Hitting Jesus

Street Art
Los Angeles

I almost hit Jesus today. Of course at first he came as a Man. I mean -- I didn't know he was Jesus or think he was Jesus. He was a man riding a beat-up bike on La Cienega, and I was driving my car toward a sick friend's house near the airport. I was bringing her a pastrami sandwich and some french fries, planned to stop and get a grape soda. He had long black curly hair and brown skin. He didn't have a shirt on and his pants were dirty and rolled up, but I think that was so they didn't get caught in the spokes. He darted out in front of my car and it seemed purposeful, not like a death wish but more to get my attention. There are days on the streets in Los Angeles where it seems like you narrowly miss death more times than twice (because haven't we all narrowly missed death at least once?), and today was one of those days. You've got to really concentrate when you drive in Los Angeles, but you can also daydream, and it's easy to get complacent when the cars are backed up and you're moving forward by inches. It's a little like going to mass, when you're kneeling and sitting and standing and saying the prayers but you're also thinking about what you're going to eat when you get home or whether you'd rather be the saint that defied everyone and was burned as a witch or the one who carried Jesus' cross on her back up the hill. Escaping death would include nearly killing someone else accidentally as well, because let's face it. Life as you knew it would be over if you accidentally hit someone with your car. I jammed my brakes and looked straight at him, a curse on my lips, but then he looked at me with his dark brown eyes and I knew it was him. Jesus. I'm not religious, you know. I don't even believe in God the Creator. I say I believe in Love, but that sometimes seems forced. As a Catholic child, I was certain that Jesus would come back dressed like a beggar and fool everyone, but I also fantasized about living in an orphanage on cold English moors, so I'm not reliable that way. This all happened in an instant -- the man on the bike, me slamming the brakes, a curse on my lips that was really Jesus! and it was him. A psychic hit, is what I call it. Because why the hell would I have thought the man was Jesus if he wasn't? Isn't that the way he's coming again? Or is he just out there, biking around with no shirt, his pants rolled up to avoid accidents, making eye contact with the needy.

#don'tstarepaparazzi

I don't know those people in the photo, but a week ago, when I took the photo, that was the about the fifth time that they had passed Sophie and me and stared, openly, at her. You can't see their children, either, all of whom openly stared with nary a remonstrance (how's that for a phrase) from their parents. I finally lifted my phone and snapped them, deciding that I would perhaps start a new hashtag. The #don'tstarepaparazzi.

Call me bitter or call me dark humored. I don't care.

Yesterday, as I struggled to push Sophie's wheelchair up over the curb -- remember, we don't have curb cuts on our street because the city of Los Angeles is taking its sweet time and only doing so in certain neighborhoods -- I felt beleaguered about feeling beleaguered. These are the times when the perpetuity of this caregiving job sort of overtakes the glory and honor of it all.

Call me bitter or call me dark humored. I don't care.

I pushed Sophie up the small hill that leads to the pathway that leads to our front door and stopped to rest for a moment. I was chatting with a friend from up the street. Multiple minivans were parked in front of my house, the vehicle of choice for the many Orthodox Jewish families that live in our area. They have lots of children because there is some kind of edict in the Old Testament that demands for them to multiply. I have no trouble with the Old Testament and have no trouble with the Orthodox other than a faint discomfort with the oppression of the females, but that could be the subject of another post where I could perhaps rope in my feelings about the current Pope of the Catholic Church who people love to lionize but who might actually be just another chip off the old Catholic block.

Anywho.

A neighbor was having a birthday party around the corner, hence the minivans. As I stood there, bitter and dark-humored, resting from care-giving in perpetuity, a woman who looked to be about twenty-five with a baby on her hip, pushing a stroller with another baby inside,  and three little children trailing her, walked right past us. The three little children trailing her stared at Sophie. One child stopped and swiveled her head, Exorcist-style and stared. Her sister scurried to catch up with her mother, her head turned owl-like, her eyes bugged out. The mother turned to call her trailing children to her minivan while I simultaneously reassured the children Hi, there! It's okay to say hello! Her name is Sophie! No one said anything, not even the mother. Sure, she might have been exhausted having just hauled her five children to a birthday party with the rest of the day ahead of her. She might have sensed that I was a Bitter and Dark Humored Caregiver in Perpetuity. She and her three hundred children scurried into their minivan, the automatic door swung shut and they were off, leaving me to my bitter thoughts.

I might have thrown back my head and howled the laugh of the maniac. Yeah! I might have cried, Keep that ridiculous wig on, covering your shameful sexuality! And you, little girl, keep staring! One day, if you choose to stay in the faith to which you've been born, you'll be stared at, too! If your mother keeps having babies, you'll be bound to have a sibling that will have something worthy of staring! I might have grabbed my phone and taken a picture, labeled it #don'tstarepaparazzi.

Instead, I pushed Sophie up the path to the front door and went inside.

Call me bitter or call me dark humored. I don't care.

Sophie and Me in Blue

When I was a small Catholic girl like most small Catholic girls I was enamored of the saints. I knelt in church (and sat and stood and sat and kneeled and stood and sat and kneeled) and stood and saw spots or tiny lights and then I'd blink, sweat would bead, roll down the nape of my neck, the priest's voice a drone, I think I'm going to faint, I'd think and blink, my hands smooth and brown on the pew in front of me. Helen who carried the cross will be my name, I said when I was twelve. Twelve! I'd kneel then and think of the saints. Yesterday afternoon, I was drifting, I was angry, I was drifting and angry about the day, the day after the show about weed and seizures, the day that began, again, with seizures. I was angry about my cousin, my age, dying of cancer far away, a cousin who I loved in my childhood, who loved to read like me, who wrote me letters sealed with a kiss. Her name is Maria. I drove my car to the bank in the little village just down from the church where I used to go (to stand, to kneel, to sit, to stand, to kneel) and I was angry when I got out of the car and walked, a beautiful day, it's always, always a beautiful day, and four beautiful people sat in front of a restaurant and spoke what was that? Italian? Yes, Italian. Italian rolling off their tongues like saints. Jesus Christ, I thought, this town is impossible. I walked into the bank and then out and the Italians were getting up from their table and walking, walking in front of me, two women and two men, all beautiful, the Italian still rolling off their tongues like saints, one woman had a band of smooth brown skin, naked above her ass, and I was still drifting, angry, when I got into my car and drove back home. At a stoplight, I looked over into the car next to me, a woman in full Muslim garb, her head covered, sat at the wheel, her daughter in the back seat covered as well. The light was still red and I was still angry, and the daughter was young but not young enough to sit in a booster seat. She looked ridiculous in the booster seat, stupid in her veil. Take off your bullshit cloak of modesty, I might have hissed, your daughter is too big for that car seat. The light turned green, I looked away, I drove away. When I got home I sat with Sophie, I stood with Sophie, I stood and sat and kneeled. I blinked, a bead of sweat rolled down the nape of my neck and down my back, I was wearing a blue dress. I am not a saint.