Mission San Fernando Rey de Espania

  Slavery has come up a lot recently.  Many people, when I mention my errand, remind me that the missions were just forced labor camps in disguise.  Of course, the man on the street is free to make whatever claims he likes without evidence, but neither am I ignorant to the reality of human failure.  Either way, the possibilities have been bothering me.  

I met Leon yesterday morning, drinking on a remote bus stop, wrapped in knotted blankets, his helmet of dreadlocks tucked under an enormous beanie, surrounded by a small audience of trash bags, paper bags, shopping carts, takeout containers, clothes, and various roadside flotsam.  He couldn’t possibly have been carrying it all with him, but sitting there in the dust and sun he looked – in a twisted, tribal, post-apocalyptic way – like an aristocrat surrounded by luggage on a train platform.  He was quite lucid (it was still early) so I asked his advice on where I should sleep.  He suggested the hills north of the freeway, unless I had open food containers, in which case the coyotes would give me trouble.  He also reminded me that we were coming into rattlesnake season, and I should keep my bag zipped up all the way.   So, basically anywhere was fine.  I asked him if he needed anything, he said no.

I was reminded of Ted Cass, another homeless man I met in San Raphael.  Ted was a recovered alcoholic, 20 years clean, living on the streets because his house had burnt down.  Besides his luggage, he could have passed for a college professor, or a wealthy retiree. Khakis, collar, v-neck sweater, glasses.  He compared addiction to slavery, and when I asked him what made him quit he just shook his head grimly and said, “rock bottom.”

I looked back at Leon. He didn’t seem too bad, downright cheerful, but if it took Ted 40 years to hit rock bottom, I wondered what that would look like for Leon.

Carroll gave me a waterproof bivy-sack to cover my sleeping bag, which holds heat in better and keeps the rain out, but because it doesn’t breathe really well it gets kind of clammy inside. He also gave me a new pair of sunglasses (orange). As I was helping him pack up to move, he offered me an old straw sombrero with “Chevy’s fresh Mex” embroidered on it. I politely declined, but The next day I came across it again as I was brushing my teeth and thought, “who am I kidding?.” 

There were alarms last night. They went off two or three times, and lasted for hours.   I was also restless about snakes coming into my sleeping bag, but I don’t think they are quite so numerous as my imagination led me to believe, so I came out of the tree.  

I walked about seven miles through city neighborhoods.  The residents seemed unimpressed.  I guess I’ve started expecting people to ask what I’m up to, especially considering my new hat, but I hardly got any acknowledgement. 

I walked  past a golf course and into La Tuna Canyon where I finally stuck my thumb out and cought a ride.  There was plenty of shoulder, but Ron just stopped his dust-brown Taurus in the middle of the road, so I got in quickly.  He thought I was cheating to hitchhike, but I argued that it would take too long without.  Even so, the truth is I hitchhike mostly to get off my feet.  Ron has never been religious (though he believes in the golden rule) but he appreciated my trip for his own reasons.  He didn’t want me to pray for anything particular, but he said something interesting as he dropped me off.   
“Just, next time you do something nice, or give somebody money or something, just think of me.”  

What could that mean?  He didn’t want to ask God for anything, but he still wanted me to remember him in connection with some charitable act.  Was it for my sake, or for God’s, or maybe to make a small deposit on his soul?  Notice he didn’t only say “pay it forward” but “mention me when you do.”  

I found the Mission overrun by schoolchildren, many speaking excitedly in Spanish.  The lady at the gift shop told me as she took my money that the church was being used for funeral services today, and wrote 11:30 to 11:50 on my map.  I was confused.  

“You men there’s a funeral from 11:30 to 11:50?”  

“No,” she said, “the only time the church is free today is from 11:30 to 11:50.”

Don’t take this to mean that the church has a vibrant parish life, it is not a parish at all.  There is still Mass on Sunday, but there is no resident priest or office.  It is effectively a museum.

I walked around the grounds waiting for 11:30 to roll around.  The kids had funneled out and the grounds were more or less deserted.  A screen of bamboo, oak, and cypress separated the city from the grassy mission grounds. I followed a fence along the old stone aqueduct up into a shady stand of trees where the water came bubbling out of a raised stone cistern.  Standing on the edge of the water, not twenty feet from me a grey falcon waded in the water, dipping its head to drink, but always watching me out of one eye.  I watched him for as long as I could stand motionless, but eventually I had to shift, and he flew into a tree. 

I checked the church at 11:37 to find the funeral still in full swing, some lady talking serenely about his career in manufacturing. I didn’t want to bother anyone, but the church was almost empty, so I decided to just slip quietly in the back.  Of course, the door made a horrible grinding noise as I opened it, and everyone turned around to glare at me.  I just tried to look mournful, and took a pew with the bereaved.  I sort of forgot that I was wearing bright red shorts, but nobody said anything.  People will wear anything to funerals these days.

I wanted to avoid interrupting any funeral services, so I thought I would wait for this one to end, then take a few pictures before the other one set up.  I had no idea the other family was literally waiting in the wings with an oversized portrait of their own, and would begin occupation even before the first family had completely left.  I had to go in with my bright red shorts once again, my second interrupted funeral in ten minutes, to snap some hasty photos over the heads of grieving ladies, and retreat outside before anyone said anything.

I had no idea that Bob Hope was burried next to mission San Fernando.  The church exits right into the Bob Hope Memorial Garden, so I really didn’t have a choice. The pamphlet doesn’t say anything about Bob being Catholic, and it may have been his wife’s doing, but it’s a pretty specific grave site, and over the couple’s headstone there is a sculpture of the holy family at rest during the flight into Egypt.  

I suddenly realized that the only way back into the mission was through the church.  I asked the security guard if there were another way around, but he only spoke Spanish.  So, once more, I paraded my red shorts and hiking boots through a sombre church. 

On my way out, the lady at the register asked if I had seen the diocesan archives.  I had no idea there were any diocesan archives, but followed her directions to one of the old buildings to see what I was missing..  It was a small library, maybe thirty feet square, full of rare books, glass cases of reliquaries, and paraphenalia from high ranking church authorities and foreign dignitaries.  A walk through was about all I could fit in, but I know several people who could have spent a lifetime there.  There was an ancient woman sitting with her head down, stuffing envelopes in the middle of the room.  I assumed she saw me come in, as I made no special attempts to be quiet, but right as I was about to leave she got up as if startled and directed me to sign the guestbook.  I told her I already had, and she looked confused.  I asked If I might direct my questions to her, but she got flustered and started talking about several things at once.  She eventually said I could ask the Monsignor my questions after he got off the phone, since he was the official historian.  I only got a couple of minutes with him, but I asked him what events people are referring to when they say the missions were slave camps.  I’ve tried to ask anybody who has that notion what makes them say that, but they have nothing concrete to bring up, so what’s all the fuss about?  

“Nothing.” He said.

I had expected something more in the defensive.   

“You mean there were no conflicts?”

“I mean that the missions, as missions, never mistreated the Natives, but the mission era didn’t last that long.  There were plenty of abuses during wartime, or the gold rush. 

That’s about all I got out of him. He may have been right or wrong or he may have just been telling me what he thought I wanted to hear. He may have thought I was a journalist, an activist, or a terrorist, but that’s what he told me and he’s about as good a source as it gets.