The boy and the barista

from the series LA NIGHTS | tab above |

     

Los Angeles, 07.01.2021                                                         

Day 1

     Inside a landmark café in the city of Los Angeles enters a boy; the word boy brings back many feelings when spoken out loud. Boy. You can go back to the first days of school and remember writing the three letters that encompasses an entire life: brothers, sisters, mother, father, grandparents, friends, neighbors. An entire community surrounds this being.

     At his early stage of life, hopefully, one is busy with being a kid: playing, attending elementary school, falling in love for the very first time. Boy and Girl, the very reason we exist lies in the romantic notion of these two nouns.

     This particular boy is nameless; one of thousands that wander the city, while, the city in question, Los Angeles, now asks what to do with them all. This particular boy is tall, has curly hair, a goatee and is as handsome as the young stars Hollywood sell to us as the new face to watch. He carries a blanket; filthy. He takes three steps into the store and looks around; turns on his heel, opens the door and tosses the blanket outside, before walking to a barista and ordering: " Two glasses of water, please. No ice."

     The young girl does not flinch, which makes me think that this has happen before and she is used to it. She treats him as well as any of her other customers, probably feeling a sense of accomplishment, because this might be the only humane interaction he will have all day. This café has a reputation for training their employees extremely well and if dealing with homeless was part of her training program she has not forgotten the lesson. 

     He does not engage with her in any way; doesn't look at her in the eyes, doesn't talk to her at all. His eyes are distant somewhere. I've seen this gaze before since starting this assignment. Some of the homeless I encountered have mastered it. Models have the same gaze; I will venture a guess that, for the very same reason.

     I have an untouched cappuccino in my hand; I ask if he would feel offended If I gave it to him. He does not look at me. He does not answer me. He does not acknowledge my question in any way. I am not such a hopeless romantic that I don't understand where I am; the very next thing I do has to be the right thing not to offend this kid in any way. I look down, avoiding looking at him and turn away. The barista is looking straight at me and tells me softly that, " he just wants his water." confirming with the pronoun "his" that she has served him before. He has a friend in the city, at this café. I make a mental note of this and understand that at some point I ought to sit down and investigate what does that mean: this relationship.

     She is casual about the whole thing; pleasant and yet I do not see any indication that she is following any protocol of engagement. She deals with it as if this is the most natural thing in the world; a young good looking boy, homeless, who has enough awareness to toss his filthy blanket outside the store before ordering a couple of glasses of water. His demeanor is the same as the girl by the bridge. You don't care for me, so I don't care for you. I deny you and your attention regardless of your intention.

     The interaction had me thinking about the properness of offering him anything, after all, I have never approached anyone in the store and offered to pay for their coffee. My action reminded me of Madonna and the late, unbelievably misguided, Michael Jackson, who visited the country I was born, Brasil, and asked to tour the favelas. As if poor people were an attraction they schedule during their visit, after they had become bored with their other activities.  

     I wonder if this boy cared enough to give me a second thought. I wonder if I ruined his perfect day. A beautiful barista who treats him as a human being and a clueless writer who treats him as a homeless. The road to hell is paved by good intentions. I wonder if my motive, my reason, my failed attempt at humanity registered with him at all. My guess and hope is that it doesn't. We gave up on him. He gave up on us. Just another day in downtown L.A.

     When you visit downtown L.A. try asking for direction to a passerby,  your fellow human being, Nine out of ten times they will ignore you completely as if you don't exist. Yesterday, I saw someone in front of a couple asking for directions and they went around that person in a synchronized movement, as if they had agreed that  'we will venture outside our pristine, meticulously manicured expensive building, in the middle of this mess, but we will remain inside our little bubble."

     Today, a tall gentleman gave me directions, so I engaged him: " why your fellow Angelinos don't like giving directions?"  He smiled. " They get bombarded daily with beggars so they got used to doing this." So I put it into context: " Even for people that are obviously not homeless?" " It is easier to just avoid everyone." he said.

