Prose by Kane Hong
Edited by Michelle Padilla & Daniel Perez Pichardo
Mary’s Kitchen operated in Orange, California– hidden behind the plethora of small tech companies and single homes that made up the idyllic suburbia. Not a single person walked the streets for miles. Sounds of cars whirred past, stirring the air as drivers hustled to their next destination. However, as I approached Mary’s Kitchen, I began to see them. There were groups of individuals moving in and out of a fenced gateway. Some held paper bags in their hands as they ventured out from the fences and into the scorching sun. Some hung around the area on patches of grass that decorated the sidewalk. These individuals had blankets that they used to lie upon. Others took shade in dilapidated cars, filled to the brim with miscellaneous items while some simply wandered back and forth around the entrance, cigarettes in hand. One of these people walked enthusiastically toward Mary’s Kitchen. He wore a skirt and a ragged green polo shirt. He had an uncomfortable limp, struggling to take the smallest steps. Yet, his smile was bright and warm.
The soup kitchen was an old parking lot turned outdoor dining facility, with a myriad of people eating their meals under a canopy made of crooked sheet metal. The shelter was connected to an aged building with bright baby blue walls that protruded from the mundane gray asphalt. A modest ramp led up to the fully-equipped kitchen lined with rows of stoves, cupboards of spices, and shelves of grain. Etched in white paint, the wall beside the ramp read “Mary’s Kitchen”. On the other side of the wall lay the words “a place where everyone is welcome” in crude cursive. This was where they lined up to be served by the volunteers. I stood in the middle of the commotion watching people grab their burgers and oranges while volunteers rushed to document new donations. The man with the green polo that I had previously observed was conversing with a volunteer. He turned around, waved at me with a bright smile, and limped away. I lost him in the crowd of diners. I had no idea where to begin.
“Can I help you?” said a raspy voice.
I whipped around, surprised to find an older woman with tied-up glaring blond hair. The corners of her eyes and mouth were creased, marked by age. She wore a rose-patterned blouse and a pair of leggings. Over that, she branded a charming pink apron that covered her outfit. It was decorated with images of colorful pastries. A block of text ran over her chest that read, “Bakers Gonna Bake”. The woman held up a cup of ice to constantly chew. She seemed to blend in with all the other guests that ambled in and out of the kitchen grounds. I would have mistaken her as one of them if she hadn’t called out to me.
“You came on our busiest day,” she said. “Today is the day we give away bikes and other goods.”
I was astonished to find that she was one of the lead volunteers at Mary’s Kitchen, overseeing the donation drives and soup kitchen operations. She appeared to be on break.
“There’s a lot of people today,” I noted.
“Yeah. Orange County has one of the larger homeless populations.”
“Why do you think that is?” I asked.
She took a second. “Well. This is a broken and fallen world.” She turned to look at the crowd of homeless individuals, eating their burgers.
“These people come from broken homes. Bad parents or siblings. How would you feel if your father beat you and called you worthless as a kid? You would want to kill him. These people are broken.”
She munched on a chunk of ice. “The devil exists. Have you ever watched the movie ‘Usual Suspects’?” I hadn’t.
“Well, there’s a famous quote from it. ‘The greatest trick the Devil pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.’ Adam and Eve were given everything in Eden. Yet, Eve was convinced by the Serpent to eat the apple. Now we’re here. There are rapists, thieves, liars, alcoholics, pedophiles in this world… A broken and fallen world.”
She spent the next twenty minutes lecturing me about the teachings of God. She talked about Solomon, Paul, then Peter, then Moses. The words came as a flurry of sounds and I struggled to keep my attention at times. Only when she took a brief pause to catch her breath did I decide to intervene. I asked her what she used to do before working at Mary’s Kitchen.
She had worked a corporate job in the past. Back then, things were so stressful that she developed a smoking habit. She never thought she could quit. She tried anything and everything to get clean. Nothing worked. It wasn’t until she started using fake cigars as a replacement for cigarettes that she was able to improve. She hasn’t smoked since. Working in that corporate job, battling addiction, and eventually becoming a full-time volunteer at Mary’s Kitchen had taken a toll on this woman. Her life had led her to experience the extremities at both ends of the socioeconomic spectrum. She observed the lavish lives of the obscenely rich CEOs of her corporate background, and now bore witness to the sullen lives of the crippling poor.
I asked her whether she liked working at Mary’s Kitchen—whether she thought helping these people was worth it. She returned to discussing her faith. A Christian man had come into her life.
“He taught me all I know today. Before I met him, I thought I knew it all. But, I didn’t know God. Now I’ve realized I was so wrong. God sent his only son, Jesus Christ to die on the cross to save us from our sins. It wasn’t the nails that tied Jesus to the cross, it was his love for us,” she pointed at the guests eating at the tables behind her. “I can’t compare myself to these people. God created everyone in his image. He loves all of us,” she said.
