THE SUNDAY PROFILE : Street Fighter : Maria Mendoza Battles for O.C. Homeless on Different Fronts

Some 50 years ago, young Maria Mendoza peered past the kitchen curtains and studied the faces of despair. The men in tattered, dusty clothes were in the back yard again, chewing on the neatly cut sandwiches Maria’s mother had made for them, and the girl stared with fascination at their ragged hats and broken grins.

“I didn’t understand why my mother would do that, why she would help these strangers,” Mendoza remembered. “Then she told me, ‘Regardless of how little you have, you always have enough to share with people worse off.’ That was a way of life in our home, and it became my way of life.”

Despite the decades, Mendoza can still recall the expressions worn by the men who gathered each day behind her childhood home on Alpine Street near L.A.’s Chinatown. Some seemed hollow and tired, others edgy and haunted. She sees those same expressions most every day as homeless men, women and children file past her into the shelters she runs at the National Guard armories in Santa Ana and Fullerton.

Mendoza, 65, who lives in Santa Ana, is the county’s homeless issues coordinator, a job title that still raises some eyebrows (“You mean Orange county has homeless people?” she says with a mocking chuckle), despite estimates that between 10,000 and 15,000 people live on the streets, half of them children. The lessons of her youth still serve and drive her, but these days her job is not as simple as making sandwiches on sunny afternoons.

What she does requires her to be both a bureaucrat and a social worker. One day she may be testifying before the state Legislature, and the next night she is handing out blankets at the shelter’s door. She may find herself on the phone with sniping activists all morning and then, a few hours later, stepping between a homeless couple about to come to blows over ownership of a sleeping bag.

The post also puts her in the line of fire from the many critics of the county’s efforts to help the homeless. Some advocates say her presence at least provides them with a person to call among the faceless bureaucracy, but other less charitable activists say her salary would be better spent on blankets and food.

Lately, much of her time has been spent fielding questions about the county’s bankruptcy. Everyone, especially the nonprofit agencies that get funding and support through her office, wants to know how the cuts in the county’s near future will affect services to the area’s most disadvantaged populace.

“All I can tell them is I just don’t know; no one does,” Mendoza said. “I think everyone expects the worst, and I’m not sure they shouldn’t.”

Every county program and position is at risk following the bond investment debacle, officials say. Mendoza knows, too, that homelessness has never been a rallying issue among the county’s leaders, with some officials reluctant to even admit there is a problem.

“I think if I left this job, if I retired or was cut, it’d be gone for good,” she said of the post that was created for her in 1991. “I don’t think anyone else would be brought in. The homeless are just not that high of a priority. They don’t vote, they don’t have power. Often they don’t have a voice.”

Sometimes, though, Mendoza provides that voice. Last year, she marshaled support in 16 counties across the state and led a statewide campaign to convince Gov. Pete Wilson to reverse his 1993 decision to eliminate the armory shelter program. The coalition led by Mendoza sent a flood of faxes, letters, studies and resolutions to state lawmakers and the governor and, by many accounts, preserved the program that lets the armories double as shelters during foul-weather months.

In Orange County, saving the two armory shelter sites translates to preserving 250 beds in a county where all other shelters add up to just 900 beds. And while the armories are open to anyone, many of the private, nonprofit shelters providing those other 900 beds restrict their clientele, perhaps taking only single mothers or turning away people with drug or mental problems.

Tim Shaw is often a critic of the county from his post as executive director of the Homeless Issues Task Force, a coalition of care providers, religious groups and advocates that works to focus anti-homelessness efforts. But Shaw had nothing but praise for Mendoza’s tireless efforts to keep the armories available as havens for the homeless.

“I don’t think we’d still have armory (shelter) today if it weren’t for Maria Mendoza,” Shaw said. “She is terribly committed. She always has been, and her commitment has grown as she’s become more involved. You can’t go (to the armory shelters) every night and not be. Keeping those armories open has been her major accomplishment, without a doubt.”

Shaw, who works at the United Way offices in Irvine, pointed out his window toward the churning, gray February clouds and late afternoon drizzle.

“Take today,” he said. “Look at that. What would we do tonight without those beds?”

The future is always an uncertain and uncomfortable topic to bring up in homeless shelters, but the recent mood has been especially dour at the gymnasium-like armories in the face of bad weather and the budget crisis. Full-capacity crowds file in most evenings, and as the makeshift community lines up, first to sign in and get blankets, then for food and finally for showers, rumors abound. Some say the shelter is closing, others offer more colorful scenarios.