     I had to smile at that; my mask prevented him from seeing it. I thought with meus botões, "this must be a new clause added to our social contract."

     I am not signing it!

"Move Along"

from the series LA NIGHTS | tab above |

  Los Angeles, 07.03.2021 

Day 3

ONE HUNDRED AND ONE steps, is the count for this beautiful stairway in front of the central library in downtown Los Angeles. I lived a block away with my kids, and we woke up everyday at 5am and ran up these stairs three times, unto Hope Street and downhill to Hill Street where our building stood: a beautiful earthquake refitted 1920's subway station. A block to the right of the building was the Geffen Theater and the Disney Music Hall; two perfect examples of the opulence in this area.

On our run around the wide block we came down a hill, beneath a bridge; today overtaken with tents which is the residence of many. The contrast is staggering. Looking down from Hope street we can see the Central Library...

... and a small change in our perspective... 

...and you can see the front door...... 

...and a gentleman trying to catch some sleep.

... before the city employees and security approach him to gently ask him to "move along" which it appears it is the city of Los Angeles new modus operandi to deal with the homeless. But move along where? There are not enough beds to the thousands of people who live in the streets in this area, which is in full display by the tents; improvised homes, in one of the most expensive commercial real estate per square foot in Los Angeles.

     A block from our home, there was a park; nothing special: a water fountain, dog park, playground for children, and on Wednesday, a farmer's market filled the space with fresh fruit and vegetables and artisans selling their creations. It is one of the most beautiful images I have of my ex-wife, an amazing chef, as she took her time prodding and choosing, her face beaming with fulfillment. 

     Ironically, the people who could use some fulfillment, the homeless, who hang out on that park daily, were never there for the market. I never understood where they went. When the day was over, I sometimes saw them roaming around the nearly empty tables getting the spoils from the well to do people who lived in the buildings nearby.

     Also not there were the teenagers I met while living here: gay teenagers who were forced out of their home by their parents when they decided to come out of the closet. Their Christian parents, not approving their "choice" followed the principles mandated by the bible and the Roman Catholic Church and tossed them out. Apparently, God does not approve of homosexualism and they wander the city of angels finding warmth, understanding in each other's arms. In a time of their lives where they should be planning their college route, as Anna did, they spent their days leaning on each other trying to understand how their lives ended up this way. My relationship with any God ends when he begins telling us to hate and despise each other. 

     But it is 10 years later and the teenagers are no longer there, in fact, neither are the homeless; a few security guards hired by the buildings are making sure to move them along. Where is not of anyone's concern; as long as it is not here. 

     So, at night, they ride the subways until the very last train and after that, they hop onto the buses all night to sleep. An existence that I am observing to be inhumane, as well as a very hard way of living. 

But it appears, it is okay to the rest of us, as long as the streets are clean and we don't get to see them.

Señor Alex & Grandparents

     Los Angeles, 07.05.2021                                                         

Day 5

     He's Mexican. 65 years old. Next year, 2022, he retires to Tijuana, or at least that's the plan. His daughter is named Anna and has studied criminal justice; entering the job market and very optimist about her chances to "become someone" which is the exact way he puts it. Señor Alex is a guard in a construction site at night; he feels lonely and isolated. Rent prices in this area goes for about $3,500 for a one bedroom so señor Alex lives far, which still puts his rent at $ 1,700 and his family out of reach for emotional support. 

 A rat goes by and I put a foot in my mouth: " it's just you and the rats, señor Alex."  and  he laughs; he laughs loudly and confesses to me that he talks to them sometimes and that one of them stopped walking the other day and looked at him and that freaked him out. " I'm being silly, I know, but it made think that he understood me." I ask him if he has watched my favorite animated feature "Ratatouille" and he has. " This was not a chef, but he was fat like a chef." he says.  So much for my sensitive preoccupations. 

