This week on Off-Ramp, we revisit some of our favorite moments from this year: A homeless advocate finds a way to give back to the very community he took from. What do you do after you've been robbed? (Become a superhero.) And John Rabe calls Betty White a grandma.
Helping the homeless any way he can
It's about 7:30 on a cold Monday morning in West Adams. After taking his dog, a shih-tzu named Smoothie out for a walk, Troy Isaac is out the door and off to work.
"We're going downtown Los Angeles," he said. "Cause I need to go on Broadway to see a person--I don't like calling them clients--but he's a friend, Eddie Jones, he's homeless. And he usually takes care of a jewelry store. He sleeps in front of the jewelry story on Broadway and the jewelry people give him like two to three dollars to sleep in front of them every night."
Today might be the day Jones moves off the streets into a place of his own, and Troy could not be more excited. Troy calls himself a field advocate — armed with a backpack, a pack of cigarettes and a credit card paid for by a prominent Mid-Wilshire philanthropist, he walks Los Angeles seeking out and helping people who might otherwise go ignored: a woman passed out against a wall, a man screaming to himself, a couple sleeping under a tarp.
Literally, anyone: a trip down two city blocks can take a 45 minutes if he runs into enough people. He hands out his number constantly, and he never ignores a call.
He's imposing: six foot five inches tall--often wearing a black trench coat, combat boots and a mohawk... And on any given day, Troy could be anywhere: the Sunset Strip, Skid Row, Crenshaw, the Miracle Mile, or like on this morning--Downtown's jewelry district.
He's just getting off the bus at Seventh and Olive when Troy notices a woman nearby. She's covered in blankets, resting with her head on her knees. When Troy approaches her, she gives her name only as Smith. After a little coaxing, Smith admits she's hungry, and she'll take anything to eat. "Some coffee with it?" Smith adds.
"Sure," says Troy.
Troy says he does this because he loves people. "And I don't think I would be happy if I didn't help."
He walks into a 7 Eleven across the street, buys a sandwich and a coffee and brings it back. In the course of this 10 minute interaction Smith's demeanor has gone from suspicious and guarded to pretty warm, thanking Troy and laughing as he leaves.
Troy does this kind of thing all the time: whenever he encounters a homeless person he'll strike up a conversation, offer them a cigarette, say he or she looks really nice, then ask how he can help. Troy says his inspiration to do all this comes from an unlikely source. "It's thanks to Oprah that I've made myself who I am today," he says.
"And there are times that I channel myself ever since I’ve been out---there are times that I sound like Oprah, when I’m giving things away."
He says one of the most important parts in all this is to avoid expectations. "I meet people where they're at," he says.
"So if they just want a sing a song, we just sing a song. If they just want to hang out and talk about something only they can understand, I'm fine with it."
After asking around for a while, Isaacs finds his friend Eddie Jones, he's just off Broadway. Jones runs a shoe shining business by day. Troy approaches Jones' shoe shine cart, cheerily greeting him. "I would like to see if SRO down the street has a bed," says Troy. "If they have a bed, would you like to go there today?"
"A bed in a shelter?" Jones asks.
"No," says Troy. "A bed by yourself, in your own room!"
Jones delights at the possibility. Troy gets on the phone and starts calling around. Jones says he's been on the street since he lost his job shining shoes at the Bonaventure Hotel. Housing someone like Jones is difficult work: he says he avoids most shelters after a few bad experiences there. And because his shoe shining business is based downtown, he wants to stay local. Troy has been trying to find a place for Jones for some time.
Hanging up the phone, it's apparent that today is Jones' day. There's no bed space for Jones, but Troy promises to follow up every day. "I appreciate you doing this," says Jones.
"You know that I've been trying!" Troy replies.
And with that, Troy moves on--he has a meeting on Skid Row. He talks with everyone he sees on the way. He’s been doing that for three years, helping everyone he can find. And there’s no sign he’s slowing down.
