craig shares tips on how to create signs for working the ramp that will garner the most empathy from the public …
“It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that while there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humour.”
― Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
The first day of winter, and for once Los Angeles feels like it … here is wishing that Isaac, Kim and their two hearty boys are no longer camping in a supermarket parking lot, and have found better shelter …
A breakfast program, started by Verna Porter in 1975, evolved to what we know as “North Valley Caring Services” today. Throughout the years, different programs have been created to provide services to homeless community and people in need. Programs such as breakfast, portable shower, haircut, bicycle and clothing have made big impacts on homeless people’s lives. In this series of photos, I focused on the services, provided in this center and people, who are involved with these services. People like Manny Flores, the community liaison, and Danny, coordinator of the breakfast program, who’re going beyond their responsibilities to make a change in the community. The services provided in this center are not limited to these. Thanksgiving lunch, annual memorial service or Christmas giveaway are some other events that attract a big number of people in need to this center.
Beside the regular services provided in the center, Manny reaches out to some homeless people or camps in the area to build the relationship with them and get them the help that they need. I accompanied Manny in his visits to 405 freeway off-ramp camp, Trails and abandoned Green Arrow, which has become a homeless camp. Our visit to these camps was full of sad, happy, hopeless and hopeful moments, from the stories of people under 405 freeway dealing with city and LAPD to China’s bike. These photos probably won’t change anything for these people, but this journey definitely changed my point of view on this issue.
Manny Flores and
Craig, October 26, 2016, 405 freeway off-ramp. Manny talks to Craig next to his encampment under the 405 freeway.
Craig, October 26, 2016, 405 freeway off-ramp. Craig holds the cereal bag, while chatting with Manny.
Manny Flores and Gracie, October 26, 2016, 405 freeway offramp. Manny talks to Gracie near her encampment under the 405 freeway.
Craig’s belongings, October 26, 2016, 405 freeway off-ramp. A sign, which reads “Homeless Please Help”, sitting on a box next to Craig’s tent.
Manny Flores and Stella, October 26, 2016,
North Valley Caring Services. Stella listens to Manny, talking about different types of homelessness.
Manny Flores, Trails camp, November 9, 2016. Manny walks with the bike through the Trails camp, on the freeway underpass, near the 405 Roscoe exit.
China, Trails Camp, November 9, 2016.
China, Trails Camp, November 9, 2016. China, ready to ride her new bike.
China and her homeboy, Trails camp, November 9, 2016. China poses with her homeboy on her new bike.
Trails camp, November 9, 2016. An old door is been used as a bridge.
On Broadway Street, the heart of old Los Angeles. We recognized each other, and Ivy was pleased to find that I remembered the rabbit she kept tucked in her shirt when we had crossed paths back in March. Her speech today was not quite as impaired by substance as it had been that day, and she related that Raymond Yellowhawk had died, and pointed out that in fact, his prosthetic leg was now on display on a shelf in the store across the street, the very store where they had been sitting on the sidewalk that day in March. There was a little more conversation about sleeping conditions, prison tattoos, and we waved goodbye…
“What I’m trying to describe is that it’s impossible to get out of your skin into somebody else’s…. That somebody else’s tragedy is not the same as your own.” ― Diane Arbus
Relating these encounters anecdotally risks contextualizing the lives of Ivy and others as just “stories” leaving one with the sinking feeling that they carry semiotic and emotive pinpricks to the conscience not unlike those in fairy tales, anthropology and possibly religion (sure to be a debatable point, that last one).
There are enough pictures already, enough tales of suffering and despair, so that long ago if they were to be effective enough to make a bigger difference, society would have had to have been thoroughly shamed into whatever means necessary. But no, so more photographs are on the way regardless; even while I struggle with my own concerns about exploiting the drama of their circumstances, I hope the public sees it not as decorative art or entertainment.