     It is hard for people from South America to adjust to a political correct society; throughout our entire childhoods we had adults making fun of us, themselves, everything. Most of the things it is considered playful for señor Alex and I, would be frowned upon by today standards and we would be canceled for sure. Some of it with good reason, and some because when humans beings gain momentum they loose control; after all, if you have the power of cancelling, why would you not continue cancelling and looking for things to cancel. 

     We navigate ourselves to our initial conversation and he tells me: "I got a raise, but groceries went up, gas went up; it's like they know I got a bit more money and they take it." I ask him how will it be able leaving his daughter behind when he moves to Tijuana and he quiets down, thinking. I wait. "My daughter is an American and she likes the costumes here; I don't think she will miss us. She is ready to leave the nest and "become someone." 

     This is the second time he says that, so I mention it and ask him to clarify what he means. " In America... - he says- " ... people judge others  by what they have, by the car they drive. My daughter doesn't mind that; all her friends have nice cars and they treat those cars better than people. In my country, we get together around food and we talk and we tell stories and we make fun of each other and then it is back to work again. If someone is doing well we hear about it and we are happy for them but it doesn't come up around the table. Around a table with food only your embarrassing moments are shared." 

    That took me back a bit; it made me think of growing up in Brazil and how similar it was to his experiences, except that my family was the opposite of supportive, around our table, the brothers would put each other down and brag about their accomplishments and as child, I watched all of this and noticed that the women, their sisters, would say nothing. They would serve the food and listen and one by one they would display love to the most important women in my life: my grandmother. For that reason, in my family, I liked the sisters and thought the males fell far from the tree; my grandfather was so quiet. 

     I ask señor Alex. "Were you close to your grandparents?" He smile at me and I could see him traveling back in time and watching the memories of his childhood in his mind. " My grandparents were simple people: quiet, loving, and happy." he said describing my grandparents while he was at it. There is a reason I liked this man the moment i met him and I now stop by every night to say hi. Then I think of my children and his daughter and all the teenagers in the world and understand how much harder they have than us, older folks. 

     The secret for a pleasant life is the very definition of our grandparents; but you try to fit simplicity in the times we are living; try plugging quietness for the sake of quietness in a world where we are loosing connection with each other, afraid to say things, afraid to tell other our nightly ponderations, afraid that we will be cancelled. It is one thing to quiet down to understand the world; it is quite another to be silenced into compliance. 

     I once told my lovely Renée that scientists had identified the genes that makes one a homossexual, it was an article on the previous day on The New York times. We were at the the equipment room hall at New York University waiting for our 16mm cameras to be distributed; Renée got angry with me and refused to talk to me all night. I got angry with her and let her know. Finally, when I was walking back to Penn Station to go home, she appeared by my side. We were still very pissed at each other and walked in silence . After a bit she grab my arm and sat me down on  the curb. I loved Renée.

     " I don't think people should be changed Renée. Reversed engineering...I am not advocating that;  I am not a nazi." In my anger at her I left out the part where I thought we ought to have the conversation about the science of it all. She understood it and told me so. Then she spoke to me about her brother for the first time and we sat there for hours talking: about family, gays, theater, God and she told me something about my life that I knew; and when she didn't get the response she was waiting, she made a prediction so precise that I wish she was alive so that I could sit on a curb and tell her how right she was. She would've liked that.

     Renée was complex. I was the simple minded one. Wherever  she is now she is rolling her eyes at me. And if it is true the dead can hear us I take this opportunity to tell you that I have the last word because I am alive Renee and you are not. And another thing. I still dislike your roommate. She was a horrible influence on you. I guess we had that in common. I ask myself why I went from señor Alex to Renée and the answer came promptly: I liked them both the minute I met them. At night.

     Alex is becoming a friend and I can see myself heading to Tijuana to hang out with him and his wife and eat Mexican food; make fun of his mariachis. "Really? How many trumpet players a song needs? When señor Alex was describing his grandparents he was describing himself and Renee; although not exactly. Let me explain in another way: if they were both a coin, they would be the opposite sides of that coin. I could toss it up in the air and get señor Alex and head to Tijuana to simplicity, lovingness and happiness." 

