[Marxism] Socialist nursing home

Louis Proyect lnp3 at panix.com
Wed Mar 9 09:40:37 MST 2005


(PBS will air a documentary on this place next month.)

LA Times, March 9, 2005
Sunset Hall's Red Twilight
By Kurt Streeter, Times Staff Writer

One was a young woman when she spent a night behind bars for attacking a 
policeman at a labor rally. "You're talking to a jailbird," she says. 
"Someone who stood for what she believes. An old red."

Another was just a girl when she became aware of "the extraordinary 
inequalities of the capitalist system." Still another looks up from her 
walker, through 91-year-old eyes, and remembers a pair of anarchist icons 
executed after their 1920s trial: "Sacco and Vanzetti, they went to the 
gallows with such dignity."

There are only 11 of these aging leftists now at Sunset Hall, and the 
retirement home is in jeopardy. Located in an immigrant neighborhood near 
MacArthur Park, it is small, poor and shopworn. Often, when its residents 
die, no one replaces them. Five elderly newcomers, without political 
leanings, recently have come to fill vacancies, but that still leaves 20 
empty rooms.

Once before, when board members tried to close Sunset Hall and sell it, a 
judge ordered the home kept open. But perhaps there is no saving it this time.

Sunset Hall might be the only one of its kind. The nonprofit home was 
established in 1924 by women from a nearby Unitarian church. It was 
intended to house aging religious liberals. As time passed, it catered more 
to residents with a political bent.

"A retirement home that attracts old socialists and liberals?" says Anne 
Katz, an associate professor of gerontology at USC. "Totally unique."

Don Redfoot, a senior policy advisor on housing for AARP, says: "I've 
certainly never heard of anything so tied to an ideology." Then he adds, 
with a chuckle: "The Newt Gingrich Memorial Homes?"

The day of reckoning is March 26. That's when the residents of Sunset Hall 
and its 50 or so dues-paying supporters will vote on its fate.

One plan, a longshot, is to keep it open for another year, hoping for 
donations and new residents. Among the other plans: sell the two-story 
building and buy or build another place in a better neighborhood.

"Unfortunately," says Wendy Caputo, its director, "that will be too late 
for the people living there now. Some of them don't have much in the way of 
family. And so many of them are so frail. What will happen to them?"

Sturdy, Opinionated

Luba Perlin is one. She is 91 and wide-hip sturdy. Like most of the others, 
she has a mind that is slowly betraying her. But because she remains 
opinionated and is one of the only ones left with much energy, she is also 
their unofficial spokeswoman.

"I have the sense that this is a very special place," she says, pronouncing 
her words crisply, emphasizing each syllable with care. "A place for people 
who care about the welfare of the working people and the trades unions, the 
AF of L.

"This place is most precious."

Sunset Hall's concrete-covered quad contains one tall mimosa tree, a few 
dozen other plants and a fishpond drained of water should any of the 
residents fall in. It has a cozy library lined with eye-catching titles: 
"This is Communist China." "The Collected Works of Lenin." "Karl Marx and 
Christian Ethics."

There are no finely trimmed lawns or golf courses. Its residents sit, just 
before lunch, in Zen-like peace in the living room. Some sleep. Some seem 
frozen, not moving or making a sound. Some gaze at the television, distance 
in their eyes.

Then Perlin, as usual, pipes up. "People might believe it is not beautiful 
here," she says, before losing the thought. Her knotted hands caress the 
fine, white hair of 90-year-old Betty Weiss, who often gets confused. Weiss 
was a homemaker who wore her left-of-center politics proudly. Perlin coos 
softly in her ear: Everything is going to be OK. Then she looks up. "What 
was I saying?"

Their visitor reminds her.

"Oh, yes, I believe that Sunset Hall, it is beautiful because it is full of 
the most wonderful idealism. In today's world, I find that highly unusual."

The management at Sunset Hall, which calls itself "a retirement home for 
freethinkers," is careful to note that conservatives are welcome. A 
Republican lived here once. She left. Her story, which has reached mythic 
proportions at Sunset Hall, goes like this:

It was all about the food. Rye bread is a staple in the cafeteria at the 
home, where most residents are Jewish. All that rye bread — the Republican 
couldn't take it. "She wanted white bread," one of the managers says, 
grinning. "White bread."

