Appeal for the New Year

Each day in many small ways, we find ourselves being sources of hope for those in need on the Coast to help them find courage in hard times and, maybe in the process, just a little bit of peace. Immigrant, homeless, senior citizen, stranded, hungry, unable to speak English...these are some of the many faces of need in our community, need we try to respond to every day (except Thursday, our date day).

Because people need a bicycle for transportation or a tank of gas or a ride to an appointment over the hill or a bed for the night or help with the rent, or because they want to practice English or get help filling out immigration forms, or maybe because they are just looking for someone to talk to, the phone and doorbell of our home ring like a popular business. But we are not a business. Nor are we an organization or an agency. There is no umbrella Catholic Worker organization to send us money to pay the bills or help with our work. We are only a handful of people trying to make a difference, one life at a time or one family at a time.

We provide simple band-aid solutions to some of the most heartbreaking struggles of the human condition. It seems we often fall short. When the day is over and the lights go out, we know that we will wake up to the same problems the next day because the marginalized on the Coast will be waking up to the same problems in their lives.

There are a lot of good people trying to do a lot of good work on the Coast. Unfortunately, there is more need than what is being met. We do what we can and find ourselves most often helping those who don't "qualify" for assistance from traditional charities and governmental agencies. The local designated core agency charged with providing governmental assistance to those in need has in its mission statement that they help the working poor. Unfortunately, many more poor on the Coast are not working for a variety of reasons and, thus, cannot get any significant help. (For example, more and more we are seeing injured folks in the 20s, 30s and 40s who can't work in their old standbys of agriculture, floriculture and construction but vocational rehabilitation isn't happening.) No job. No prospects. No help. No future.

Amazingly, however, the folks who make their way to us almost always still have hope. We see it in their eyes. We hear it in their voices. We feel it in our hearts. When we offer a hand we also offer our humanity and that's why we have been an important presence on the Coast for almost seven years. (Can you believe it's been that long?)

Our personalism...how we see a problem, enter into it and try to help solve it without getting caught up in the bureaucracy of "the system"...leaves us open to getting burned at times but, more importantly, opens us up to be able to touch the human spirit. We are humbled that we have been invited to join in the struggle and honored to do so.

We are supported mostly by you and people like you. A handful of grants from private foundations have helped us purchase resources for English language learning, but it's the checks from individuals and support from local and area religious congregations of many faiths that enable us to pay our bills each month and offer help to those who come seeking it.

We are grateful for the many people who join with us in helping those who come to us in hard times. Thank you for being a holy family with us to give them hope and courage. We humbly ask for your continued support.

Blessings of Peace in the new year from all of us at Magdalene House and the Coastside Catholic Worker!

Un Día Sin Inmigrantes

In the wee hours of the morning, a handful of people gathered on the southside of Highway 92. Waving mostly American flags and holding signs with slogans such as “No Human Is Illegal”, “Dignity For All” and “We Are America”, the small sleepy crowd grew in number and enthusiasm as dawn gave way to an uncharacteristicly sun-drenched day on the Coast and the morning commute drug on. It soon became apparent that the day would be no ordinary one.

Practically everyone heading over the hill from the Coast Monday morning saw it. Perhaps traffic slowed a tiny bit because of it. Yet few seemed to mind. It was “Un Día Sin Inmigrantes”, (A Day Without Immigrants), a national day of boycott and action to celebrate the contributions immigrants make to American society. While thousands gathered in major metropolitan areas nationwide, immigrants and supporters in Half Moon Bay also served as a reminder that we are a nation of immigrants. What the local gathering lacked in numbers compared with the events in big cities, it more than made up for in heart with a pleasant mix of love for their new country and pride in the culture from where they came.

“I love America,” protestor Martin said, holding a flag from his adopted country. “That’s why I raising my family here.” He and his young daughter were just two faces in the tapestry that made up the morning rally...young and old...men and women...Mexican and “gringo”...citizens, legal residents and undocumented.