There were no pauses in her voice. She spoke with such conviction that I felt drawn in by her monologue. Here was someone, regardless of her religious affiliations, spending her weeks helping the broken, the downtrodden, the incarcerated, and the shunned. Strangers she had never met. How many people would be willing to do that for someone? At that moment, it wasn’t her faith that drew me in, it was her capacity to help others; her self-awareness to strip the very lenses off of our eyes that cause us to judge and vilify those who are less fortunate. Why do we even have these lenses in the first place? Don’t they merely serve to blind us?
“I think we all need a circumcision of the heart,” she said. “I mean every day the rich get richer and the poor are left behind. What did Jesus say? Help the poor. Help thy neighbor. All of us spend our entire lives chasing our dreams. We go to school, get married, and buy a house. We climb the ladder. These things are nice. But a life apart from Jesus is no life.”
It was just about closing time once she finished. She still seemed to have more to say, but it was already 3 p.m. and Mary’s Kitchen needed to wrap up for the day. After eating their fill, the guests were to be led off the premises. I asked her name before I said my goodbyes.
She shook her head. “I’m really nobody.”
—
I came back to the shelter a week later. I wanted to see the world as she had seen it. Things were the same as I had left it, only there was a new set of volunteers passing out sleeping bags, backpacks, and various food supplies to the needy. A man with ragged jeans and forearms littered with tattoos bounced a basketball awkwardly below a hoop. Another man lugged a shopping cart filled with dirty clothes, trash bags, and a speaker as he headed toward the exit. Vibrant Tango music emanated from the speaker as the site bustled with activity. There were people in aprons, going in and out of Mary’s Kitchen. Guests hovered around the outdoor dining tables as they went to and from the back end of the building. This was where the sinks, showers, and laundromats were. The sinks were lined with mirrors where guests could shave. Most tried to take full advantage of the amenities before they were forced to leave for closing hours.
I stepped up the flimsy ramp that led into the blue building hoping to find the woman I had met the week before. Inside was a pantry equipped with rows of gas stoves and shelves of baked goods, canned foods, fresh produce, and spices. Anything that one could possibly need to feed hundreds of people daily. Sure enough, there she was in her signature apron. She was overseeing the volunteers today, making sure appliances were cleaned properly and distribution chains were running smoothly. Her eyes glowed when she saw me.
“There you are!” she said. “You know I’ve been thinking about the conversation we had the week before, how it’s a broken world. It’s not just the poor who can become broken. It’s the middle class. Even the rich. Soldiers who come home with PTSD. It’s everyone.”
We exchanged some small talk before she permitted me to interview some of the guests. If Nobody had so adamantly claimed that this was a broken fallen world, I wanted to find out why.
I walked down to the dining tables later that afternoon. A lanky figure wearing an orange construction vest with no shirt underneath approached me. He wore a dirty U.S army hat. In one hand, he held his baggy jeans at his waist as the other gripped a white plastic bag filled with clothes.
“What do you want?” He spoke with a raspy and gruff voice.
I swallowed hard, words fumbled in my mouth. I asked him what life was like living on the streets.
“You want to know what life is like. Do you? Follow me, I’ll show you.”
The man staggered from the tables and walked towards the exit gate. I reluctantly followed making sure to stay several steps behind him. As we approached the exit, my heart began to beat rapidly while my steps slowed. I didn’t know why I was so afraid. After all, this was a protected community surrounded by volunteers and security guards. The police station was only a couple blocks away. Maybe it was that instinctive feeling of “othering” that we project toward homeless people. That feeling we get when we pass by one while driving in our cars. At least we’re not like them. In those moments, we separate ourselves from them, behind thick cold glass. When peering through the glass, we never truly see these people for who they are. He led me to his shopping cart parked just outside the gateway, gesturing me to come closer. I looked around, everyone seemed to be minding their own business. Just to be safe I stood my ground, maintaining a distance of 10 feet. He threw his bag into the cart and was searching for something. The man pulled out a long metal rod the length of his entire body. It reflected sunlight directly in my face, briefly obscuring my vision. I could have sworn it looked like a machete at a certain angle. He wielded it as such. His eyes met mine, readying his weapon to strike. My legs ran on their own.
“Wait! Wait!” He let out an alarming laugh. I stopped in my tracks.
“I’m just kidding, bro. You’re a funny guy.” He sheathed his rod back on his cart.
I couldn’t help but laugh in disbelief. I was stunned. He walked up to me and shook my hand. He said his name was “JFKO.”
“Nice to meet you, JKFO,” I said, trembling.