First Language Attrition: Why my parents and I don't speak the same language
UPDATE: James Kim's Off-Ramp piece received a 2013 Mark Twain Award by the Associated Press Television-Radio Association for best light feature. Congratulations, James! -- John Rabe
I have always had a tough time understanding my parents. Not because we’re from different generations, or born and raised in different countries; it’s that we don’t speak the same language. Growing up, I remembered that my Korean was actually pretty good. My mom said that I “spoke Korean very well for seven years.” But afterwards, I “stopped speaking Korean and only spoke English.”
This has made my relationship with my parents difficult to cultivate. We always are easily irritated with each other because we constantly misunderstand what each of us is saying. We can hardly explain a movie’s plot line to one another, let alone express what we’re going through. The only time I talk with my parents is when I’m asking them “what’s for dinner?” I wanted to try and fix this problem by taking the first initial step; that is to figure out if my condition is common or not.
I talked to Linda Light, a Linguistics professor at Cal State Long Beach, who assured me that I wasn’t a screw up and that the condition is called First Language Attrition. Light says “there’s a tendency across all minority groups of a three-generation thing.” The first generation of immigrants speaks their native language; the second generation tends to be bilingual, while the third generation loses the native language. “But Koreans especially often lose it in the second generation, not the third.” It was a relief to find out that my ineptness towards speaking Korean was actually common in my immigrant generation. Yet, I still couldn’t help but feel guilty for not being able to communicate with my parents.
I decided that the only thing to do was to take initiative and have a one-on-one personal conversation with my parents. Of course, I brought my friend along to help translate the conversation. Going into the interview, I thought that the only thing I had to improve was my Korean language. After doing that, all our problems would be fixed. Wrong. My Dad believes that my “apathy towards Korean culture” is what caused our relationship to tear apart. My mom replied that not only should I express myself to them, but I also need to listen to how they used to live in Korea to understand them better.
My lack of Korean language wasn’t the problem; it was my attitude towards Korean culture. This whole time I thought the solution was as simple as taking some courses at a Korean language school. Instead, I learned that my whole demeanor towards my native culture needs a revision.
How did homeless advocate Troy Isaac become who he is today?
Troy Erik Isaac is a homeless advocate who travels all over Los Angeles by foot helping any person he meets—he almost never ignores a phone call. But maybe even more compelling is his long, sometimes troubled history.
Troy Isaac was born in Houston. He grew up in an unstable home and moved to Burbank when he was 12. Not long after, he had his first run in with the law:
“I did not have a gun, I had my hand under my shirt,” said Isaac, describing an attempted stick-up robbery he committed.
“I went to like a parking lot and I wanted the lady to give me her money," said Isaac. "And she says 'I don’t have money, but I have makeup.' And I says 'I don’t care, give me that!'"
He said the woman called the police, and he was arrested not long after. He was given a few months inside Juvenile Hall, but it was the first offense of many, and started Isaac down a long, difficult road in the prison system. For Isaac, it meant being repeatedly raped.
“When you walk in effeminate, and [inmates] see a piece of meat," he said. "They demand oral copulation from you in showers, or they gang up on you in a mop closet—you know… you have to learn how to defend yourself. At a young age. I would cut up my wrists, I would say that I was suicidal, just to be moved out of those threatening situations.”
For the better part of his young adult life, he’d find himself in and out of detention centers, prisons, jails. In total, he spent 24 years behind bars: he was raped by inmates, and says he was beaten by guards. He did time for vandalism, shoplifting, assault. His last offense, Isaac was caught impersonating Ru Paul.