Text messages from Linda this morning: “We are in dire straits at the moment…. the city has posted permanent signs saying no loitering no soliciting no stopping … it basically gives the LAPD the authority to come in an wipe us out and arrest or ticket us.. and it could be anytime…. I’m trying to find a place for my blankets, clothes and my art, and me… they did this right before the holidays just to make sure we can’t get help … this gives them so much power over us and we have no rights … now I feel that talking to any of these so-called concerned citizens is a waste of time… we don’t count, they have all counted us out. Send THAT to the mayor!!!!!”
So it happened that Amy and Terry heard the jackhammers roar right outside their makeshift hovel on the sidewalk early this morning, as city workers erected a series of metal posts with signs, essentially laying the groundwork for what appears to be a move to sweep the underpass clean of everyone: Gracie, Linda, Craig, Rebecca and her daughter Rachel, and the others. With no alternatives offered, as the weather gets colder and windier and as the holidays approach, the frustration and anger of these people is understandable …
The L.A. Municipal Code 41.18 (d)remains an easy way for police to criminalize homeless individuals and make their lives more difficult than they already are, resulting in the U.S. 9th Circuit Court to rule in the “Jones vs. City of L.A.” case that this code violates the U.S. Constitution’s 8th Amendment (No cruel and unusual punishment). In spite of this ruling, certain officers issue citations to people arbitrarily without providing any time for individuals to comply.
Gracie is part of the community of homeless people that camp along the sidewalk and freeway ramps at the 405 and Nordhoff in North Hills. She belongs to a close-knit group of women who share a love of reading and help each other survive the elements and a bureaucracy that keeps them in a constant state of insecurity and limbo. We spoke in the photojournalism lab at California State University, Northridge.
Ok, my name is Grace Crilly. I’m 65 as we speak, I’ll be 66 in December. I grew up here in San Fernando Valley and I’ve seen it grow and change from what it was in ’61. I’ve been through two earthquakes and that’s quite a scary thing, but we did survive, with minimum loss. I went to high school here. I got to two years of college, almost, but I never completed and got an AA or anything (coughs). Excuse me. I, let’s see… I worked, put into the system, and in my too too poor life choices… wrong man…wrong… just bad situations that I got myself into. Wound up, found myself living on the streets, instead of an apartment, a home, or even worst case scenario, even the motels. They all got too expensive. That would be like in 2000. Around late 90’s and 2000.
Unfortunately due to my poor life choices, I’ve been to prison
three times, behind drug addiction and I can say thankfully, thank God now that
that’s not an issue. But some wise man also made Proposition, or Senate Bill 47
which reduces felony to a misdemeanor on these drug charges and that’s helped a
lot of people be able to gain employment now, because of that. ‘Cause not
having a felony on your record which is, I don’t care what anyone says, even
though they can’t ask you certain questions, they still find out and it’s
still… you know, lessens your chances of successfully finding employment.
It’s like virtually impossible if you are a single person to
find even temporary transitional housing, especially here in San Fernando
Valley. They’re just isn’t available. Now if you’re a single mom, your chances
are better. You have a much better chance of getting into transitional
temporary and also for getting onto Section 8 lists and things like that. Now
if you have mental issues, you stand a better chance, but I mean I do have
some. I go through depression, I think I’m Bipolar, but I haven’t been
officially, quote unquote, diagnosed as such. I know I do go through the
depression. I can cry at the drop of a hat, as per now. Um it’s uh, it just
gets very very frustrating. I have
COPD, which is chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, there’s no cure. They can like keep it in remission or it
progresses and last stop would be emphysema and we all know that’s not a fun
place to be. But so far so good, knock on wood. I’m like maintaining it, as
long as I keep taking my meds etcetera,
you know we’re doing ok. I am doing ok, considering.
Situations have come up, I lost my very best friend. He died,
he got hit by a train … we had a dog together, and due to peoples’ busybody
ways, the dog got taken away from me, and that was my very best friend. It was
a beautiful dog, loved everybody and everybody loved him. There isn’t a day
that doesn’t go by that I don’t miss him. You know, it’s just one of those
things and then some other stupid fool.