    If I got Renee, there would be no way to tell what the night would bring except for lovingness. She once told me: " being your friend is difficult because I can never tell with you how you are gonna piss me off." and she would grab my arm while we walked the streets of New York City; streets we shared with rats much bigger than the Santa Monica kind. She had a way of looking at me as if I were a mirror; and then think she was seeing me.

     And it came to me why these two different human beings got entangled on my mind: it is in the toss of the coin one gets to experience the next moments of what life will bring; some will be pleasant and others wont; but they will not be the same and that is how we grow. The cancel culture has done away with the tossing of the coin and is determined to tell us all how to live, what are the topics we should chose and their most important trait, as it is with every dictatorship, the repercussion of not following their rules. Within their construct, there is no life, and we miss the importance of making mistakes: a chance to rediscovery and to start over. The homeless of Los Angeles are between a grandmother, accepting and loving, and the cancellation mob. 

     The problem of homelessness in Los Angeles might be one of those unique moments where no one is right and no one is wrong. All that matters is that we must find a way to engage these people back into society. Let me offer some pictures since it is being said over and over again that it is equal to a thousand words. And let me warn you that you might react like Renee did when I mentioned to her the New York Times article on the "homossexual gene."

     Yesterday, I wandered into this park that sits right in the middle of Downtown Los Angeles; which sidewalks are the dirtiest sidewalks of any city I have been, and I have travelled a lot. I love architecture and I love the care it was put into this garden, as a director, I can set my camera in any place and you will have a beautiful frame in every direction. After taking a bunch of pictures a security officer appeared to tell me that I was in a private property. I told her that I was just taking some pictures, to which came her reply:  " the owners don't like people taking pictures." she said. 

     Okay, let me confess that maybe, maybe Renee was a tiny percent correct and that I annoy people, but from where I stand; " Say that again?! Why design this beautiful garden if no one will enjoy it?" I asked her and I could not wait for the answer that would prove Renee correct: " I love you but you are difficult." The officer said: " it is their building and if they don't want anyone taking pictures than it is their right." That was not nearly enough for me. " it is a huge piece of land in the middle of the city; It is beautiful; it is empty. There should be parents here with children running around." She pointed out " This would be a liability because if they fell and got hurt, they would sue the building." I understood this before she told me. I also understood that it was their building and well, you've have read my blabbing.

     I watched her walk away; frame another shot and took the picture quick because i didn't want her to yell at me or worse get the LAPD involved. I could the see the scene on my mind: " 911 please there is a man here taking pictures of our garden at Union Bank." " Ma'am, remain calm. We will send officers right away."

     But as I languidly move away on my white horse I looked back one more time and imagined that place filled with shacks, tents and homeless people sleeping everywhere. I didn't like that new look one bit. 

     Even though I am an atheist, I am pretty sure it was God who planted that thought on my mind, to frame the complex issue of homeless around the world.  Because if God exists, sometimes he reminds me of Renee: complex, all love and one major pain.

L.A. nights

DISCLAIMER

This is an assignment on the issue of homelessness in the city of Los Angeles. I have a few questions; and felt the need to verify the accepted sentiment that the problem is related to mental illness and drug use. Three days into this assignment and a third road keeps inviting me to a new direction.  I have taken that road. 

I am not a journalist; I am a writer. There will be no unbiased reporting, only the truth of what I see and how it affects me as well as the questions that arise. I don't, for a second, think that I will arrive at a complete understanding of why a child that was once waited for and loved by someone now lies forgotten in the city of Los Angeles. The city of angels.

I could plan this, organize it, and then post it; but decided instead to post each day and invite you along to what I see and learn, and feel.

                                              

L.A. nights

 

3 feet away from legal

Downtown L.A. at night

Los Angeles, 07.04. 2021 

Day 4

     I'm sitting at a café thinking how my night is gonna go; feeling guilty. Homeless people are not relaxing somewhere, making plans, before they start their night, they are out there with a sense of urgency I have not seen anywhere else. I wonder if ever crosses their minds that after being homeless for awhile, getting a job, paying bills, working late and dealing with deadlines would be like being on vacation.