"I went around town, limousines, hotels, best food, best outfits, all on Ru Paul’s name," said Troy. "And we had a public trial, and Ru Paul showed up, and Ru Paul wanted me to get 15 years. The judge gave me eight. And eight years was enough time to get my life together to figure out who I was, and the rest is history. “
The trauma he went through in prison eventually put him in touch with more people on the outside. He started mailing back and forth with a group called Just Detention International—or JDI—one of the few organizations devoted to stopping prison rape. Lovisa Stanow, the organization’s executive director, remembers when she first encountered Isaac:
“I have really, at a more personal level, been so gratified just seeing Troy evolve in a way, from the first time he unannounced came by the office and introduced himself. And we realized that this is, in fact, Troy, who we had corresponded with for years, while he was incarcerated. He had now been released and he basically showed up at JDI’s offices, saying, “Now I’d like to help you. What can I do?”
Isaac is now a member of the organization’s survivor council, and he’s travelled to Washington DC to speak with members of Congress on the topic. Here he is in a video for the organization:
As of today, it’s been 11 years since he’s been arrested—that’s a record for him. And now, as a field advocate for the homeless, he works closely with LAPD. His work with JDI gave him a place to go when he got out of prison. But possibly more than anything he credits his new direction to one person.
“I’ve always been a fan of Oprah. Because she was my mother in prison," said Isaac. "I would watch her everyday, if I got a TV. And she’s so inspirational and she got me into journal writing. And there are things that she said that did NOT work out for me. Like pilates, yoga, it did not work out for me, but I tried them. And there are times that I channel myself ever since I’ve been out---there are times that I sound like Oprah, when I’m giving things away.”
And unlike Oprah, he can’t give away new cars, but thanks to the support of a Mid-Wilshire philanthropist, he can give meals, cigarettes and even a home to people in need.
Cheech Marin gives Off-Ramp exclusive tour of his Chicano art collection
Cheech Marin, half of stoner comedy duo Cheech & Chong, gave Off-Ramp host John Rabe an exclusive guided tour of his Chicano art collection.
Next weekend, comedian, actor and director Cheech Marin picks up Palm Springs Fine Art Fair's 2012 Arts Patron of the Year Award. The event runs Feb. 16-19.
Nobody has done as much in recent years to promote the status of Chicano art as Marin, who started collecting Chicano art years ago because it was cool and affordable, then became an advocate when he realized it wasn't being treated as great art by the establishment. Since then, he's published books and staged nationwide tours of Chicano art, much of it from his personal collection, which may be the best in the world.
He gave Off-Ramp a tour of the art at his Malibu beach home last week. Yes, he's a professional performer, but you can't fake his enthusiasm and love for Chicano art.
Marin loves the way Chicano art mirrors the Chicano experience, blending the naive and the sophisticated, the collision of classical and pop. As he took us around his house, he was delighted to show us details in this painting and that sculpture, things he loved about it at first, stuff he only noticed after owning it for a year or more. Having good artwork, Marin says, is like watching your kids grow. You watch it change year after year, and find new things to love in it.
The centerpiece of the collection might be in the most intimate space. It's a huge Carlos Almaraz painting of Echo Park Lake. "It's the boating party, the Chicano take on Seurat," Marin said. "A riot of paint, every square inch of this canvas is covered in paint and it's all in motion. It's the most dynamic and mystical thing. It keeps giving. I lay in bed and stare at this painting every day."
His first art show was in San Antonio, and he says it took forever to set up. If I could just get all this work in one room so people could see it, they'd have to agree it was great art, he thought. Sure enough, the art arrived and the museum workers started unpacking the crates.
"And all of a sudden you start to see people coming from all parts of the museum," Marin said. "And at the end of the day the whole museum staff was there, watching the uncrating of these things." From all these people, who had never really understood the breadth and depth of Chicano art, he says there was a collective "Wow."
Bikes for the cycling citizen from Flying Pigeon
Flintridge Preparatory School teachers Tyke O'Brien and Patrick Ferry armed their students with microphones and recorders and told them to emulate Off-Ramp. We were honored. The students produced podcasts about the world around them, including this one from Crysti Wang, Jonathan Hagar, and Matthew Shintaku. The three visited the quirky Cypress Park bike shop called Flying Pigeon. It's Matthew's voice you hear on tape, with shop co-owner Josef Bray-Ali.