Um, there was a dog that was like, got adopted through the gang, we’re
talking Langdon boys, and you know despite what everybody says about these
gangbangers, they’re not that bad. They really aren’t. I mean yes, there are
some, there are and they do what they have to do or what they think they have
to do, but that’s them. And many of time ‘Moms are you hungry? Go to Jack in
the Box. Here, here’s a card. Go to Jack in the Box.’ And you know the kids are
very respectful to us. Of course, we give them the same respect in return, you
know. You give what you get.
Ok, well within ourselves, we can kind of police ourselves and
keep ourselves in check. So, it doesn’t have to go to the next level, which of
course would be law enforcement. There are some that have sticky fingers, shall
we say… we try to, you know, put that in check and so far we have not had to go
to the next level. Now, our dealings with law enforcement, for the most part,
had been… well I can only speak for Nordhoff, ‘cause we are such a small group.
There’s only like maybe, a dozen of us. We don’t encourage newcomers, what we
do have we’ll keep, but if opportunity presents itself for someone to leave,
we’re all for it. You know, bon voyage, etcetera. Um, we have more things in
common with each other, and yet we come from diverse backgrounds. We’ve got
Catholics, we have Jewish, we have…just people, you know, and it’s like some
are rich. Some came from a rich background, their parents were wealthy, this
and that. Some from a medium, you know. Uh, and then others came from a poor
background. Or educational wise, you know, it runs college education to barely
made it out of high school type of thing, and yet we do all get along
basically.
To minimize like the danger, we close ranks, so to speak. You
know, circle up the wagons and so far there has not been any tragedies of that
nature. At least as far as the Nordhoff group goes. Now, I’ve heard there has
been some tragedy down at Roscoe. It’s a shame because it was unnecessary. It
shouldn’t have happened. A girl got killed. She got beaten to death. Yeah, a
homeless girl. It was emotional, because I guess, from my understanding, the
person, or persons that did it were jealous of her and a relationship with
somebody else…and it just, it makes no sense.
Well there’s been an issue in the last week or so … the freeway
off ramps and on ramps, on the sides there are State property and when Caltrans
comes to clean up we move from there, and move under the bridge to city
property. City and State don’t mix. You know…but they are joining forces. And
now what the story is, that I hear, of course it hasn’t been verified, but what
I hear is that when the State kicks us out the City is going to be there,
Department of Sanitation, to pick up our stuff and throw it in the trash, and
that way… I don’t know what they think they’re going to accomplish other than
having a bunch of people that are cold. They are not giving us an alternative.
They’re not telling us where to go. I mean, they’re just abandoning us, so to
speak. Now granted we really aren’t their responsibility, but yes we are. Um,
unfortunately by whatever acts have happened, or reasons, or situations, we
kinda are their responsibility. And if you’re going to be, be part of the
solution not part of the problem.
We have a councilman that lives up the street and I’ll just
leave it as, ‘in the neighborhood, up the street’ and he is so gung-ho on
getting rid of us and getting us out of there, but I don’t see him showing any
alternatives. Just that he wants it cleaned up. Ok, yes it needs to be cleaned
up. I can full heartedly agree with him. I know if I was a homeowner I would
probably have the same sentiments, ‘cause you know property values, etcetera,
etcetera. But just because your kid stepped on a piece of glass, that was
determined to have come from a liquor bottle, I’m sorry, but we’re not the only
people that drink. I heard that one of your other children, or one of his
friends got stuck by a needle. Well we’re not the only ones that use needles.
Diabetics use needles. Have you ever considered that? It’s so easy to put the
blame on one group, but without considering the alternatives. And I think we’re
being unfairly accused of a lot of stuff that we don’t do.
I’d say 80% are very kind, they bring us food, you know, care
packages things like that. It’s the other 20% that I’ve had some insults yelled
at me that were… I wouldn’t even repeat.
