Letter to Benoît-Joseph Labre

Why do I do this? Why do I head out to town on Monday nights to visit tent cities, why do I seek out the drifters loitering at the street corners? Why do I press a dinner into their hands so insistently, when they have not pestered me for it? Why do I seek out their company?

I have no answer. At least, I have no good answer. I look into my own heart and find no saintly motivation. Beneath my involvement in the Labre programme is a veritable hodgepodge of basal instincts and emotions, the same as those who govern all of the rest of my decisions. Though I have in the back of my head an awareness that Jesus and/or the Pope have at various points exhorted the rich to help the poor, these other emotions are presented to me with such immediacy that they threaten to drive me fucking insane, if I were not to act on them.

What are they?

FEAR

Some time in Summer 2012, I hopped off a ferry at Tallinn. The first person who greeted my arrival at Estonia was a drifter. And he pestered me: do you not have two euros on you? Do you not have five euros on you?

This was when I was a helpless intern in Helsinki. I travelled often, usually alone. I felt vulnerable all the three months of that stay. I relied entirely on dumb luck and goodwill navigating countries where no one spoke my language well. But this man, he spoke English. He was like me.

He WAS ME

I imagined myself in the event of a botched journey across the Baltics, losing all my stuff and having to beg for euros at the Port of Tallinn in perfect English.

I gave him the euros of course. I wanted people to be giving me euros in the unlikely but not impossible scenario where that happens. 

And even though in Ottawa (much later) I had been able to wait for my paperwork with a roof over my head, I felt very much among the homeless, with whom I spent long afternoons in the public libraries, and blended in with them.

TERROR

I moved to Cleveland in April 2019. This would be a year-long contract which would see extensions to 2 1/2 years. The so-called honeymoon period of one who comes to live in a spanking new country in this case lasted approximately 0d 0h 0min 0s. I am immediately overtaken with a sense of oppressive dread and constant terror about Cleveland (and the United States by extension) which lasted many months. Let me explain why this was the case:

1. It has been a habit for my parents to remind me to do my research on the "good" and "bad" parts of town before I went to any place in the United States, having lived in Inland WA and Downstate NY in the 1980s and experienced many close brushes with death and tragedy, all of which they delighted in sharing with us in the particularly dark and stormy nights.

2. While I dutifully "did my own research" for Cleveland, online commentators who obviously knew what they were talking about assured me that basically all of Cleveland is fucked-zone and I am guaranteed to be murdered 4 times in a year just for showing up.

3. Because of these reassuring findings, I looked on everyone around me with suspicion. I was on guard all of the time. I peered over my shoulder once per three steps. I imagined every small conflict escalating into dead people on the streets. I still had to take 30 minute commutes to school by bus.

Every little snag in bureaucratic processes sent me reeling in PANIC

LUST

This section is meant to be an amusing interlude. I had a passing fancy for a woman on a Facebook group. I confided in her in the TERROR of living in Cleveland, America's poorest large city.

She asked me in reply, doesn't the church have anything in place to help with it?

Roughly one year later, I found the answer, long after the conversation had moved on to other things (it didn't work out between us).

SPITE

The American home is a fortress. Inside this fortress, opulence, abundance; things bought and never used; an artefact here and there that pleads to the visitor: I do this awesome thing, when that thing was never and will never be done. Blasted lies.

Outside the fortress, the poor, the desperate, the dying

They are not for show. They are not fiction. They haunt all my hangouts. If I reach out my trembling hand, I could touch their broken, bloody faces. I could hear their pathetic pleadings, how terribly they pled!

This is the American Dream. People change out of their baptismal names at Ellis Island for this. People bake to death crossing the Sonoran Desert. For this!

I was so consumed with rage that I became unable to sleep, because people who thought themselves upright and good allowed this to happen, and persist in happening. It extended to the entire culture of American suburbia. It extended even to my friends, who came of age as part of that culture.

I watched what they did in life, and out of spite resolved to myself to do the exact opposite.

VIOLENCE

I overheard this at the airport at Charlotte:

Careful! There are some BAD PEOPLE around here!

I began taking self-defense lessons at gym out of this fear, although once I had reached a certain measure of aptitude in rearranging people's facial features, the fear automatically left me; and in its place came a certain unwarranted swagger, and the self-assured conviction that I would more likely be the dealer of grievous injury than a victim of it.

I set out to explore the poorest parts of Cleveland, emboldened by my newfound capacity for violence. I became familiar with its roads, then I began patronizing their businesses, then I went to their churches.

The most beautiful churches of Cleveland and its best-made chicken tenders are mounted like jewels in the poorest parts of town, in among the "bad people".

PEER PRESSURE

As a rebuke to the section before the previous one, there turned out to be people among my friends who were kindred spirits, especially where helping the poor is concerned. I was introduced to the Labre organization and community service through their good example. I will name names.

Shortly before I left Singapore I learned JOSEPH KOK, DAVID YEE and friends have conducted outreach to the homeless, staying with them over Friday nights at 24-hour McDonalds branches. I remembered them on my food drives.