     I have to think like them since I am sleeping on the street tonight, doing exactly what they do for the next five days; following their footsteps. Trying to answer the question of where they all go after the security officers, paid by the opulent buildings in the area, supported by the LAPD get them to move on. Where do they go? Where do I go? How to make sure I don't take the wrong bus and end up in a dangerous area at 3 or 4 o'clock in the morning. The subway goes off circulation at midnight, so wherever you end up, you are stuck there until they go back online at 4:30 in the morning.

     Tonight I'll take the 460 bus to Disneyland; it is a four hours roundtrip and the homeless use it because it allows them a place to sleep safely for a longer period of time. Catching the bus at the wrong time means ending up at Disneyland with no way to come back. Alone. I'm pretty sure Mickey will be asleep. In the middle of the night, as my grandmother would say: " nothing good ever happens after midnight." I grew up in the theater so 11 pm is when I am applying make up and clicking my heels three times. Nevertheless, getting to Mickey's house to find him sleeping is a bit screwy. 

     I make it to the bus and they are there, about 12 of them. I'm fully vaccinated now but being inside a bus that is packed with people is fortunately a choice that I can make; and I make the choice of not doing it; instead I follow the other group that hop trains all night. Most of the homeless that surf the buses and trains are men; I have not seen any homeless female roaming the streets at night so I guess and hope they have made to shelter which is the next place I will go to after these five days.

     I am flooded with the memories of my children; beautiful memories: running, walking to the Santa Monica beach, watching them playing at the sandy playground and laughing while making castles. My son always in t-shirt complaining of being too hot while I'm wearing layer upon layer of long sleeves and wind breakers. Santa Monica is about 10 degrees cooler than downtown L.A. and I look at these men hiding behind smalls walls to avoid the cold air that comes from the ocean and feel sorrow for their routine.

    The ghost of my children plague me now and I realize that that time in my life is gone and it will never come back, maybe I get to experience that again with grandchildren. For now, the memories cut me like the cold air, as I see them everywhere; and a profound feeling of sadness wells me up in tears, as if the very purpose of my existence has vanished. They are now entering the college years in one of the most disturbing periods of our human history, so I am sure that they are having thoughts of their own about things passed and gone.

     I need to focus. I need to walk to the train. As I walk I notice a commotion ahead of me, an older black man is talking loudly, surrounded by security guards and he is trying to kick them and saying things that I am too far to understand. 

     I quickly grab my camera and stand across the street taking pictures; it is too dark here so I walk closer and approach the security guards, whom by now stand in the corner a few feet away from the man; who has now gone back inside his make shift tent and is trying to sleep. Young people on the other side of the road are laughing and carrying a conversation on their way to a club, on their way to a good time. I approach the security officers to ask a few questions. 

     Before getting to them I decide to approach the homeless man  first and see if he is willing to talk to me; " How you doing there, my man? My name is Marco. Like Marco Polo. What's your name?" As he talks back to me I hear that none of what he is saying is directed at me or anyone in particular, he is addressing his own demons and it is no wonder he is angry with the the security personnel; when you have to appease demons in your head sleeping becomes essential. 

     

     They go back to their argument but it becomes obvious that seeing me taking pictures had an affect in how they proceed, for now, they had made a call to the LAPD. While we wait, I am careful to stay out of their way, but I quickly realized that their job is done and there is nothing else to do than wait for the calvary. Even though we are just standing there I ask them if I can talk to them; situations like these are never over and can become dangerous in a blink of an eye.

     I tried again talking to the man lying on the street but he is not home; I engage the security officers and one of them introduces himself as the supervisor and a full minute into our conversation I come to the conclusion he is not home either. Everything I ask is repeated back to me and he claims not to understand me, which is fine, I have an accent so I always take people at their word when they say that; I begin to enunciate every syllable but another minute goes by to see that my accent is not the issue, he doesn't like the questions.