If they’re coming down the freeway ramp, you know the usual ‘get a job,’ you
know I could understand, but I’m 65. Come on.
But what’s available is, well we can get GR, general relief. We
can get SSI, if you have a medical condition, or a mental condition that
prohibits you from like maintaining a job or you know, holding a job down.
Medi-Cal, which you know helps because a lot of us are getting sick and it’s
due to, I think, this is personal opinion, that it’s due to… there’s so much
filth in the air and on the ground and it’s a sooty kind of thing that just
sticks to everything and it gets inside of you. And I also remember a couple
years ago Linda’s doctor did a culture on the soil from the side of the freeway
and they found over 13 different bacterias and we’re exposed to all of this…
unfortunately.
Just regard your preconceived notions, because all of you are
really one paycheck away from being where we are. It can happen to anybody. You
get downsized. A foreign nation buys your company and says, you know, they’re
bringing their own people in and then what recourse do you have? You don’t.
Excerpts from interview with Linda, Terry and Amy, three members of a community of experienced homeless survivors that occupy public space along the sidewalk and on the freeway ramps of the 405 at Nordhoff in North Hills. We sat at a local fast food restaurant that serves as a focal point in their lives.
Can you tell me about the situation
down here by the 405. Even as we speak there are Caltrans workers there, moving
some people around.
Linda: The situation is, that there are laws that say you can’t
sit, sleep, squat, kneel on the sidewalk. On city sidewalks between, I think
it’s like 6 am and 9 pm.
Terry: I was told by officers 9pm to 6 am you can be on where you
sleep. Only you can’t have anything attached to any of the wires, or fences, or
anything else. From 9 to 6 though. I would figure maybe 6 am to 6 pm would be
more reasonable, that’s what they do downtown.
Linda : And also, there’s a law that says you can sleep anywhere
you want on the sidewalk, as long as you’re 20 feet from any entry door. That
isn’t brought up. That doesn’t even come out of their mouth.
Do the police
come and tell you to move all of the time?
Linda: All the time
Terry: Not all the time. No. Well, the law…
Linda: On a regular basis Terry. Come on, think about it.
Terry: Well once a month they do, at least. But the law states that
sanitation deals with the city. Caltrans deals with the state property.
Anything about or on the freeway onramp is the state property. They have four
sections they gotta deal with, with state property. Each section has a corner
and that’s all they deal with. They don’t deal with any other corner. Now what
there are doing, is they are trying to incorporate Caltrans and sanitation
together, to work together.
Linda: Oh, they’re doing it.
Terry: Once you hit city property they take your stuff and throw it
in the dumpster, right in front of you. They don’t even give you a chance to
move it off and put it somewhere else outside.
Linda: It depends on which CHP officers are there.
Terry: The CHP officers by that point, they wouldn’t do anything,
LAPD is responsible for the city, not state. CHP are much more giving and they
are much more flexible.
Linda: They have heart.
Terry: They give you privacy. They keep your privacy.
Linda: And they give you a chance to get as much as you can, in a
certain amount of time, out. You know.
But they give you warnings when they want
you to move?
Linda: Not always. No. They have a new supervisor. Excuse me, but
he’s a total a-hole.
Which agency?
Linda: Um, Caltrans. And he’s in charge of supervising the corners.
Terry: He’s the district manager.
Linda: Yeah, regional manager.
Terry: The supervisor over here is a young boy, young kid, he’s
maybe 25 or 30.
Linda: And he’s a dickhead. Excuse me.
Terry: Well, he’s been very informative to me. He told me a lot of
stuff that I needed to know. That maybe he shouldn’t have said but he does it…
Linda: ‘Cause he has heart.
Terry: So, I don’t have a problem with that. See, I know now that
they’re going to put us in a position now to where Caltrans is gonna kick us
off of state property, we’re going to take our stuff and put it on city
property, and sanitation is going take it as soon as we put it on city
sidewalk. So try to imagine this is state property, I take all my stuff, I go
out and put it there, go back get some more, and come back, all of that stuff
is going to be in the trash. They are not going to give us a chance.