“I heard the cops and fire department are rounding up (homeless) people and dumping them in Mexico,” one woman confides as she brushes back her damp white hair. A young man rummaging through a backpack on a nearby cot shakes his head and laughs, but then adds, “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

The armories open at 5:30 p.m. on most rainy or cold days between Dec. 1 and March 15. Buses round up the clients from assigned pick-up spots each day and ferry them to the shelter, where they also get access to other support programs, such as free HIV testing and clothing drives.

The well-practiced routine has the feel of a military operation, especially with the khaki-clad guardsman strolling past the rows of cots and the security guard assigned to keep the peace until morning. On the back wall, a National Guard poster reads, “The better you are, the better you have to be.” In the middle of it all, the 5-foot-tall Mendoza gives directions, defuses minor crises and gives out a few hugs and encouragements to members of the odd overnight colony.

“I learned very early on that you have to speak to these people as equals, you have to treat them with dignity and you have to be sincere about it,” Mendoza said as the evening’s food line began to form on a rainy Valentine’s Day. “They deserve that. Everyone does.”

A woman with a broad, warm smile and a blue hat pulled down tight walked up behind Mendoza and tentatively tapped her on the shoulder.

“Maria, this is for you,” she said, handing Mendoza a red envelope.

When Mendoza saw the card inside, bearing about 50 signatures she recognized from the shelter’s attendance log, she looked for a moment as if she might cry.

Afterward, the woman, Myrtle McDonald (“Just like the restaurant, you know, the golden arches”), explained why she had set aside her lunch money for the card and why she spent much of the day circulating it.

“She deserves that,” she said. “She’s such a sweet lady, and she’s responsible for the help we get. We know that.”

McDonald paused and searched for the right words.

“All our needs are met because of her,” she said. “I love her. Did you see the way she embraced me over there? She never treats you like you’re less than a human, you know? She seems to understand what it’s like.”

In what seems like another life, Mendoza once found herself on the edge--she lost her home and car, her resources and even her marriage. It was the early ‘70s, and her life was falling apart just when things had looked most secure.

Her husband had expanded his successful plumbing-supply company into an extremely profitable import and export business, and he was eager to buy a Newport Beach home so he and his wife could enjoy their newfound wealth in style. The two had just celebrated their 25th wedding anniversary, and three of their children were grown, the fourth finishing high school.

Mendoza agreed, reluctantly, when he told her to quit her job as an administrator and teacher at St. Juliana’s in Fullerton. She had been teaching at Catholic schools since her college days in the 1950s at Immaculate Heart College in Los Angeles. The career and her students were close to her heart, and she wondered how she could fill the void in her life.

“I found myself confused by some of the standards and priorities among the new community of friends around us,” she said of her time in Newport Beach. “Money was really important. There was no satisfaction for me. The things that were important to me were gone.”

The marriage was suffering. Her husband encouraged Mendoza to help with the business, but that only increased tensions. Then, in 1975, her husband went to visit his blue jeans factory in his native Mexico and did not return. Without fanfare, the marriage was over, although it was never formalized by a divorce. Her husband’s absence left behind unpaid bills and no resources. Mendoza was in shock when the debtors came and took the stateside business, the home and the cars.

“It was almost like I was dead because I had to sell off my clothes and jewelry, everything, just to get by,” Mendoza said. She moved in with her son and began to look for work. She saw an ad for a job counseling position, and she called. That job led to other posts working with the disadvantaged, and her second career began to blossom.

As the ‘70s wore on, her husband made overtures toward a reconciliation, but, Mendoza said, too much had been lost.

“I thought my marriage would last forever, and it was very painful when it didn’t,” she said. He died this past July. “He lost more than I did,” Mendoza said, referring to her four grandchildren, whose pictures she proudly shows.

By 1990, Mendoza had forged a reputation as a consensus builder and a hard worker, a figure whom could be trusted and had strong ties to the Latino communities of Orange County. She was working for the county as a budget analyst, overseeing local nonprofit programs in 1991 when the Board of Supervisors tabbed her as the best candidate for a post dedicated to homeless issues.

Nowadays, the job fills most of her time, with long hours and evening trips to the armories making the job more than full time. She finds it takes more effort to set aside time for family and her two main pastimes--dancing and reading.

“I listen to books on tape while I’m driving around, though, so that helps,” she said.

The work suits her, however, and creates “a kind of bridge” to the altruism she learned as a youth.

“I think I’ve done a good job,” the soft-spoken Mendoza said. With a wry smile, she added, “Now if I can only keep my job.”

