When Father Greg Boyle of Homeboy Industries received the Presidential Medal of Freedom from President Biden on May 3, I thought about stopping by to talk to him, but then hesitated.
He's not one to bow and he knew he'd give credit to everyone but himself. So it would be hard to find a new angle, even as the city of Los Angeles proclaims May 19 to be Father Greg Boyle Day in honor of the man who started the world's largest gang intervention and rehabilitation program. .
But then an idea occurred to me. What if you talked to former gang members and prisoners instead of the patron saint of second chances, who turns 70 on Sunday? They know him better than anyone and maybe he would discover things he didn't know.
A photograph of Father Greg Boyle receiving the Presidential Medal of Freedom from President Joe Biden was added to the walls of his office at Homeboy Industries in Los Angeles.
(Genaro Molina/Los Angeles Times)
My timing was perfect, because Boyle was out of the country.
“Go ahead,” he said in an email from Ireland.
I stopped by Homeboy on Tuesday and spent a few minutes with Pamela Herrera, 39, who arrived in 2011 after getting out of prison.
“When I walked into his office, he asked me, 'Hey, kid. What are you here for?'” Herrera said. “I told him I wanted to change my life.”
And she did it. Herrera is general manager of Homegirl Café and, although she had never heard of the Presidential Medal of Freedom, she said Boyle is a worthy recipient. I asked her if she had seen him wearing the medal, because I know that if she had won one of those, she would wear it everywhere.
“He needs to do that,” he agreed, but no, he hadn't seen the medal.
Hector Verdugo, associate CEO of Homeboy Industries, smiles as he shares stories about Father Greg Boyle.
(Genaro Molina/Los Angeles Times)
Héctor Verdugo, 49, also did not know what had come of the medal. The former gang member, who arrived 18 years ago and now helps run Homeboy as associate executive director, knew what he would do if he won the hardware.
“I would use it,” he said. “I was going down Whittier Boulevard on my motorcycle.”
I can't begin to tell you how much I love that image, but unfortunately, that's not Boyle's style. In fact, Verdugo said, the father has the habit of giving away things that are given to him.
“The only time you'll see him keep a gift is if it's a bottle of whiskey,” Verdugo said.
Now we're getting somewhere. Boyle likes single malt Scotch whiskey and Verdugo has observed a tradition in which clergy drink at a “social” evening.
I knew I liked the Jesuits.
I asked Verdugo and others if Boyle, behind the scenes, is a tough boss. No one had anything to say, but Verdugo said there's a rite of passage at Homeboy that Boyle is adamant about.
“He takes you out for a steak dinner,” Verdugo said, “and then he says, 'Would you like steak, son?' Or the waiter will ask. And friends say: 'Well done?' He'll say, 'Order a burger.' You're not going to have a well-done steak. That just ruins it.'”
“He actually deserved that whole award,” Jarvis Thompson said of Father Greg Boyle receiving the Presidential Medal of Freedom at Homeboy Industries in Los Angeles.
(Genaro Molina/Los Angeles Times)
Who would have thought that a man so generous and accommodating (so famous for not judging) could be so particular when it comes to ordering the steak?
I tested Verdugo's story with Jarvis Thompson, 30, who told me he traveled to Texas with Boyle to give a speech about his transformation at Homeboy, where he works in community relations.
Texas is a cattle state, I said. Did you go out for a steak and, if so, did Father Boyle offer you any advice?
“I wanted it to be done right,” Thompson said.
And what did Boyle tell him?
“You're going to ruin the steak,” Thompson said.
Stefanie Ríos, 39, assistant manager of the cafe, had one more piece of information of interest.
“I mean, sometimes he swears,” Rios said.
I hope you are sincere in your confession.
To be honest, the only thing everyone wanted to talk about was a man who created a place where you feel at home.
Thompson calls Boyle “Dad,” as do many others, including the 49-year-old Verdugo. I sat with him in Boyle's office, where there is a photograph of President Biden placing the medal around his neck.
“This one is special. The leader of our nation is honoring our dad, our father, and I don't say father in a priestly way,” Verdugo said. “I say father as if he were our father. And I feel honored that that's my dad. He calls me. I called him. He calls me his son, you know what I mean? And now he is receiving praise from one of the most powerful people in the world. As it should be.”
Homeboy hasn't worked for everyone over the years. Some have fallen, some cannot overcome the damage they have absorbed or inflicted on others, and many have died young.
But it has worked for thousands of people, in large part because Boyle understands the deep layers of their problems and the countless obstacles to recovery.
“He always told me to never stop coming back,” said Ríos, who was in and out of prison for years. “He said, 'I don't care how many times it takes. I don't care if you're wrong. My doors will always be open to you and you will never give up.'”
Noel Rubio, from left, Hector Verdugo, Associate CEO of Homeboy Industries, Taloma Miller and Steve Montoya share their stories about Father Greg Boyle at Homeboy Industries. “He has blessed me a lot,” Miller said of Father Greg.
(Genaro Molina/Los Angeles Times)
Noel Rubio, 62, a kitchen worker at Homeboy, said he sold drugs when he was young and often saw Boyle riding around the neighborhood on his bicycle.
“I wanted to steal his bicycle because he wanted a beach bike,” Rubio said. “He said, 'You have to stop selling drugs and come work for us.'”
Rubio ignored Boyle and spent half his life in prison.
“Thank God he was able to find me,” Rubio said. “Since I've been here, he taught me to love people, to respect them.”
Father Boyle had a radical idea, said kitchen worker Manuel Ornelas, 50, who heard about Homeboy while in prison. I asked him what that idea was.
“That we deserve a second chance. That he believed in us when no one else did,” Ornelas said. “If you know his story, he was in the middle of shootings. …He was willing to risk his life to communicate with us.”
Line cook Taloma Miller, 51, said she spiraled into addiction and incarceration after her 14-year-old son, basketball prodigy Semaj, was murdered in 2020. One day she saw Boyle in a clip of television news and he thought it was Santa Claus. .
“I thought, 'She has a beautiful spirit.' I want to be there,'” Miller said. “When I walked through the doors and saw him, he was just smiling. … He hugs me, he tells me: 'I love you.' He prays for me. …I ask him, 'Am I in the right place?' He says, 'You're here, right? How do you feel?' “I feel very good being here because there is nothing like being at home.”
Verdugo said he was impressed by Boyle's patience and generosity, but he often wondered if the newcomers needed a firmer hand.
“I would say you have more patience than me. … They are taking advantage of you,” Verdugo said. “And he said, 'No, son. “I’m giving them the advantage.”
A few years ago, I asked Boyle if he ever considered retiring. He told me that the Jesuits retire in the cemetery, and that seems to be what Homeboy's family expects of him.
“I believe man has a purpose on this earth,” said Steve Montoya, 36, who doesn't see Boyle hang him.
“To be honest, I think he's going to do this until the end,” Thompson said.
“When he's in heaven, he'll do this,” Miller said. “He will send his special workers, his special elves and his little angels to take care of this foundation. This is a foundation that will never be shaken.”
True to form, Boyle's official reaction to being one of 19 people to receive the nation's highest civilian honor in May was to say that the recognition “honors the many thousands of men and women who have passed through our doors. . since 1988”. She added that she “recognizes the dignity and nobility of her and the courage of her tenderness” and marks the need to “invest in people and create together a cherished community of belonging.”
A whiskey and a steak for that.
Half cooked, of course.