Linda: And they put it in a trash truck. A smelly, stinky, dirty
trash truck. That goes around down the street, empties the blue bins and the
black bins, and you know all of the bins that are in front of your house.
That’s what they put our stuff in and then they say you have 30 days to go pick
it up, by appointment. Get ‘em to answer the phone.
So they took some of your artwork?
What happened?
Linda: They took it. They took it all. For two years I’ve been
doing my artwork. For two years I’ve been collecting jewelry, so I could open a
store. In January, OK, I had two of the counselors from LA Family Housing that
were my helpers, that were willing to go and say that I was highly recommended
to get this loan. Ok? I was going in January. I was ready for it and sanitation
took it all. I mean, took my future. I tried for two years to get up out of
here and it’s like now I’m right back where I started. It’s been 15 years, come
on, give me a break! (Crying) A
person doesn’t try that hard and work as hard as I have, 18 hours a day, seven
days a week, to try and get out of here if they didn’t want to get out of here,
get out of this situation. They wouldn’t do it. They’d say “Hey screw it!”
So, they came at night and took it?
Linda: No, during the day. And there was a three-day notice, but I
wasn’t in town. And then I had some of my stuff over there and then this police
officer comes up to me, and I had five carts sticking out, and he said, “How many carts are you going to take” and I
said “Well, I’m gonna take all of my carts.” And he said, “No you’re not.
You’re taking two.” You know? I mean who are you to tell me after everything
I’ve done for the last two years, to get out of here? Who are you to put me
back at the bottom? By taking everything I own (crying). That was of value that meant anything to me.
Terry: Same thing with me, but they only had me take one cart.
Threw six of my carts in the trash.
Linda: You know I love jewelry. I always will. And I never had… I
never really had a lot of jewelry but the things that I collected for my store,
I took very few for my own. You know I kept very few, everything was gonna go
in the store. And you can ask Terry. Terry seen some of it and it was
beautiful. And I got it really cheap and I took advantage of that because I
know the prices I know, you know, what it’s value is and what they could have
gotten. And they were generous enough to accept what I offered them and they’re
homeless too, you know. But, my mom did not raise a quitter and I love my mom.
And my mom gave me my values and my standards and my morals and I won’t go back
on them. I won’t waiver on them. You know I’m fortunate, I’ve never had to go
out and turn a trick, do a date, do any of that. You know, I’ve…I’ve
panhandled or I drew the ramp, I recycle and I have people who give to me and
I’m very grateful. I’m very appreciative of that. Therefore, when I find things
I can’t use and I don’t need, I give to the Our Lady of Peace Catholic church and I
don’t even believe in the Catholic religion. Ok? And it’s like you have to give
back. You have to keep the circle going, it can’t be broken. That’s what has
done all of this. That’s what is dividing this country.
How do people treat you when they see you on
the sidewalk under the freeway? Do they yell things at you?
Terry: “Get a job you crusty old man!”
Linda: Like, three weeks ago, there was… for like an hour, excuse
me but, “Fuck the homeless. Fuck the homeless. They ain’t nothing. They ain’t
nothing.” And that’s how they feel, we’re worthless, we’re helpless, we’re
useless.
Who’s saying those things?
Linda: The neighborhood and the kids. I mean the kids are not
taught anything by the parents about respect and all that. And that’s the
situation possibly… yeah a lot of them are out here by choice, but I’m not. I
lost my job at Denny’s because I didn’t speak Spanish.
When was that?
L: 15 years ago and you know, when you don’t have income… and
now at 62 I can’t get a job, because I’m too old. You know? So, I tried… well,
you know, somebody said “Linda, you know so much about jewelry, and about
stones, and about emeralds, and about metals, when it comes to jewelry. Why
don’t you try and open up your own store?” I have a friend, there’s a couple,
that are real good friends of mine, and we all recycle and we have all found,
beautiful, wonderful, expensive valuable things. And a lot of them aren’t
valuable, but they’re beautiful and they’re still able to be sold. So, I was
going to open a store and then by chance I just happened to pick up the statue.