Cactus County Cowboys exclusive Off-Ramp performance
Will Ryan, leader of the Cactus County Cowboys, calls their brand of music "Cowboy Skiffle." They entertained Mickey Rooney, Margaret O'Brien, Rose Marie, and the rest of the crowd at the Southern California Motion Picture Council's annual holiday banquet, but Off-Ramp host John Rabe got a special preview as they were warming up. In this iteration, Ryan -- the voice of Tigger for 16 years -- is joined by Westy Westenhofer, John "Presto" Reynolds, "Chaparall Katie" Cavera, "Buckaroo Benny" Brydern, and "Cactus Chloe" Feoranzo.
It's a bird, it's a plane, it's Heroman! Who's Heroman?
It’s a cool February night and I’m standing outside LACMA with my headphones on and microphone in hand. I’m waiting to get in the car of David Fillmore aka Heroman, LA’s only known superhero. We’re going on a ride along so I can get a glimpse of what he’s about.
Fillmore pulls up in his "attack vehicle," a black Nissan SUV wielding a large obtrusive toy clamped to the top that he calls his "raygun." I'm easily distracted by the raygun's cheesy sound effects, pulling the trigger repeatedly on passerby who's faces light up in laughter and confusion.
I ease into my comfy leather seat and start the interview. Fillmore fills me in on his story and mission.
"Many times, stuff will come up where the cops are just uninterested or they don’t have the time or they don’t have the resources or frankly they just don’t give a damn, and in those cases people should have somewhere to turn to. I want to be that person," says Fillmore.
There are no evil villains or radioactive spiders in Fillmore’s story. He got robbed, then got sick and decided to live life to the fullest.
"Well after I was robbed I almost died. I collapsed on a bus in West Hollywood. I went to my doctor and a bunch of tests, a long story short I have ulcerative colitis."
Fillmore's nasty disease is an impetus for doing good. He takes requests for help through his website and receives anywhere from 5-10 pleas a week, some of which he says are a little too outlandish for him.
But also Fillmore spends a lot of his time carousing back alleys and side streets, looking for people up to no good. His pursuits have actually gotten physical at times.
"And I took a step back thinking holy cow this dude just stabbed me, and I looked down and I had this giant gash in my leg. It was so deep I could see my femur."
Fillmore is an observant Jew who sees his caped crusading as an extension of his faith. He says his actions correspond with a Jewish philosophy of repairing the world.
Fillmore criticizes other superheroes for being fakers, noting that they line Hollywood boulevard to be a part of the tourist spectacle and would rather pose for pictures than help someone in need.
"Well I don’t think those guys are fighting any crime. I think they’re just in it for the glory of take my photo, look at me and have a nice holiday precious tourists I guess. That’s not what it’s about. It’s about doing something right and correcting wrongs, because superman, batman-the classic superheroes, that’s what the code is about," Fillmore said.
On the night of our ridealong, Fillmore stayed in the car and didn’t have to tackle any crime. That’s okay, I didn’t feel too much like being Heroboy. But to see Heroman in action in his new movie and read testimonials on his superhero services follow the links to his website.
Betty White Shocker: "I Have a Loving Relationship with a Tapir!"
1/7/2012 UPDATE: The LA Zoo is celebrating Betty White's 90th birthday this month with a cake for the first 900 people through the gate and a special scavenger hunt. Betty won't be there; she's too busy! We taped this interview last summer.
It's true, and when she's petting the tapir, she's thinking about the koala, and possibly the elephant. Betty White, America's sweetheart and author of the memoir "If You Ask Me (And of Course You Won't)," talks with KPCC's John Rabe about the LA Zoo (and its upcoming Beastly Ball fundraiser), acting in "Advise and Consent" under Otto Preminger, and about looking like a grandma.