There is humor here. Most of the residents are women. They joke about how 
frail men seem. "They don't last." And they joke about their own memories. 
"Feels like I lost part of my brain. Oh, well."

They talk about how long ago it was when they were teachers, engineers, 
labor organizers, all with what they call a progressive bent. One of them 
was a typist for the Communist Party.

There is no hurry here. Sitting down to watch CNN in the big living room 
chair means backing down slowly, stumbling for a moment, then getting the 
balance right before falling onto the leather. It can take a whole minute.

Pushing a walker 10 feet to the bathroom can take four minutes.

Figuring out whether to put Sweet'N Low or sugar into a cup of coffee means 
holding both packages out with trembling hands while scanning them, back 
and forth, trying to figure out which is better. That can take five minutes.

"Growing old, it's such work," says Frida Singer, a retired librarian who's 
had socialist leanings since her youth in Chicago. She is tiny, with a sly 
smile. Her white cotton cap is pulled over white bangs.

"I did not know that
. I would have such a hard time controlling my mind," 
she says. "But I do have good things, like my room. And I do still have 
what I believe in. Equality for all people. And the world should be at peace."

Often, she and the others gather to discuss current events, although 
figuring out the details is so difficult.

"Who is our president again?" asks one of the women, once a Communist Youth 
League member. "Bush," replies a teacher, who comes once a week to run the 
discussion.

"Bush?" asks the woman, puzzled.

Then the name drops on her like something heavy from the sky. Bush. Her 
face crinkles. "Bush. Oh, that Bush. He should have stayed in the bushes. 
He's a pain in the butt, pardon my French. Don't like him. He's ruining 
everything we worked for."

The others sit silently. Everything we worked for. Some cup their hands 
around their ears, straining to hear. Some soak it in, but respond only 
with pained smiles. Others are lost in the moment, not appearing 
frustrated, not appearing angry or anxious — just being.

"It's getting harder and harder to reach them," the teacher says afterward. 
"It's uncomfortable. We used to have such good discussions."

Once Full and Thriving

A lot used to be different. Sunset Hall was full and thriving as recently 
as three decades ago.

There was a waiting list. Many residents were recently retired, in their 
60s and 70s, still with sharp minds. They included blacklisted 
screenwriters, editors of communist newspapers and confidants of Upton 
Sinclair, the socialist writer who in 1934 almost became governor of 
California.

By the 1980s, though, it all had begun to fade. The neighborhood around 
Sunset Hall grew dangerous. The nearby First Unitarian Church was 
struggling, and fewer of its members moved in.

Worse, for the fate of Sunset Hall, a generation of radicals that made some 
Americans fear the "Red Menace" were dying off.

"There's no denying it," says Larry Abbott, a retired teacher who is 
president of Sunset Hall's board. "The dissolution of the left, that's 
taken its toll."

By the early 1990s, when only 18 residents remained after four died in two 
months, the board tried to sell the property. Only a last-gasp push by 
supporters and angry residents, along with the judge's restraining order 
that held off a sale until the membership could vote on it, prevented 
Sunset Hall from closing.

Looking to fill its rooms, which cost about $1,800 a month, the home began 
courting elders who cared little for politics. It didn't help.

In February, after reviewing a $300,000 deficit and an operation running 
largely on gifts and loans, the board once again recommended putting Sunset 
Hall on the market.

Caputo, the director, has spent recent days breaking the bad news. Most of 
the residents can't grasp what is going on, she says. "It shocks them. Then 
it just fades away."

That's the case even with Luba Perlin. Like so many of the others, she is 
often unable to recall things that happened 15, 10, even three minutes ago.

But she, like the others, still has her politics, and, in slivers that 
appear suddenly and transform her, she still has the distant past — years 
when she lived what she believed.

"It is good to look back on all of the wonderful things I have done, even 
though I do not recall all of it," she says, smiling, as she so often does. 
She twirls a finger through her long gray-and-black hair.