It was a sight to behold! A transformation was taking place. In front of the entire coastside, thousands of whom expressed their support through smiles, honks, waves and enthusiastic thumbs up, a community walked out of the shadows in which they had been living and lifted their heads high into the sunlight. The occasional obscene gesture or derogatory comment tossed their way only served to lift spirits higher. “Grab onto that negative energy and turn it into positive,” urged one woman.

The protest, organized over the weekend, was scheduled to take place only between 6:30 and 8:30 a.m. As the morning passed, however, the crowd became energized and few wanted to walk away from the moment. Up until 10:30, people were still arriving to lend their support. Over 150 people took part in the organized rally between 6:30 and 10:30, coming and going as their work and family responsibilities dictated. The rally then gave way to a march with several dozen making their way down Main Street to the mostly supportive honks of the downtown traffic. Continuing on Kelly Avenue and then Highway 1, the march picked up more walkers and a police escort.

Isolated by geography, even more so with the recent closure of Devil’s Slide, few would argue that the economy of the San Mateo County coast is not affected by immigrant labor. The local floraculture, agriculture and fishing industries rely on it as does the service industry. If you eat out on the Coast, chances are that your meal was prepared and/or served by somebody from Latin America.

The morning's rally was covered by ABC7 News and we all laid claim to our 15 seconds of fame when they included the footage on the 11 a.m. newscast. I took the video over to friends Jose and Sulema Villalobos who had invited us over to their house for lunch with their extended family. We all gathered around the TV to watch, exhausted by the early morning hours spent on our feet but it was a good tiredness as we reveled in how the Mexican community found their voice. It was odd to relax and spend time with friends on a non-weekend day, enjoying the sunshine, good conversation and laughter.

Mid-afternoon, we headed back to Magdalene House and I prepared for the three English classes I teach every Monday. Mike got a phone call as I was heading out to the first one in the late afternoon. A crowd was gathering again and the folks wanted the signs we had gathered up after the morning rally. Mike later told me that about 500 people marched the streets of Half Moon Bay for three hours. Amazing!

Tuesday will be business as usual on the Coast but, in the hearts of many local immigrants, the swelling of pride in finding their voice in their new country will continue. “My family...we love it here in Half Moon Bay,” another protestor José told me. “This is our home.”

The Palm Sunday That Wasn't...for the Mexicans

We've always liked the Misa de Palmas, the Spanish mass on Palm Sunday at Our Lady of the Pillar Church in Half Moon Bay. Everyone gathers outside the church. Palm fronds in abundance are distributed to everyone and held out to be blessed by the presiding priest with Holy Water. Then everyone processes into the church, some waving their palms in commemoration of Jesus' triumphal entry into Jerusalem. Some quickly weave their palms into ornate decorations such as crosses or other figures. Others wait until they get home. These sacred crafts...even the palm fronds themselves...are an important sacramental, displayed prominently throughout the homes for the next year. It's a Christian tradition from churches and denominations throughout the world on this day. I belive it holds a particularly special meaning for those from Latin American traditions...a reminder of how the people are close to the land...a symbol of respect and rootedness felt for a culture and religion still embraced, even though many are at least one border away from home.

Today was a sad day because the scene was much different. With only a handful of palms to distribute to the standing-room-only crowd, most went home without. There was no joyous procession into the church...only an apology from the priest who did his best to salvage the event. Had he not grabbed the few palms left over from Mass at one of the mission churches, there would have been no palms for the Spanish Mass.

Many Mexican people expressed their dismay to us following the Mass. We felt their disappointment, but were helpless to reclaim a sacred ceremony...a sacramental moment.

Was it poor planning on the part of the parish? Maybe the closing of Devil's Slide between here and Pacifica on Highway 1 had something to do with it. After all, the numerous families who have given up on this parish and now worship at either St. Peter or Good Shepherd in Pacifica can't get to the other side of the hill very easily anymore. Maybe the road's closure swelled the number of worshippers at OLP. Even if that were the case, couldn't the palms have been more evenly distributed between the various Masses? Then the Mexican people wouldn't have been relegated to the position of second-class parishioners...again.

