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My
sense of smell had definitely been triggered and the first identifying
thought that came to mind was that the place was characterized by the mixed
scents of urine, stogies, incense, and marijuana. So this is Venice Beach?
My second thought was that I should be in my dorm room right now writing a
paper on some antiquated piece of English literary philosophy. But I opted
for Outreach Week…So here I am, Venice Beach, CA. What kind of a place can
be characterized by such an awful smell? The worst kind of evil must be bred
here. Dwayna Litz, the lady I’m with, a petite red-headed native of
Tennessee, directs us to the place where we’ll be setting up our booth and
situating ourselves amid the grime. All I can think about is how dirty I’m
going to get out here. Not dirt dirty, but I’d only been there for fifteen
minutes, and already I was hankering for a nice, hot bath. It was as though
I could feel the yuck of the place. “So how often do you come here?” I ask
Dwayna casually. “Oh, as often as I can,” she says to me half-heartedly in
order to fully turn her attention to a matted-haired, filthy, scrawny
[African American] man she called Abraham. She knew Abraham; he was familiar
to her. [A crazy match in friendship]. We kept walking and the same thing
occurred—It seemed like Dwayna just knew everyone on that beachfront by
name…and they knew her. I remarked about this to her, and she replied with
that southern [accent], “Yeah, you kinda have to show them that you’re
consistent. Because they check you out to make sure you’re real. And they
all know I’m a Christian. Christians come here all the time yelling and
arguing with them…they don’t want that. They want proof.” And that’s what
Dwayna was: proof of the Living God. The day waned on and I grew more at
ease, not comfortable; this was far from comfortable.
Dwayna and I took a walk down the beach, attempting to cultivate any kind of
relationships with these vagabonds, sinners, and revilers. When we finally
returned to the booth, thank the Lord for the umbrella, I began to take more
of an introspective look at myself. I stared at Dwayna in her sunglasses,
red sweater, and gray pants. On any given day you could find her out here
plugging away at her booth, givin’ it all she’s got for the glory of God.
And she stays all day long, sitting here, enduring all kinds of [deprecating
remarks] from these people. I don’t think we talked to one who could speak
without using an explicative every two words or so. The place was rampant
with people whose intellects far surpassed anything I’d seen because all
they’ve got is time—so all they do is think. They cultivate ideas. They work
through them, perfect them, and then wait in stealth for little unsuspecting
snooty-faced kids like me who think they’ve got the truth. They wait for me
and my kind to come over and whoop and holler and then with the most
resounding quiet [demeanor], they rattle my cage, my entire established
lifetime’s worth of invested belief system and shake me to my knees. And I
think, “What did I really come here for? What did I think I knew?” You can’t
waltz out here in the field with some preconceived prejudiced notion that
you’re gonna alter the face of life for an entire group of people who’ve
been living in it, recycling it, and sucking it up for probably longer than
I’ve been breathing! “Who am I?!!” I was incredulous. And so I sat pensive,
watching Dwayna, learning even then that I must learn from her. So I watched
her watch them. I watched her size them up, learning who she talked to, what
she said depending on what individual. I looked at her face, studied the
corners of her mouth; there was no fear there, no angst, no upset, no worry,
no pride, hate, disdain—instead she walked the beach like she lived there
too…like it was hers—with a step so resolute, an air so calm, her voice was
understanding, and her hands loving. She touched them! She touched them…So I
touched them too. And I spoke to them, and smiled at them, and hugged them,
and gave of my goods. I walked in that filth and realized that I was that
filth once, and when I harbored the thoughts I had upon entering [like a
self-righteous dog], I returned to my own vomit. When we packed up and
walked by the last vendor that evening I took a deep breath, inhaling the
[smell of urine], and cigars, and booze, and pot. But when I breathed back
into the face of Venice Beach, I exhaled love.
Keturah Landrum, Master’s College Student, Santa Clarita, CA
