I lost faith at an early age.
It could have been at the church on Fresno Street during one of the endless Padre Martin sermons.
Or the sense of helplessness and loneliness when I was robbed on my street.
Perhaps it was the feeling of intolerance towards people like me in the summer of 1994 when the Californians sought to Save Our State.
Maybe it was the overdosed man who the paramedics carried out dead from the laundromat bathroom off Brooklyn Avenue while my mother and I looked on. It was during the rinsing cycle I think.
It would make sense that it was the sum of all things that added to my questioning and ultimate loss.
In any event, I lost faith at an early age.