The journalistic team of the PLAIN DEALER did a consultation with the public at Cleveland Heights Public Library (Lee Road Branch). I met a lady there whose name I have forgotten. Her deal was that she collected and gave out children's books for inner city households up and down the East Side. She surprised me by being very much alive.

(One year later, in 2020, the publication would be run aground in a devious union-busting putsch, leading to the sacking of many a fine journalist whom I had met on that day.)

An unknown young woman was spied in February 2020 in Cambridge (England), doting on a vagabond. She wore a vest with a logo which I can no longer recall. (edit of 23 Nov 2021: the organization is called Streetbite Cambridge)

I first heard of the Labre programme from GRÉGOIRE MICZKA, who attended Lectio Divina in 2019-2020, and also participated in Labre.

REGINA and ROBERT SINGERLINE volunteer at the West Side Catholic Center for women seeking shelter from abusive households. They roped me in as an extra pair of hands one random winter evening.

The plucky undergrads who run Labre are too numerous to name individually, but I am especially impressed by JONATHAN OCKUNZZI, Cleveland native, who knows every street corner and has a sharp eye for people who could use a meal.

Brother Larry and the team of ST. HERMAN HOUSE OF HOSPITALITY (Orthobros establishment). This is an establishment for homeless men. The entourage is a spectacle of surly, rough-riding characters who all looked like they could casually snap your spine. Brother Larry, their ringleader, is old, frail and half their height, creating a hilarious contrast when they stood together. They greet me and the others with nothing but warmth and smiles, and said we are welcome anytime to "come cut bread". Brother Larry gave us a tour of the chapel and iconostasis. They sell honey in the winter.

JOHN NIEDZIALEK picks garbage from the streets around St. Casimir for an hour every week. He did so quietly and thanklessly, except for one time, when he made a news feature.

LONELINESS

Friends of Case Labre come and go. Sometimes they find a permanent shelter. Other times they die. But mostly they fall off the face of the earth, leaving us uneasily in the lurch. Fortunately for us, one or two have become our regulars, and might even be able to recognize a returning participant.

In Fall last year I went on a run with Jason Choi. At St. Malachi's we ran into a guy who recognized my face, but I did not recognize his. We bumped a fist. I had not met a new person for many months, and relished this random encounter for a long time.

Now even though I am due to leave in a month, I have grown accustomed to the people and landscapes of Cleveland. I could almost call it home. I have given up (with difficulty) living in fear of the other and what they variously call "the poors" or "bad people". I learned that generosity springs forth naturally when such a thing is taken care of.

Benoît-Joseph Labre of Amettes, patron saint of hobos, prenez pitié, priez pour nous.

Despite my best efforts, I remain only vaguely aware that your intercession and the might of Lord Jesus have had a hand in the tangled mess that is my inner life. I should remain thankful in any case.

29 August 2021, Cleveland

Picutre credit: Wellcome Library, London

The Confession of Alessandro Serenelli, 1961

I'm nearly 80 years old. I'm about to depart.

Looking back at my past, I can see that in my early youth, I chose a bad path which led me to ruin myself.

My behavior was influenced by print, mass-media and bad examples which are followed by the majority of young people without even thinking. And I did the same. I was not worried.

There were a lot of generous and devoted people who surrounded me, but I paid no attention to them because a violent force blinded me and pushed me toward a wrong way of life.

When I was 20 years-old, I committed a crime of passion. Now, that memory represents something horrible for me. Maria Goretti, now a Saint, was my good Angel, sent to me through Providence to guide and save me. I still have impressed upon my heart her words of rebuke and of pardon. She prayed for me, she interceded for her murderer. Thirty years of prison followed.

If I had been of age, I would have spent all my life in prison. I accepted to be condemned because it was my own fault.

Little Maria was really my light, my protectress; with her help, I behaved well during the 27 years of prison and tried to live honestly when I was again accepted among the members of society. The Brothers of St. Francis, Capuchins from Marche, welcomed me with angelic charity into their monastery as a brother, not as a servant. I've been living with their community for 24 years, and now I am serenely waiting to witness the vision of God, to hug my loved ones again, and to be next to my Guardian Angel and her dear mother, Assunta.

I hope this letter that I wrote can teach others the happy lesson of avoiding evil and of always following the right path, like little children. I feel that religion with its precepts is not something we can live without, but rather it is the real comfort, the real strength in life and the only safe way in every circumstance, even the most painful ones of life.

Alessandro Serenelli, May 5, 1961

--- original Italian text ---

Sono vecchio di quasi 80 anni, prossimo a chiudere la mia giornata.

Dando uno sguardo al passato, riconosco che nella mia prima giovinezza infilai una strada falsa: la via del male che mi condusse alla rovina. Vedevo attraverso la stampa, gli spettacoli e i cattivi esempi che la maggior parte dei giovani segue quella via, senza darsi pensiero: ed io pure non me ne preoccupai. Persone credenti e praticanti le avevo vicino a me, ma non ci badavo, accecato da una forza bruta che mi sospingeva per una strada cattiva. Consumai a vent’anni il delitto passionale, del quale oggi inorridisco al solo ricordo. Maria Goretti, ora santa, fu l’angelo buono che la Provvidenza aveva messo avanti ai miei passi. Ho impresse ancora nel cuore le sue parole di rimprovero e di perdono. Pregò per me, intercedette per me, suo uccisore.
 