"Who are you? You look familiar but I cannot place you."

Her visitor, who has been there several times over the last week, says he 
came to hear her story.

"Oh, marvelous," she says. "Well, we did it for the workers. We wanted more 
equality for the working people. I fought for that. I marched and we had 
meetings and tried to organize. It worked sometimes. Sometimes not."

Perlin begins shuffling, slowly, along the sparse walkways. She speaks of 
her father, a communist, "a man left of the left." A man who taught her 
everything she came to believe in. "That the bankers and the capitalists 
were people you should keep an eye on. They are often up to no good. And 
that working people usually get the short end."

She keeps remembering. The years spent supporting political causes — for 
socialists, feminists, environmentalists and progressive Democrats — at her 
Spanish-style Echo Park home, once a magnet for radicals living near downtown.

"Did I tell you that Cesar Chavez came to my house?" she asks. Her heavy 
brows furrow as she tries to recall. But a wall stands between her and that 
moment. She sighs, happily admitting that she just cannot remember why he 
was there, only that she shook his hand and that she assured him — 
"strongly, and with great conviction" — that she supported his efforts to 
organize farmworkers.

She sits at a table, in front of a slice of apple pie. She looks at photos 
taken of her four years ago, protesting during a transit strike, and 
another of Sunset Hall residents rallying two years ago at an antiwar protest.

"Hey, wait a minute, that's me," she says, pointing. "I guess I was there. 
There were so many protests in my lifetime. You know what? I can't remember 
all of them. Oh, well."

Then she just sits there, off in some other place, slowly dabbing at her pie.

And whistling.

"I wish she would stop with that," mutters Pauline Manpearl. "She never 
stops. It drives me nuts."

A stout woman with a button nose, chubby cheeks and gray hair cut 
fashionably short, Manpearl is also 91. Along with Perlin and a handful of 
others, she is able to walk with no help.

Like Perlin, she cannot remember the short term. Like Perlin, she 
recognizes the way her mind is faltering, and laughs. Then the past comes 
back into her head, as clearly as the sunlight streaming down on her face.

"You know how it started? It started in the Ukraine 
 "

For the fourth time on this day, she speaks of how her family fled pogroms 
to come to America. How they came through Ellis Island and ended up in 
Minnesota. How she learned about communism from her mother.

She tells, for the second time, about being arrested in Minneapolis for 
hitting a police officer over the head during a protest march, and about 
how the judge said that communism was actually a good idea but she should 
keep it to herself.

And about the jail. "In my cell, there was a prostitute. I told her what we 
were there for. She said, 'Maybe I will become a communist.' I remember 
thinking, 'Great, that's exactly what we need, prostitutes'
. What we were 
fighting for was for a better world so that they would not have to be 
prostitutes."

Her mind stops there.

She cannot remember, as her grown son, Jerry Sullivan, does in a telephone 
interview, her move to California in 1942. Or her house in Redondo Beach, 
her loss of a husband, her second marriage, or the meetings at her home 
where many of the socialist ideas discussed were kept from her children.

The children might have talked about them at school, and that might have 
been dangerous.

"Some of those old memories will be with her, always, and no one else," 
says Sullivan, now a 70-year-old engineer. "They kept it secret. Maybe they 
had to."

Music and Memories

Pauline Manpearl and Luba Perlin move through the living room. Jazz streams 
from a boombox sitting on the television. It makes Perlin remember the 
post-Depression years when she was a modern dancer with the Lester Horton 
Dance Troupe in Los Angeles. It takes Manpearl back to the Swedish Hall in 
Minneapolis.

Separately, they dance for a moment, swaying gently, Perlin twirling and 
then bowing. They both collapse on couches, tired, breathing hard and 
reflective.

"We did some good," says Perlin.

"We tried," Manpearl replies, leaning back. "Things didn't exactly turn out 
the way we wanted. But we did do some good. The eight-hour workday. Women's 
rights. Things like that
. Just think of the world we would have if people 
didn't spend money on bullets. If everybody had enough to eat, a good job 
and a roof over their heads. Just think."

--

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