"Isn't that a sidewalk? Why can't he stay there?" "Excuse-me, " he says. And pretend again not to understand me. I pretend he is not a certifiable jerk and ask another question. " If you get him to move on where will he go?" " That is none of my concern." he says.

Good it appears my english has improved. " What's his name? " I ask. That question he understood clearly because his expression spoke to me before he had to mutter the words; "well, I don't know that. My job is to make sure he is not sleeping on private property." "It would probably make your job a bit easier if you took the time to ask his name; it is everyone favorite sound." His clueless look told me that he needed more. " Human beings like the sound of their own name." I say,  but he had lost interest in talking to me and told me so.

    I ask him if he minds, being the supervisor and all, if I talked to the man again. " it is a free country." he said and I laugh but say nothing. What I think is " How free is it when you can't  even sleep on the sidewalk?" I tried to talk to the homeless man and get his name but he was busy talking to someone in his head; I noticed the LAPD approaching and prepared my camera to take a few pictures. What the homeless man did next reminded me of the boy who had the common sense to toss his filthy blanket outside. The police officer was polite, respectful, but firm: " Sir, you cannot sleep there. It is private property." and proceeds to show the man where he could set up his bed. A couple of feet away from where he was. I asked myself if all the drama was worth the bother for a few feet.  Eight people altogether engaged this man, including two police officers. Stretch your leg as wide as you can if you are sitting down and you will see the distance he moved too. 

     The next thought I had was that this system was missing a third phone call. The first call will always be made by the security guards when they call each other to try to get the person to move; the second call they made after they failed to convince him to move was to the police officers. The city of Los Angeles has groups that exist with that sole purpose: to offer an option to a human being that, instead of moving a few feet and sleeping on the sidewalk, that they can be placed somewhere warm for the night. That should be the second call, and only after they go nowhere, they would engage the police. Police officers should not be engaged with that, they are trained to deal with crimes, and complex situations and moving a homeless who has his things leaning agains a building is a waste of their time. And two feet away? That is total insanity.

     I took some more pictures and watched the police car drive away; I watched one by one, as the security people drove away too and in the end it was just the two of us there. I stood watching him sleep for a bit, just as someone once did, a long time ago. 

Sleeping on private property

Waiting for the police

LAPD officers resolve the conflict

This is where he was...

...this is where he was moved.

Watching him sleep

Next morning I went to check and he was still there.

Girl by the Bridge

 

Los Angeles, 07.02.2021 

Day 2

     She emerges from one of the shacks with a plastic water jug and her pocket book; jeans, a white t-shirt and a stride of those who understand time. Even within the few seconds our interaction lasted I could see the sadness in her eyes; her face, pretty, but tired. She displayed a different kind of sadness, one that indicates resentment, like the boy we met at the café. The difference is that the boy was angry and she is sad and a bit unhopeful; while the boy didn't engaged me at all, not saying a single word, this girl told me that she didn't want to talk to me and it sounded as if her words had come from disappointment. 

     "I live beside the highway because I gave up on everything, family and friends and society norms." it was the subtext of our interaction. So easy it is to point to mental illness to explain the complexity of this issue; so easy to forget that we are living in an age where everyone is apologizing for everything, to everyone, every day in fear that they will be cancelled. This girl has cancelled us. The boy in the café has cancelled us. In a world where everyone is displaying their status on social media, the homeless lies on the sidewalk.

I look at the shacks and think that the city of Los Angeles is determined to do something about the homeless and I ask why. Is it sympathy for the plight or because we are tired of seeing this encampments everywhere we look? it crashes with our nice buildings and our way of life. We need to clean up the city, seems to be the new mantra and amidst that sentiment rises the new politicians: " If you are leaving in tenths we are coming for you." 

