broken and beautiful.
They were ratty and worn, but had once
been sturdy. They had rubber soles and thick, brown, frayed fabric straps. They
were muddy, torn remnants of shoes. They were filthy, broken sandals, but they
were all I had and I treasured them as I slipped them on.
People say not to wear your heart on
your sleeve. Because of experience, I don’t. But, I do wake up on cold concrete
every morning wearing my soul on my blistered black feet.
A wealthy white woman had once
approached me and asked my name. When I had shyly whispered, “Rota,” she spit
out the lie, “Rota, you are cherished.” She obviously didn’t know my birth name
was not Rota; rather it was my new name. Rota meant broken in Spanish, and as I
frequently told the Spanish speaking dwellers, “Yo soy Rota.” I am broken. I am
the definition of poverty. I am helpless. I am lonely. I am desperate. I am
worn. I am not cherished. I am homeless and
I am Rota.
I wasn’t always a broken soul. I hadn’t
always treasured a pair of ugly shoes. In the month of April, nineteen years
ago, as a naïve seventeen-year-old, I had had a very promising future. UCLA’s
Department of Music had come to hear me sing
with my choir. I had been so joyful then. I wasn’t rich, but I had had my
health, my family, and my happiness. I had been so blessed. As I walked down
the concrete so many people called a mission field, and so many others called
home, I wondered for the millionth time, “What have I done to deserve this?
WHAT?”
Absolutely
nothing.
I had been offered a full scholarship
on that warm April evening. I had never expected that exactly one year later my
dad would die suddenly in one of the many LA car crashes, and my mom would force
me to drop out with only a month left of high school, causing me to forfeit my
scholarship to UCLA. My heart had been truly wrung for the first time that
April of 1992. I went in to a gas station for an interview the week following
the surreal funeral.
I worked at that disgusting gas station
for nearly fifteen years before new management decided to let me go as if I
were no big loss. I had no one and nothing to fall back on. I had had a
husband…but he left after the two miscarriages. My mom had slipped away to
insanity and shortly after, to death. Those fifteen years had been full of
burden, but now I had no occupation, no family, and when the bills came, no
home. The once joyful life I lived was continuously being broken and ripped
apart by the silent stream of tears.
I found my way to Skid Row after a
month of searching for and never finding a new job. Exhausted of repeated
rejection, I had given up. I’ve reluctantly called this place home for four dreadful
years. Everyday I walk the cracked concrete, hating it more.
Today, and everyday of this hopeless
eternity, I wear the same modest red shirt with the same long denim skirt, the
same greasy, knotted hair, the same dirty black skin, and my overused, but treasured,
brown sandals.
I dwell amongst the murderers, the
thieves, the drug dealers, and the addicts. I have become acquainted with some
of the most heartless beings and have slightly befriended some of the most
compassionate souls.
I have two slabs of concrete to my
name and I take great care of my pathetic home. Every dreary morning, I
carefully reach into my cardboard boxes of possessions and pull out a small
dusty hand broom. Wealthy strangers curiously stare at me when they speed by in
their vehicles. Dwellers glare through me to my humble pride and weary soul.
Though I fell apart long ago, my home remains intact.
The thieves never dare threaten my
belongings because I have talents they can use. They know I can read
considerably well which is rare in this territory of Los Angeles, a skill that comes
in handy often. Though the dwellers don’t know I had almost gone to a college
because of my voice, they do know I can sing. They find great pleasure in my
voice every Wednesday during the couple of hours spent at the Skid Row Karaoke
building. Something about music makes the homeless forget their sorrows for a
short time and gleefully laugh, some clapping along while others dance in the
provided chairs. The thieves will do whatever it takes to keep the beauty of my
voice around for those evenings, even if it means denying themselves a few of
my prized possessions.
The sun seemed to move
extraordinarily slow on this particular Wednesday, but soon enough it began to
settle into the layers of smog as I made the weekly walk to gift my fellow
dwellers with my voice; once again asking for nothing in return. As each note flew off my tongue, I firmly
thought, “I do not deserve to be in this place. I have done absolutely nothing
to deserve this hopeless eternity.”
Absolutely
nothing.
My glance caught her eyes as I
finished that thought. I’d seen that shirt before and her face was
frighteningly familiar. The wealthy white woman had returned after all this
time.
She gestured for me to come sit
with her. I don’t know why, but I accepted the offer.
“I’m so sincerely glad to see you,
Rota.” The lady spoke softly and kindly.
“You never let me introduce myself when we first met. My name is Audra, and
Rota, my friend, you are cherished.”
You. Are. Cherished.
Her words had a different ring to
my ears this time. I wanted to know why she had remembered my name. Why had she
made a point to share these three words with me once again?
Audra continued to gently speak, “I
have something for you, Rota.”
She pulled out a little book from
her purse and flipped open to a page.
“Rota, I would like to read
something to you, if that’s alright.”
I was shocked at the tone of care
in her voice.
“Umm. Audra…? I,” I cleared my
throat. “I… I can read.”
She politely smiled, placed the
precious little book in my hands, and pointed to a sentence.
Clearing my throat again, I read,
“’The King is enthralled by your beauty; honor Him, for He is your Lord.’”
“Psalm 45:11,” Audra whispered.
“Rota, you are cherished.”
I was ratty and worn, but had once had
a sturdy life. I was broken. I was the definition of poverty. I was helpless. I
was lonely. I was desperate. I was worn. But I was cherished.
Before Audra left me that late
Wednesday evening, she shared one last thought with me.
“Rota, I think you should change your name. Rota y bella would do you a greater justice. You are broken, but you are cherished. You are broken, but you are beautiful.”
“Rota, I think you should change your name. Rota y bella would do you a greater justice. You are broken, but you are cherished. You are broken, but you are beautiful.”
I took her words into high
consideration, and the next day as I slipped on my treasured shoes, I found a
marker and wrote cherished on one
sole and Rota y bella on the other.
I am broken and I am beautiful.
Yo
soy rota y yo soy bella. 