Apprehension is the watchword on the third floor of the county administrative building since the bankruptcy was declared in December. Staff meetings are often morose and lengthy, and idle hallway chatter has been replaced by solemn discussions of cutbacks, layoffs and doomed projects.

More than $40 million has been cut from the general budget already, and leaders are braced to cut more than twice that amount next summer.

The cuts are likely to pummel assorted services to the poor and homeless. County officials have projected that the Health Care Agency may lose a quarter of its budget, while social service agencies could lose up to 50% of budgeted resources.

Mendoza may be on surer ground than some of her colleagues. Federal funds completely cover the cost of her salary and the programs she oversees, such as clothing drives and the armory shelter effort. But, as County Environmental Management director Michael Ruane notes, no budget item is safe.

“The Board (of Supervisors) has made it very clear they want to review the entire scope of business that the county is involved in,” said Ruane, whose agency funnels federal housing funds into Mendoza’s budget. “Believe me, we are going to be looking at every program.”

Many county programs and services are mandated by law, meaning they must exist in some form. The position of homeless issues coordinator and the armory program, however, do not fall into that category, so county leaders could opt to wipe them out altogether and use the money elsewhere. Indeed, one county official who declined to be named said that could easily happen in the heat of budget slashing.

A change in the way the federal government does business, however, may make Mendoza’s post too valuable to cut or reduce, one official said.

The Housing and Urban Development agency is being restructured, and starting next fiscal year, more money will be sent to local agencies via bloc grants, allowing local officials more autonomy in choosing worthy programs and projects. Under the new model, local panels would be formed to decide what public and private projects are worthy of support.

The county’s housing and redevelopment director, Dhongchai (Bob) Pusavat, suggests that Orange County may have gotten a head start on creating that local apparatus by appointing Mendoza four years ago.

“I love to see her energy and conviction in a fellow county employee too,” Pusavat said. “She’ll stand up to the homeless advocates when they’re wrong, and she’ll stand up to me or anyone at the county to do the same. That’s what we need.”

While Pusavat praises his colleague for playing advocate, there are activists and workers within the nonprofit agencies that work with Mendoza who say she too often plays the good soldier.

“She really has very little power and a real reluctance to make waves,” said an organizer of a nonprofit agency providing outreach to area homeless. Because of Mendoza’s influence, the organizer spoke on condition of anonymity.

‘I’m sure she has genuine concerns about the homeless, but she is far, far more concerned about politics and keeping dissent capped.”

Another member of the activist community wondered aloud whether Mendoza’s salary would be better spent buying blankets or food.

Mendoza knows some activists view her as the arm of an uncaring government or, maybe worse, a token figure who is trotted out only to prove the county is paying attention to the homeless issue. She sighs when asked about it, and her voice takes on an edge.

“I have to go on and do the best I can and just ignore all of that,” she said. “I could get in a deep hole and sit and think about that too long, but what would that accomplish? I know I have five different bosses (on the Board of Supervisors) with five different philosophies. I have to represent all of them and recognize the limitations I have.

“I have my own opinions,” Mendoza said, chuckling again. She looks as if she wants to say more, but she just smiles, instead. “If I want to express them, I’ll have to wait until I retire and become an activist.”

Maria Mendoza

Age: 65

Background: Born in Los Angeles and attended Immaculate Heart College, Marymount College and Cal State Long Beach. Moved to Orange County in 1954. Began teaching career while she was in college and served as vice principal at St. Juliana’s in Fullerton in the 1970s. Began working for the county government in 1977. Appointed homeless issues coordinator in 1991.

Family: Husband, Jorge Mendoza, died last year after a long separation. Four children (Elizabeth, Leticia, A. David and George) and four grandchildren.

Pastime: Music, dancing and reading.

On homeless activists and advocates who use hostile or abusive rhetoric: “Sometimes you can accomplish a lot more by staying at a table and talking than by throwing a tantrum and walking away. I really have not made any enemies through the years because I can discuss the issues without getting personal or judgmental. I think that’s more effective.”

On criticism of county employees: “I think everyone has gone up to a counter and been treated rudely. I know I have. And I know there are people employed by the county who are semi-retired, just marking time and taking long lunches. It makes people mad, and I don’t blame them. I saw all that and promised myself that when I can no longer give anything to the county, I’m going to retire.”

On the value of her interacting with homeless people: “They know this office is here, they know I’m here and at the armory. It gives them a name and face, which is sometimes hard to get. It may be that speaking with me is the only opportunity they get to speak with someone in the (County Administration) building.”