That went into the trash.
Terry: You can’t keep anything
Linda: Anyway, she was all white when I got her and I happened to
just start, you know, messing around with nail polish and painting, and trying
to get a little color on her. And people were commenting and saying “Wow that’s
beautiful.” You know? And so I decide to paint her dress all black and I built
her hat up to make it look like it had a feather on it. There was a lot and the
thing that is so hard… I was gonna have my grand opening at night and I was
going to auction her off for a shelter for single women. It was gonna go for
good.
Terry: The way that people behave…and all of the name calling,
throwing stuff at us, you know all of the stuff that they do, is creating a
very hostile, angry place for us to be and not all of us are staying there.
Some of us are staying there, we’ll manage our mood and manage our behavior.
Some of ‘em aren’t. Some of them if they do it too much they’re going to go
postal on them and they will. They’re
just not in their right mind. And down here, to be treated the way I’ve been,
the way my wife and I have been, they could push someone over the edge. You’ve
been out here long enough to know. What I am saying is, she can sit here and
cry and feel like she does. And I’ve seen her depressed and I’ve seen her in
the best spirits. 100% difference. And it’s because of the way that people are
treating us.
Linda: And the way the city is treating us.
Terry: We’re less than–
Linda: –you know were less than human. You know how there’s a
saying that says, you know, “You’re lower than the crap on an ant’s ass.” I
mean that’s how I’m starting to feel and why keep trying? (Crying) why keep trying if they are just going to come in and say
“No, you can only have this.”
Terry: The state is supposed to help us. This is supposed to be
people that are saying “Hey, we’re going to help you. We’re going to send a cop
down here and the cops going to say all this stuff that’s good and positive,
and follows up on everything he says he’s gonna. And then he comes back, another cop telling
me this and this and this, and meanwhile, you’ve gotta to take all of your
stuff out of your carts and leave it here because the guys here to take your
carts. I’ve got ten carts full …
Linda: And then sanitation comes right up behind them and takes it.
And then Chacon, Officer Chacon, he’s a really good man. He really is. And we
understand that they’re doing their job. But you changed the law to make new
rules yourself. He said, “Well, there’s a new rule.” Now if there’s one
complaint from one parent that their child has to walk in the street to go
around you, they’re calling. Sanitation is there and you’re losing everything.
Terry: And they don’t have to give you a three-day notice. ‘Cause
that negates it.
Linda: But the law is, that they have to give us three-day notice.
And they just said, “No. There’s a new rule.” That was officer Chacon.
Terry: He’s a very nice, gentle, caring officer.
Linda: But his watch commander is getting on his butt.
Terry: If any other cop could be like that. We’d get a lot more
done. He’s kind. He’s gentle. He’s friendly. He’s considerate about feelings.
Linda: They need to teach cops that they’re not machines. They
still have to have heart. They still could be human and it would help more if
they would be more human and teach them under these circumstances work with
them. I mean how would they feel if we went in their three-bedroom house, that
they’re making their payments for and say, “No, you can’t live here, you have
to move into a one bedroom apartment and the only thing you can take is your
clothes.” What would they feel?
Terry: I asked the cop that when he took my stuff. What would you
think if you had to tell your wife all of her clothes are gone. Bet you
wouldn’t like it is what I said. She would be devastated. She would be torn up
inside. All her jewelry, all her personal belongings, all her hygiene products.
Linda: All of her photographs.
Terry: You gotta try and imagine that these women out here on the
street, work hard to get all their hygiene products together, all their
personal stuff. It’s important to them more than it is to guys. I can smell
like a goat for a week. It takes a lot of doing to get all those hundred
things, the makeup, the perfumes, the sanitation stuff and all of the soaps,
creams, and all of the stuff. I mean we’re talking about a fucking shopping
cart full of crap and if one of the things are missing, they’re gonna know. My
wife does. If one little teeny jar of something, if it’s gone she knows.