The Ties That Bind

I heard a soft knock on the door. "Pásale!" I hollered out and glanced up from my work. Martin, the oldest teenager living with us, poked his head through the door and smiled faintly.

"I don't know how to tie this. Can you help?" he said holding a tie out to me.

"Uh oh," I thought to myself. Mike is gone to Las Vegas for the weekend at the Lenten Desert Experience and I have never tied a tie before in my entire life. I followed Martin upstairs. His parents (in photo to the right), uncle and aunt were all in the living room. Not one knew the least bit about tying a tie. Neither of the men had ever worn one. We were in a bit of a quandary and time was running short. Martin had to be at the high school in 15 minutes to catch the van from the Boys and Girls Club that would drive him, his date and friends into San Francisco for their Senior Prom.

After only a moment's hesitation, I signaled Martin to follow me. We ran next door and rang the bell of our neighbors, hoping that one of them would be home to help. Tie Tying 101 ensued and, after a couple trial and error attempts, Martin was ready, thanks to Jim, Valerie and Stevie.

Getting a tie tied probably doesn't seem like too big of a deal, but to a young boy heading off to his Senior Prom and his parents, all from an impoverished rural area of Mexico, it means the world. It is a symbol of where he and his family have been...and where they are going. In his few short years here in the U.S., Martin has earned a 3.7 GPA, has learned English, tutors math at Cunha Middle School and will graduate from high school this June. He is headed off to college this Fall with dreams of being a teacher.

Neighbors helping to tie that tie is a small example of how no one gets anywhere or achieves anything alone. We are all in this together, and Martin would be the first to agree. Like that tie, we are all bound together...past, present and future.

"Have fun!" Valerie and Stevie called after Martin as he bounded down their steps. "We are!" I grinned to myself.

No Shelter in the Storm

The slosh of the windshield wipers has been a constant in March. Nearly every time I get behind the wheel, it has been raining. So much rain, in fact, that I alternate between two waterproof (sort of) jackets. Throughout March, one has usually been hanging up drying in front of the heater while I wear the other. This particular March has been the rainiest since 1904 in the San Francisco Bay Area, with more than 20 days of rain everywhere and at least 7 inches.

Today was no exception. I got a call this morning from one of our local homeless guys. He was calling for a friend, looking for a motel voucher for a transient man. They were at the laudramat and agreed to meet me at Magdalene House. I hung up the phone and called the local motel to see if there was a vacancy. Since there is no shelter on the Coast, we rely on a voucher program where we can give a night or two in emergency situations...but only if there is "room at the inn." The desk clerk informed me that they were booked up tonight. I got in the van to try to find the guys so they wouldn't waste their time and energy walking all the way down Kelly Avenue to our house. A few blocks up the street, I pulled over.

I was greeted with smiles. Both men were soaked. Their jackets had long since given up on being water-repellant. Their clothes stuck to their skin. As we talked, the rain dumped on us. I apologized for not being able to provide them shelter from tonight's harsh elements. To me, my words rang hollow. As we talked, an SUV... the driver perhaps impatient that I was sorta blocking the traffic lane (there is no parking on this particular portion of Kelly Avenue) ... accelerated and roared past, apparently unconcerned that the vehicle splashed us. The guys appeared not to notice.

I dug in my pocket and fished out a handful of quarters. A warm shower at the state beach at the end of Kelly Avenue costs a quarter for 3 minutes. The man who is "just passing through" grinned and thanked me, even though he would have to put on cold, soaking wet clothes after he lavished in a warm shower.

"Shelter the homeless." That's what we are instructed to do in Matthew 25 of Christian scripture. I failed miserably at this admonition today, which strengthens my resolve to help make something happen. While I don't foresee a shelter opening on the Coast any time soon, we continue to seek a motor home as we have for the past couple years. On days like today, fit for "neither man nor beast" and with no room at the inn, it could provide a refuge for those with no other place to go.