He mumbled some words I couldn’t understand and reached into his pocket. I flinched back thinking this was another one of his tricks. Instead, he pulled out a circular canister resembling the containers that hold gourmet caviar. When he twisted it open, it was nothing like caviar. It looked like dirt, a moist mush of deep brown.
“The doctor suggested it to me. It was only like three bucks.” He said, laughing.
The substance was an alternative non-nicotine non-tobacco snuff. It’s designed to ease a tobacco addict into quitting while minimizing the repercussions of going cold turkey.
“You’re trying to get clean?” I asked.
He chuckled again. “Do cowboys ride horses?”
As JFKO walked away, I spotted an old man sitting at the outdoor tables alone. He sat hunched over on the metal surface, as if in deep thought. His name was David Oviedo. At 72 years old, he was a plump man who wore a face full of wrinkles and decorated with a gray mustache. His table was filled with boxes of food and black trash bags containing miscellaneous clothes items. He wore a pair of black sunglasses. One of the lenses was cracked down the middle. I don’t think he noticed, nor cared.
“Ask away,” he said, inviting me to sit in front of him.
He spoke with a soft gentle voice. It was a voice of acceptance, not a sliver of vindication in his tone. “I spent 6 years in prison. It was in Bakersfield. They had a program there. That’s where I finished my high school diploma. They taught me how to draw on computers. Drawing for architecture… It was hard but I liked doing it. They eventually let me become an interpreter because a lot of the inmates were Mexican… I also learned to play handball in prison, I was pretty good at it.”
He told me he ended up in prison because he owed money. He and his wife lived in a condo together in California and was struggling to keep up payments. He went to a friend to ask for a loan which he gladly gave. David had no idea that his “friend” wasn’t a friend at all. He was jealous that David married his ex-lover. It only took a single call from the cops to land him in prison. I was surprised by the casualness with which he told his story. It was as if he had told the story so many times that it was hardly news at all.
“After I left prison,” he continued. “They put me on probation.” A person could be put on probation even after serving their sentence. Their status was beholden to the judge. As opposed to parole, probation was much harsher. The convict was to be closely monitored at all times and had to wear an ankle monitor.
“I didn’t want the police to come knocking on the door while I lived with my daughter so I left. Been living in my car ever since.”
“What did you do then?” I asked.
“It was around this time that the police caught me on the street. They had been following me. I wasn’t doing anything, I just had a utility knife in my pocket. They threw me back in jail for another 60 days. After I got out, I went to work for my son-in-law’s styrofoam company.”
He continued his many jobs working in computer assembly and auto body shops until he eventually retired. It was then that he began visiting homeless shelters such as Mary’s Kitchen. He lived close to the shelter, his car was parked at the “Planet Fitness” gym. He told me about his scheme to avoid being thrown out of their parking lot. During the day he parked his car in front of the gym, and at night he moved his car back.
“The police don’t seem to care,” he said, chuckling at his ploy.
In the corner of my eye, a security guard hovered around the dining area. The man had a large build, towering over the tables.
“It’s time to go guys. Closing time,” he demanded.
It was strange. His cadence was harsh and brash as if the words themselves forced me to flinch. Yet, David was laughing, unperturbed by the aggression.
“No!” He was half yelling, half snickering. “That’s Luis. Luis is a good man. He’s just doing his job. I just like to mess with him. They treat me well here.” He continued. “It’s a shame that the city is shutting this place down.”
Mary’s Kitchen had been serving the homeless population for 36 years, feeding thousands of homeless folks in the vicinity. They served three hot meals six days a week and provided clothing, laundry, showers, and even a postal service, all free of charge. Its CEO, Gloria Suess, had previously worked as a real estate agent when a woman named Mary McAnena walked into her open house. Together, they constructed the soup kitchen and continued to serve the community with their dedicated volunteer base. At the beginning of the pandemic, the city of Orange County tried to take down the place for years, claiming it is a breeding ground for crime. David mentioned a story of a guest who brought drugs into the premises and was caught by the police. The city accused Mary’s Kitchen of facilitating the sale of drugs. This was especially worrying as Orange County had just come off its most grim year. From January 2021 to December 2021, there had been at least 370 homeless deaths, most of which happened in Northern Orange County, where the soup kitchen resides. As a matter of fact, in June 2020, the city issued a 90-day notice for Mary’s Kitchen to leave the premises, sparking renewed discussion on how to effectively deal with Irvine’s homeless population. U.S. District Judge David O. Carter was able to secure a temporary restraining order that allowed the kitchen to operate for at least six more months (as of November 2021) until the city could put together a better plan to replace it. That was hardly the case. The truth was that the property just south of Mary’s Kitchen was owned by an overland freight company that had been working closely with Orange County to construct a plan for a 58,000 square ft. truck terminal hub, which would operate 24/7 with at least 600 truck trips daily. Mary’s Kitchen’s fate was left in the hands of the city, which would more than likely tear it down if the chance presented itself. Yet, Gloria and her volunteers continued the fight. Despite threats of eviction, she and her volunteers continued to serve the homeless community. To many clients Mary’s Kitchen was more than a service, it was a family.