What about the housing situation? Any prospects for getting out of this situation?
Terry: There are no prospects whatsoever. There’s a couple things
that we need to do.
Linda: If you’re homeless you can’t even get a job because you
don’t have an address.
Terry: It’s kind of like this… If I go to work for example. I went
to work and I worked eight hours a day, everyday, five days a week. It would at
least be up to three week before I would get any money. Everyday I have to come
up with at least fifteen bucks to survive that day. If I don’t we don’t eat. I
didn’t eat yesterday. Why? Because the ramp wasn’t giving me any money. I
tried. I was on the ramp for three or four hours throughout the day, I didn’t
make enough money. That’s just the way the ramp works. Not always it’s like
that, most times it’s not. But you know, I have to provide for my wife, that’s
one thing. Two, it’s a competition out here. There’s a lot of competition for
the ramp.
How do you guys divide that up?
Linda: We don’t. It’s each person that gets on the ramp, keeps what
they have.
How do you decide who gets on the ramp when?
Terry: Well it’s supposed to be an hour, if you have any sort of decency.
Linda: If someone is waiting it’s an hour.
Terry: As a man I will defer always for a woman, I always do.
Linda: And the ones that actually live here and are a part of our
own little circle and family, you know are first. And the ones that have been
here the longest. Ok, like me and Gracie and Leprechaun, we have seniority. But
I don’t care about seniority just do your hour and then let me have the ramp
and if someone else is waiting and I feel like getting off, I’ll get off. You
know, like “here.” If they start giving me money, or I have what I want or what
I need.
Terry: I know that they can’t handle more than a half an hour.
Linda: I can’t
Terry: Twenty, thirty minutes they are done.
Linda: Whether we made money or not. It doesn’t matter.
Terry: On the other hand if I see Leprechaun on the ramp, forget
it. It’s a fight. I’m talking physical. It’s a fight for the ramp.
Linda: Oh don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t get us into Leprechaun.
Terry: He’s the most stubborn person that comes to the ramp. You
know, he’s got his reasons, he’s got his let’s say monkeys, but he doesn’t care
about anybody but himself.
Linda: It’s that way all of the time.
Amy: He is a nice guy. He has character. He’s fun.
Linda: Yes, he is a nice guy. Oh he’s stupidly funny. Oh my God.
Terry: He won’t give it up and he will get to the point where he
will throw clothes at you if you persist.
Linda: Yeah, if he’s been up for a couple of days.
Have you fought with him physically?
Terry: I have almost fought more than once, from getting so angry,
because I have to provide for my wife and myself and he provides for his bottle
and his whatever … just him.
Where does he sleep?
Linda: He’s back under the road. He’s been with us… he got out of
prison three years ago and he’s been over here ‘cause you know, I’m like his
best friend. And I love him to death but he … can be physically violent.
He’s gotten in my face and I’ve gotten right back in his. That why he doesn’t
put a hand on me because he knows. He may be old Leprechaun, but I’m the witch
that will take you out.
Terry: Yeah, he’s OK. He’s not a bad person.
Linda: Yeah, he’s got a good heart.
Terry: But when it comes to money he don’t care.
Linda: But that’s the Irish in him. (laughs)
Terry: And that really upsets me because I really do have a
responsibility to myself and to her, to get some necessities. And it’s not easy
to do. As a matter of fact most of the time we don’t.
Can you tell me the story you told me the
other morning about the Section 8 housing Amy got?
Terry: You know we got through Cornerstone, she got Section 8. And
it didn’t take very long, about a month. She wasn’t as stable as she is now.
She was a little more scattered and a lot more worried. Very depressed.
Amy: I had gone through a breakdown when we lost the house and
when everything was happening, I kind of like lost it. My parents were there
and my ex-husband was renting a room. The epicenter of it all was coming at me.
And my dad has got this like gambling habit, which is part of the reason why
the house got lost.