The Runaway

My ten-and-a-half month niece is in the hospital for the umpteenth time in her young life, so I planned on driving to Campbell Sunday morning to see her and her family. The best laid plans...

I let our dog One Way (pictured here relaxing with Mike) out in the backyard when I got up, then jumped in the shower and got ready. It was going to be a quick trip (it's a 45-minute drive each way) because we had a busy day ahead. I was going to take One Way with me because he loves car trips and hanging out with me. Plus, the parking lot at the hospital is covered so he wouldn't get overheated on this extremely rare sunny day day this March. One Way had other plans for the day.

When I opened the back door and called him, there was no response. He was gone. Upon inspection, we discovered a hole in our fence. We immediately sprung into search mode, uncertain how long he had been gone. We began scouring the neighborhood and the beach. I was in a mild panic because One Way didn't have his collar on. If someone found him, there would be no way to locate us.

About an hour into the search, Mike and I met up at home. We were frustrated and helpless, uncertain what to do next, so Mike did the dishes (I think he was trying to take his mind off the worry) and I prepared a "Lost Pet" flyer to post around the neighborhood. Then we recruited guests Martin and Manuel to help in the search.

I dropped a flyer off at the Andreotti Family Farm produce stand down the street and bemoaned our situation with owner Terri, a sympathetic fellow dog lover, who promised to show the poster to all her customers. She suggested I drop one off at the office of the state beach, so I did. Then I headed back up the street. As I was posting one of the flyers on a telephone pole near Hatch School on Kelly Avenue, the truck from the Humane Society pulled up. The woman asked if I was "looking for a lost friend." I said I was and she told me she was headed to the beach because she got a call about "a little guy wearing a Harley shirt." I thanked her and headed back to the beach. Enroute, my cell phone rang. It was Terri from the produce stand alerting me that SPCA was headed for the beach. (No one has a pulse on the neighborhood better than Terri!)

I got to the ranger station and was led to a rusty metal cage. Our little guy was trembling with excitement and showered me with kisses when I scooped him up into my arms. Apparently, One Way has turned himself in. He had been "on the lam", got tired from his adventures, couldn't find his way home and wandered toward the only building he saw.

Our whole household was relieved. After returning to remove all the flyers posted up and down the street, One Way and I stopped by to personally thank Terri for her help. We made it home in time for the birthday party for one of our guests who had just turned 4. The 3-hour detour from our plans reminded me that, no matter how much I try, I really have no control over my days. That's okay. Life is an adventure! (My niece is doing fine, by the way. I never made it down to see her. I can't make it tomorrow because I have English classes to teach but I hope to make it on Tuesday if she is still in the hospital.)

Finally...

Our website has been up for awhile and I set up this blog about a year ago as a journal of sorts to keep you updated on the goings on of the Coastside Catholic Worker. I just never made the time to keep it updated. Well...here we go!

Welcome to COAST-ing!

The word conjures images of doing something effortlessly. This concept is such an antithesis of what we are all about. Some people coast through life...no struggle, no problems. This has seldom been the case for me or for us as a couple or for the people we serve. Poor people don't coast. Immigrants in this environment of anti-immigrant sentiment don't coast.

Because we live here on the coast of San Mateo County in California, just south of San Francisco, just a few houses from the ocean, coasting has come to take on a new meaning. For us, coasting is to live, breathe, laugh, cry, celebrate and struggle in Half Moon Bay where our house is located and in the small communities that make up this region. Coasting is to mesh our lives with those of the people we serve...those who are marginalized...and those who join with us in our efforts to make our little corner of the world just a little bit better, from Montara north to Pescadero south.

A lot is going on in the day-to-day existance of Magdalene House, our Catholic Worker ministry and our new project, CASA de Esperanza. This is the place to keep updated and aware. Welcome to our lives!