The View from Here:
Reflections on My Second Summer at USC
Lynne K. Fukuda
Distance Learning Specialist
University of Hawaii at Hilo
lfukuda@hawaii.edu
I looked forward to my second summer experience at the University of Southern California (USC) campus. It was an ocean and world away from the satellite campus in Hawaii. In my first year, I fell in love at first sight. But like all first loves, I was sent off into a dream-like state. I was oblivious to the violence, the turmoil, the poverty, and unrest of a metropolitan center. And yet, it was pre-9/11. Soon after that fateful event, the nations were never the same again. The bad memories of that world-changing event swept across America, and eventually even shook the foundations of my happy home in Los Angeles (LA). USC was not an island of safety or of satisfaction. The rumblings of unrest vibrated throughout the campus.
An incident at USC's Waite Phillips Hall brought fear into the hearts of many women who worked and studied there and created an atmosphere of dread and instability. A female student was assaulted in the restroom of a secured building after hours. The assailant was not from USC. We were no longer a safe haven from the going ons of South Central LA. There were no solid gate, no guard dogs, and no strict policy to protect all of us, but we were brought back to reality.
This incident taught us that there is no safe academic institution; we are microcosms of the real world. There is poverty beyond the gates of the school, where a few homeless individuals linger, reminding us, like angels of death, that we are not very far from homelessness and despair. Only a salary and good health keeps the rest of us functioning and off the streets. Even in Hawaii, where I am from, the homeless and unemployed spread despair. We wonder if we can pay the rent, if we have enough food to eat, if we can care for our own children, and if we can remain in Hawaii, where the cost-of-living is so high.
I tried to cope with the despair of the real world by giving alms, as I was raised to do during my childhood in a Catholic country. I tried to pray weekly at the school chapel for forgiveness of my own sins and for the health and happiness of those who were less fortunate than myself. But there was very little relief in this. Every homeless person on the streets of LA plunged a knife into my heart. Filled with a constant guilt, I wondered: "Why must I eat so well while other do not? Why must I have nice clothes when other do not? Why must I be privileged when others are not?"
Whenever I am in LA, I have very little interest in food. The medications I take for my breathing problems and for insomnia rob me of the pleasure of eating. I am surrounded by wonderfully good food, but eat like a pauper. I sat at In-and-Out Burger without touching my food and then gave it to a homeless man upon the suggestion of a friend.
At another time, I tried further to alleviate the pain by striking up
a conversation with a homeless black woman who hid her face in shame and
waited for a compassionate soul to give her something to eat. She neither
begged nor spoke, but I knew how alone she was. On a cold night, I saw
her warming her hands and gave her my drink.
"Here, please drink this, I still
have a lot left," I said, handing her my fruit punch.
She was holding an empty drink cup.
"Oh, no. I had some already," she answered, in a quiet, unassuming
voice. I could not see her face, for it was hidden by the hood of her
jacket, but I knew she wanted to hear a voice.
"Please," I said, "It
is very good." I was a poor student, and my summer at USC had strained
my finances, but I was in much better shape than this poor soul who paced
the sidewalk near the University Village Mall.
Then, as darkness fell, I went back
to her and handed her a dollar. "Please take this. It's not very
much, but maybe you could get something to eat," I said, knowing
somehow that a decent meal would have to come from another contribution
by another compassionate soul passing her way.
"Bless you, dear," the woman
said, "Do you smoke? I have some cigarettes."
I shook my head in response. I did
not smoke. "Thank you," I replied.
My evening was warm again, having
spoken to a soul. I could not tell her how much I was like her, filled
with devastating sadness and hopelessness at times, and yet, with a glimmer
of hope that perhaps the next day would bring something a little better.
I went shopping, feeling alone, and depressed by the sadness that blanketed
my beloved city. It was indeed a century away from 9/11, when many hard-working
people moved with the vitality of the big city. LA moved with the energy
of a newer city--ever changing, ever growing, and getting better as time
passed by. The homeless problem was always there. I saw the homeless black
woman on the way to the market. I bought a gift for a friend and a bouquet
of pink carnations. I saw yogurt cups on sale and bought some. When I
found the woman again, I took a stalk of carnations from my bunch and
gave it to her, along with some yogurt.
"I have some yogurt, but no spoon,"
I murmured, "I hope you don't mind."
"Bless you, dear," she said,
smiling, "Bless your heart."
I felt blessed then, more than by
prayers in church.
"Just take care of yourself,"
I said, tears welling up in my eyes. I was filled with a sense of relief
that I was not a do-gooder but reaching out to another in need, and the
one in need was comforting me as well in my grief.
I believe no matter how strange or how terrible homeless people are to see, they must be treated with respect. It does not matter whether they are mentally incapacitated or vagrants or ex-druggies; they are humans, all the same. I believe we all go through a period in our long lives when we are homeless, in a sense--belonging to no one and to nowhere.
The woman finally looked at me from behind the hood of her jacket, showing me her warm and mysterious brown eyes. I saw an angel in disguise. In my most desperate moments, I knew that as long as I tried to reach out to another in pain, the pain of both of us lessens--even if it is only for a moment.
The cool wind was no more, and I felt the sun warm her face and mine
in the afternoon light. For a brief moment, we were just neighbors sharing
food, as I do with my friends in Hawaii. I felt happy for that fleeting
period when a chat and a smile could bring gladness.
"If I become homeless someday,
I hope someone will take the time to be kind to me," I said to myself.
And for that small amount of time, I found the LA I loved a year ago,
a place where there was hope and gladness for all who came to the city.
It was strange that a homeless woman had brought me a moment of happiness.
But like the little match girl who dreams of happiness lay in the short
span of a burning match, I knew that my dreams too would fade. My hope
for social justice and happiness for all people, the American dream, would
fly away with the smog and dust of LA.
I am still very sad to see LA changed in the course of less than a year, and yet, I love LA, as I always will, and plan to keep the memories of my special place--with the graffiti, the gangs, the violence, the homelessness, and poverty of a great city. More than within the walls of an academic institution, I learned about LA and the society in which we exist. I learned that it is at once unfair to many, and yet, falls into pieces of a great puzzle that we call life. Someday, perhaps, I will understand why we are not all blessed in the same way in our lifetimes, but until then, I will not close my eyes to the injustices of our society. If we truly cared, we could make changes in the world and not suffer in sadness and in pain, for when there is unrest, poverty, and inequality, there will always be despair.
Academic Exchange Extra invites reader responses to any writings in this issue--especially articles advancing the scholarly debate of issues raised.
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