By Dyson McCutcheon
When most people think of California, the first thing that comes to mind is Los Angeles. LA is known for its nonstop chaos—whether something good or bad is happening. Walking through the city, you catch the scents of street food and bus exhaust, hear the constant honking of cars, and the buzz of construction. With all this noise and movement, it’s easy to forget about the places that don’t fit the LA stereotype.
I had always heard about Skid Row—seen it in the news, heard stories from adults, or even passed by it sometimes. Around the age of 12, my uncle started a foundation that focused on charity work, from raising money to building houses and stores. One of the things I volunteered for was feeding the homeless. We would wake up early, around 5 a.m., to walk through Skid Row and hand out meals. That early morning mist would settle over the streets, making everything feel still for a moment. The difference between hearing about Skid Row or seeing it on TV versus actually being there—talking to people, looking into their eyes, getting a glimpse of their lives—was eye-opening. It changed my perspective, not just making me grateful for what I had, but also teaching me a lot about the world.
Growing up as a young Black boy in California, community and family always meant a lot to me. It was something I took pride in. My experience with community was unique because I lived in a predominantly white, wealthy area, yet my parents and most of my family grew up in the opposite circumstances. Visiting family and hearing their stories gave me a firsthand look at a different reality. I saw the struggles of poverty, how entire groups of people get overlooked. Skid Row was filled with those forgotten people, and it was heartbreaking. Walking those sidewalks, carefully stepping around needles and human waste, I felt like I was stepping into a whole different world. Handing out food bags and hygiene kits, I realized how easily any one of us could have ended up in that situation.
People were everywhere, and at times, we had to form a barrier around ourselves because crowds would rush toward us for food and supplies. I don’t want to paint the homeless population as dangerous, but I do want to help whoever is reading this truly understand the environment. Some people ran up to us, excited and grateful. Others refused the help, feeling like it was an insult, as if accepting it meant being looked down on. And then there were those completely checked out, lost in drug use. We heard a mix of “Thank you” and “God bless you,” but also “Get away from me” and “That food looks nasty.” I would say, “You’re welcome” or just nod, sometimes at a loss for words. I couldn’t pretend to understand what they were going through or what that one meal meant to them. I had no real way of grasping what it’s like to not know if you’ll eat that day, to have to sleep on the sidewalk, to have no roof over your head. But I knew for sure that I was making a difference. Even if it was small, I was doing something good.
One moment that stuck with me was a conversation with a man in his 40s. He told me he had once worked in construction but was injured and needed surgery. He got prescribed painkillers, and like so many others, he got hooked. Even after he recovered, addiction took everything from him. Society often looks at homeless people and assumes they put themselves in that situation. But many just caught a bad break or were born into circumstances they couldn’t escape. Seeing kids on Skid Row broke my heart. They didn’t choose that life. They were just born into it, already at a disadvantage. And when I say disadvantaged, I don’t even mean financially—I mean not even having the basic stability of a bed to sleep in. No kid should have to grow up in those conditions.
That morning, I felt proud. Proud of what we were doing, proud that it was real—before social media made charity performative, before people started doing good deeds just for likes. It was for the betterment of the community, for looking out for others. It also felt meaningful as a young Black man doing this work, especially with the majority of our group being Black. Too often, we’re painted in a certain light, but here we were, showing up, giving back.
This experience made me realize how easy it is to ignore issues that don’t directly affect us. People drive by Skid Row every day but never stop to see what’s really happening. But I know we made an impact. Every year we went back, and every year, our group got bigger. More people wanted to step up and help. I left Skid Row that morning feeling different—more aware, more open-hearted, and more determined to keep giving back, not just for one day, but for the long run.