From where we stood — a wide, rectangular landing roughly halfway down the stairs between the second and first floors — I had a good view of the inner workings of Homeboy Industries.
I watched folks as they walked in from North Alameda Street, passing from the bright Los Angeles sunshine through glass doors to be greeted by eager and welcoming faces. I noted the homies seated in rows of simple black chairs — men and women of all ages, some in the company of their big-eyed, big-grinned children — waiting their turn to talk with a staff member. Beyond those chairs, I peered into the swag store where shelves were full of T-shirts and hoodies and caps, all branded “Homeboy Industries” — products of the hard work done by homies and homegirls working in Homeboy Silkscreen & Embroidery. Further still, I could just peek into Homegirl Café, where the lunch rush was dying down but where work continued with gusto as coffees were poured and sandwiches were made and smiles were shared.
I pressed against the railing, gazing out and over, making room on the landing as folks busied themselves walking up and down, talking with colleagues and friends, carrying boxes, offering advice. Many folks were headed for the offices and classrooms on the second floor where legal and social services were offered and job readiness skills were taught.
Even on a Friday afternoon, Homeboy Industries was an active, joyful, hopeful place. And that’s why we’d stopped on that landing at the end of my tour: to take it all in, to really see the people who walked through those doors looking for hope and community and love.
“That’s part of my job,” Raul told me. He’d been saying as much throughout the tour. “I study people, their body language. It’s important.”
He pointed to a young man sitting by himself, arms crossed and slouching. “That’s someone I might go over and check in on,” Raul told me. “It’s important for everyone to know they’re welcome and to leave with hope. Right now, I’m not sure he feels that way.”
As our tour proceeded, a young woman bumped into another. She laughed and apologized and skipped off. “But that could’ve gone badly,” Raul said. “Something as simple as that can take a turn.”
After all, Raul told me again and again, so many of the folks who sat in the waiting room, who walked through the halls, who bumped elbows and swapped smiles had been members of rival gangs. They were, in a very literal sense, enemies. At least, they had been before experiencing the all-embracing love of the Homeboy community. That’s why it was so important to pay attention to body language: Raul wanted to diffuse situations before they got out of hand and remind everyone that they belonged to one another.
Homeboy Industries, in its earliest form, began in 1986, when Fr. Greg Boyle, SJ, became pastor of Dolores Mission Church in Los Angeles. At that time, the neighborhoods that comprised the parish had the highest gang activity in the city, as well as the largest public housing projects west of the Mississippi. Fr. Greg’s desire to respond to the needs of the folks in his community — a need for peace and hope and space to dream — ultimately led to the vast array of social enterprises, services and opportunities that now make up Homeboy Industries.
There’s so much to see and to love at Homeboy. But I’m still so deeply struck by this attentiveness to body language. The practical reason is clear: Diffuse possible conflicts before they happen and maintain a sense of safety for all.
But even my brief time walking the halls of Homeboy revealed something far greater than a simple concern with public safety: Folks wanted to see each other in their fullness. Body language was simply a physical manifestation of deeper truths. What burdens and struggles do crossed arms and slouching portend? What past trauma and suffering does a bumped elbow point to? And how important is it to meet these physical expressions of spiritual woundedness with a resilient, persistent, joy-filled call to hope?
“No one leaves without a little hope,” Raul told me. “Even if we can’t give them exactly what they’re looking for, we always give them something, some reason to keep going and to come back.”
In the Ignatian tradition, we talk of cura personalis, care for the whole person. And yet, do we study one another’s body language with this same level of intimacy, this same great desire to care for the fullness of the other, to offer that glimmer of hope?
I wonder who we might pay closer attention to this week. I wonder how that deeper attentiveness might lead us to a renewed and shared sense of belonging.
