Tengo comido para ti
I once traveled to Kenya’s Maasai Mara and journeyed through untamed backroads in a hatch-top jeep. Home to Africa’s Maasai and Kalenjin tribes, its alternate universe of remote villages flew past as I inhaled a combination of exhaust, dust, and bewilderment. In less than 48 hours, I’d traveled not only across the globe but back in time.
No running water. No electricity. The nearest health clinic ten miles away on foot. With each tribal community I passed, I wondered:
How could we possibly live on the same planet at the same time yet lead such divergent lives?
This question hummed and buzzed and whirred in my mind throughout that trip, and last week, it reemerged during my visit to the neighborhood of Chollas Creek.
After making a few uneventful food deliveries for Project-19, I arrived at a nondescript building on Altadena Avenue. At a distance, it resembled most of the faded but sturdy apartment homes I visit. But as I rounded the corner with box in arms, I discovered a ramshackle tenement that reeked of despair and an overflowing dumpster.
Weathered and twisted corrugated metal formed makeshift roofs. Sand-filled trash bags plugged leaks made evident on the stained concrete. Crushed Aquafina bottles seemingly sprung from the dirt alongside clumps of chickweed. My heart sunk at the sight of this blighted place and pounded at the fearsome sound of barking dogs within it.
Dogs were ever-present in Chollas Creek. Enormous bullmastiffs, restrained only by the grace of a chain-link fence, gnashed their teeth as I walked by. Sopranino chihuahuas bounced high into the air like furry pogo sticks upon seeing me. An unyielding and angry chorus of dogs added to an atmosphere of palpable suspicion in Chollas Creek. Fences and gates and iron bars and snarling dogs greeted me everywhere I went.
Yet nothing I’d seen in Chollas Creek was like the building on Altadena Avenue. Still holding the grocery box, I climbed the dilapidated wooden steps to Apartment #6. As I approached, two agitated dachshunds on the porch insistently summoned their owner, a middle-aged Latina woman.
“Tengo comido para ti,” I said to her in my rather clumsy Spanish. “I have groceries for you.”
The woman gave me a puzzled look, shook her head, and replied en español. I had little idea what she said owing to my foolish choice to study German in high school. But after showing her my route sheet with Apartment #6 written on it, we realized what had happened. Hers was Apartment #9, which now looked like #6 after detaching on one end and hanging upside down. She pointed me in the right direction and down the stairs I went, much to the delight of her dachshunds.
To reach the real Apartment #6, I trod down a sloped alleyway strewn with discarded chairs, scraps of warped plywood, and more empty Aquafina bottles. With every door I passed, another barking dog joined the thunderous fray. Gingerly, I climbed a set of rotted wooden steps to the actual Apartment #6, expecting to fall through at any moment. At the landing, lost amid a broken walker and crushed Pacifico beer cans, a forlorn potted bamboo plant caught my eye. Surrounded by neglect, the spindly green stalk reached high in the air, determined to find the light.
When no one answered the doorbell, I left the package and I resumed my route, thoroughly disconcerted by the experience. Again, I wondered: How could we possibly live on the same planet at the same time yet lead such divergent lives? For that matter, how could we live in the same city at the same time yet lead such divergent lives?
The answers leave me aching but unresigned.
Friends ask if I am scared of the neighborhoods I serve and I answer without hesitation: I am not afraid; I’m grateful. Grateful for the chance to make a small difference. Grateful for the wake-up calls I receive each time. And grateful for new questions that join the hum and buzz and whir in my mind.
======
Epilogue:
I’ve reported the living conditions I encountered to JFS San Diego and the City of San Diego Housing Commission. With any luck, the tenants will see improvements and the landlord will get what he deserves. And may the residents of Altadena Avenue reach high in the air, determined to find the light.