David Oviedo was smiling as we sat there at those tables. He didn’t seem to care that in half an hour he would be made to leave the warmth of Mary’s Kitchen only to return to his car. The softness of his voice made me feel comfortable. He was now my friend and I felt like I had known him for years. Out of curiosity, I asked him what his favorite movie was.
“Godzilla. The original one. I loved Godzilla.” He grinned showing his teeth. He told me how he used to own a Godzilla graphic T-shirt with its sleeves mimicking the monster’s arms. As a kid, he would wear it to his local bicycle races that were hosted by his friends in the neighborhood.
“Everyone would call me. ‘The Godzilla Man’,” he boasted.
“Did you win those races?”
“Quite a few, yeah. I was pretty good.” He paused. “Back then I had nothing to worry about. I went to school and afterward, went home.” Beneath his dense history of incarceration and homelessness, I saw a child. A child who, just like many of us, once went to school, hung out with his friends, and lived a normal life. Yet, in Orange County, people such as David were antagonized, reduced to expendable statistics on a balance sheet for the men in suits to cast aside when convenient. I began to think that Nobody was right. Maybe this world was broken and fallen.
“You want to know something cool?” he asked
“What?”
David looked off into the distance behind me, still smiling. A gentle breeze came in and brushed his gray hair ever so slightly. Despite sitting, he seemed taller than a mountain.
“I never missed a day of school.”
—
A year later, I returned to the site of Mary’s Kitchen. Only this time, the entrance was barred with wired fences. The vibrant blue building – deserted. Beside the site, sounds of blaring excavators rummaged through dirt and debris. A large sign rose above the fences read “Valencia Garden Apartments: 62 Units of Affordable Rental Apartments.” One excavator thrashed at a tall metal post that held a pair of loudspeakers, used for announcements. The claw gripped and wrangled the metal, slowly contorting the structure to its will. The metal shrieked in the afternoon air. Electric wires were ripped out like veins from the fleshy earth. With each shriek, my heart wrenched.
Mary’s Kitchen was evicted in June 2022. Gloria and her team attempted to search for a replacement site but to no avail. During its final days, she sat at her desk reading dozens of Thank You letters from her clients. As of September 2022, they had since reopened as a mobile food pantry switching sites between Anaheim and Westminister to avoid attracting attention from city officials. They now provided groceries for families facing food insecurity. As for the original site, the city of Orange installed replacement services that would serve the homeless population for a one-year term before phasing out entirely. Enlisting the aid of OC Hub, they set up a temporary grab-and-go food pantry, shower, and mail system beside the demolition site.
I decided to volunteer for them. I wanted to do my part. I sat under a makeshift canopy distributing meal vouchers for those in need. Some rushed in line enthusiastically, striking conversations with the volunteers. Others limped slowly to the desk with sullen eyes aimed at the ground. As I did so, my eyes searched for those familiar faces I had not seen in a long time. A part of me hoped that I would see them again. Although I knew that hope came in very modest portions here.
I was transferred to the mailroom after my shift. Beyond providing meals, mail services were essential for the unhoused. They provided them access to their personal information and essential documentation forms required to receive government services. They serve as a physical reminder of their existence. Stacked in front of my table were crates of mail folders. Each folder contained the inbox of one OC Hub client. There had to be over a thousand folders. Over a thousand clients with different stories and different reasons for being here. One by one, I rummaged through the daily mail making sure each went to their respective recipient folder. Envelope after envelope, letter after letter. Suddenly, there he was. Beneath the stack of mail, was an envelope from the Orange County Social Services. The recipient’s name was David Oviedo. My old friend, The Godzilla Man, lodged between folders containing dozens of “O” last names. I leaned back in my seat with relief and regret.
There was solace in the thought of him still being around. Yet, I wished I had done more all those months back. I could have given him some spare change. Or maybe an extra jacket. Some food. Anything. But all I have is this story. His story. Their stories. But what good does it do when David, JFKO, and so many others still spend their days and nights alone without a roof over their head? In that regard, I failed. The city has failed. The world has failed.
In this broken and fallen world, the least I could do was organize his mail.
Artist Statement: “A Circumcision of the Heart” is a piece of literary journalism written in the Winter Quarter of 2022. It details my experience visiting Mary’s Kitchen, gathering testimonies from its staff and clients. Throughout this entire experience, I was forced to confront my subconscious assumptions/biases regarding the unhoused. I encourage readers to do the same. Hopefully, we can all find our place in helping those less fortunate.