Say that again, Sheriff Johnny Good Old Boy? It reminded me of the Bob Marley song: 

Sheriff John Brown always hated me

For what I don't know

Every time that I plant a seed

He said, "Kill it before it grows" 

- Bob Marley -

     Sheriff Johnny Good Old Boy took the temperature of the Los Angelinos and is certain that we will look the other way while he threatens TO HUNT these human beings; he is certain we will look the other way as long as he cleans the city. Anyone who goes before a live mike and is comfortable saying things such as, " we are coming for you" to people who don't have a place to live is seriously dangerous. There is an office somewhere this man has measured, bought furniture for, and with the help of his loved ones decided to use the homeless as a stepping stool to get there. He has visualized a better place for him and his and the homeless are his ticket there.

     A security guard told me the other day that thousands of people are coming here because we are fools and giving them things for free; it made me think that the homeless are the new Mexicans; what I always thought was racism is turning out to be hatred. There are people in this world who hate other people and the very moment they think they can get away hurting someone, they will do it. They will do it for us. For our city. For the hard working people of Los Angeles. And all we have to do is look the other way while they enjoy themselves harassing the homeless. It's a win-win.

     In any other city I would say that it was a given; people would in fact look the other way and allow it to happen as long as they could keep their hands clean. In the city of Los Angeles I thought that it would be harder since people here do have a sympathy for the less fortunate; having said that, the cowardice they are displaying with the canceling crowd, apologizing for everything is extremely disappointing. Not very inspiring at all.

     Sheriff Johnny Good Old Boy has placed a bet and had the courage to stand in front of a live mike to cast himself as the savior, the villain, the hero who will clean up the streets of Los Angeles; by doing so, he called all the Hollywood elite and the powerful rich liberals a bunch of wussies. His bet is that when things get rough they will run to their mansions until the dust settles. Perhaps they will tweet from inside the safety of their castles their indignation. Time will tell if this "good old boy" is right.

For now, I watch this girl walk away and wonder how her day will be. Who is she?  Who has once loved her, bathed her, set her blanket over her shoulder and kissed her good night? 

I know you are out there. Look carefully at the picture; I didn't want to intrude in her life so I took the shot it from afar. Zoom in and see if she is yours. Come and claim her as the daughter you gave birth to. She is living in a tenth by the I-10 highway. Come for her.

Come to claim your daughter before Sheriff Gung-ho does.

     Every human being I encounter at night and talk to: police officers, homeless, security guards, passerby, leaves me with more and more questions. 

     I look at the tenths, at the faces sleeping inside buses and subway cars and I hear over and over again, the anthem of the inhuman kind: " we are coming for you." 

No empathy. No compassion. No humanity. Just disdain. Hatred. Opportunity.

This is heartbreaking!

a couple of personal anecdotes: 

1

in 2010 when I moved to Los Angeles, I was sitting inside my car at around 10pm at night when a boy, around 10 years old, knocked on my window. I opened and he asked me for money. 10 years old. I gave him money and asked him if he was alone and he pointed to his mother. I opened the door to talk to them and startled them; they ran away. I called the police and reported it and after waiting for them to show up for more than an hour one of the police officers, after explaining the situation with beggars in Los Angeles looked at me and told me: " If you are so worried about these people take them to live in your home" I lost my cool with him and told him that he should do another job because being of service was not his calling. In the end, the kid got $20. I lost my time. And the police officer was a lost soul in a police uniform.

2

My youngest daughter Isabella, 8 years old, would give $5, $10, $20 for every homeless person she saw on our way to the Santa Monica beach. So much so that one day a homeless person recognized her and crossed the street to say hi, and hand her a $5 bill. 

They recognized immediately a soul that understood the plight of being a human being and they loved her.

My 8 year old daughter would have made a great Sheriff.

Snapshots

Los Angeles, 07.06.2021                                                         

Day 6

  A man sleeps on the sidewalk in downtown L.A. Around 5AM.

     A security guard taps on the metal to wake up a sleeping homeless while the other gentleman awaits to wash the sidewalk.           It's morning in downtown L.A.

  

As I cross the street, this young kid sits in the middle of the sidewalk...

...before falling down to sleep.

Another man sleeps on the sidewalk.