Seguirono trent’anni di prigione. Se non fossi stato minorenne, sarei stato condannato a vita. Accettai la sentenza meritata; rassegnato espiai la mia colpa.

Maria fu veramente la mia luce, la mia Protettrice; col suo aiuto mi diportai bene e cercai di vivere onestamente, quando la società mi riaccettò tra i suoi membri. I figli di San Francesco, i Minori Cappuccini delle Marche, con carità serafica mi hanno accolto fra loro non come un servo, ma come fratello. Con loro vivo dal 1936.
 
Ed ora aspetto sereno il momento di essere ammesso alla visione di Dio, di riabbracciare i miei cari, di essere vicino al mio angelo protettore e alla sua cara mamma, Assunta.

Coloro che leggeranno questa mia lettera vogliano trarre il felice insegnamento di fuggire il male, di seguire il bene, sempre, fin da fanciulli. Pensino che la religione coi suoi precetti non è una cosa di cui si può fare a meno, ma è il vero conforto, la unica via sicura in tutte le circostanze, anche le più dolorose della vita.

Pace e bene!

The Saint named Sophia

The Wisdom of God cries aloud,
The Lord created me when his purpose first unfolded,
before the oldest of his works.
From everlasting I was firmly set,
from the beginning, before earth came into being.
The deep was not, when I was born,
there were no springs to gush with water.
Before the mountains were settled,
before the hills, I came to birth;
before he made the earth, the countryside,
or the first grains of the world's dust.

When he fixed the heavens firm, I was there,
when he drew a ring on the surface of the deep,
when he thickened the clouds above,
when he fixed fast the springs of the deep,
when he assigned the sea its boundaries
and the waters will not invade the shore --
when he laid down the foundations of the earth,
I was by his side, a master craftsman,
delighting him day after day,
ever at play in his presence,
at play everywhere in his world,
delighting to be with the sons of men.

-- Proverbs 8:22-31
(The Jerusalem Bible)

Saint Brendan and the Whale on Easter

Saint Brendan and the Whale on Easter

60 x 45 cm / Acrylic on canvas

That night, a few monks slept in the boat and the rest slept on the island. Next morning, the crew decided to cook some of the raw meat for the supplies. They lit a fire of the driftwood on the island and to their horror and amazement the island moved. At top speed they scrambled back to the boat, abandoning the burning fire and the pot sitting on it. Brendan held out his hand to help each and every man aboard and he told them to hoist the sail as fast as they could.

They hoisted the sail, it bellied with the wind. But as the boat pulled out from the island, the island seemed the slip away from under the boat. Amazing! Each went in different directions, with the island sailing away much faster than the boat. They watched it for one, two, three miles with the fire still burning on it.

The crew of innocent men was puzzled until Brendan explained to them. They had not been grounded on an island - they had come to rest on the back of a great whale!

-- The Storyteller from Ireland: A Novel, by Frank Delaney
For the two weeks here preceding I have given much thought about finishing this painting I haven't been able to rush before the day I enlisted, and upon hitting home it seemed only right to get it done the following morning. This painting is special.

Entry 129: St. Bernadette's Day

Saint Bernadette of Lourdes: (1844-1879) Oldest of 6 children in a very poor family headed by Francois and Louise Casterot. Hired out as a servant from age 12 to 14. Shepherdess. On 11 February 1858, around the time of her first Communion, she received a vision of the Virgin. [...] She received 18 more in the next 5 months, and was led to a spring of healing waters. She moved into a house with the sisters of Nevers at Lourdes where she lived, worked, and learned to read and write. The sisters cared to the sick and indigent, and at age 22 they admitted Bernadette into their order since she was both. Always sick, and often mistreated by her superiors, she died with a prayer for Mary's aid. Body is incorruptible. --www.catholic-forum.com

I'd read a book about her, when I was younger. Don't know where the book is now.

Just came back from a long morning of GOH training, and the best thing about training in the morning is that almost whatever you did at home after that can be seen as rest. I'm blogging now. But today I'm telling you, there's this thing you've got to go and check out if you're any good in biology or archaeology:

Click here for The Genographic Project Website.

Besides the cool tangy flash layout, it lays out 200,000 years of human voyages and migrations right in front of your eyes. It traces your ancient ancestry all the way to Adam and Mitochondrial Eve, or at least where your ancestors went before they landed on what would be your homeland. If that wasn't enough, watching the ice sheets change shape on the world map might be intriguing also, or maybe not.

Screenshot of interface: Presenting the Na-Dene Languages of North America

If you've got the financial prowness, you can join the project by buying the package, send your cheek swab to the scientists and let them identify your Haplogroup, and when you get your results after the test, never cease to be amazed.

Stop Press at 10:42 pm: I've just stumbled on the flash version of the Elements Song by Tom Lehrer, and it's so cool. This link here is for me to get to save the file into my own computer actually, but anyone's free to click and be entertained.