Little Rock, Arkansas

Little Rock.  It is a city that would probably never make your list of top ten places to visit in your lifetime.  Yet, Little Rock holds a rich piece of American history that became one of the many defining moments of the Civil Rights Movement.  If you don’t know what happened there, you should read about it.  The story is an incredibly inspiring account of life after segregation for nine young African American students.  At the time, I don’t think they realized the magnitude of change that their actions would reach.  But with remarkable courage and unvarying bravery, these nine young people fought not only for their own civil rights, but for the civil rights for all African Americans.  

After the Brown v. Board of Education decision in 1954, which overruled the “separate but equal” doctrine, the courts mandated that desegregation in the schools must begin.  However, the way in which schools were supposed to do this was unclear, and many schools remained as they were, “separate but equal.”  It wasn’t until 1957, three years later, that the Brown v. Board of Education decision would be put to the test.  The governor of Arkansas, Governor Faubus, believed that it was unconstitutional to require schools to integrate and used the National Guard to bar African American students from entering Little Rock Central High School.  However, nine African American high school students aged 14-16 voluntarily transferred to Central High School to fight for their rights.  They rightfully believed that separate could never be equal and although they would not be allowed to participate in any extracurricular activities at Central High School, they knew that if they did not take a stand now that things would never change.  So, they endured physical and verbal harassment for the entire school year.

In visiting Central High School, you can really feel the scale of importance of the Little Rock Nine’s courageous acts.  Their bravery is incredibly inspiring and serves as a reminder that separate is not equal and we must continue to advocate for our students, providing equity in educational opportunities for all.

When I took a look at our travel schedule for this year, I thought Little Rock was going to be my least favorite place to visit.  Now, as I reflect on the experience, it was my favorite trip so far.  The knowledge and perspective I gained from a town so different from my own is indescribable.  I think everyone should get a chance to see something like that.

Enticed

So I have begun working on another story.  This time, I'm actually in love with the idea and will work on constructing my first novel while being enrolled in a fiction writing course through LMU Extension for the next five weeks.  I've said it before and I'll say it again, but my goal is to have a novel finished and published before I turn 25.  Ten months to go...

Here is the premise:
What if a young woman who couldn't put the past behind her had an opportunity to travel into the past and change it but realized that by changing one detail, she would lose everything?  It is the story of a woman who fought to gain back her life after realizing the past is a part of who you are-changing it changes everything.

As always, I appreciate feedback.  Keep checking back for more updates!
Love,
T Leigh

Butterfly

           I hopped in my brand new car and started to head home.  It was only a month old, but the dirt and smog just sat there on the pearly white paint mocking my efforts to fit in.  I couldn’t afford this car.  I couldn’t even afford to give it the $10 car wash that it so greatly deserved.  But I drove it like I had the money.  Like I didn’t need the money setting me back almost $500 every month for the next six years. 

A few short minutes later, I arrived home.  Trudging up the front steps, I fumbled through my purse looking for my keys.  Unlocking the front gate and then the front door, I pushed it open and found him sitting there on the couch watching television.  When he saw that I was home, he immediately muted the TV and got up to give me the greatest teddy bear hug and kiss on the forehead, just as he always did.  He offered to make me breakfast for lunch and although I was exhausted and not very hungry, I let him.  There was something about the way he always cooked for me that made him so much more attractive.  It was his way of telling me he loved me, without ever having to actually say the words.  He promised to take me with him to Germany and as he sautéed the spinach and onions and folded together the tomatoes and eggs to make the most perfect omelet, I watched him and I fantasized about our life together there.  He promised that we would be leaving very soon, within the next couple of months.  Foolishly, I let my head and my heart agree to follow him.  There was nothing holding me back.  As much as I loved my friends and roommates, I hated living in that house.  I hated sleeping on the couch.  I became dependant on the idea that we were going to escape all our troubles together.

            I was basically hooked on him.  Addicted to how he made me feel- like I was the only girl in the world who understood him, who cared for him, who loved him.  At nights, we would sneak out through the kitchen door, passing the laundry room, to the side of our house for our nightly routine.  He would pull from his pockets a small clear baggie, the tiniest little pipe he claimed gave you a quicker, better high, and his blue lighter.  It was the one he said matched the color of my eyes when I was happy.  He packed the bowl and I stared straight ahead into the winding vines and thick brush of leaves that covered the fence we shared with the neighbors.  Every time we came out here I stood in disbelief that I was about to smoke. Again.  The first time I smoked with him was because he told me it would help me sleep.  He said I would be able to tune out all the background noise of the video games that were being played until dawn the next day.  The first night I excused myself to the bathroom to splash water on my face.  Looking up, I noticed that my eyes had become puffy and red from sleep deprivation.  I decided to give it a try. Almost two months later, I came to rely on the sleep I got when I was high.

            So there we were outside in the dark once again.  The side of our house was our safe little alley way, hidden from streetlights and passer-bys.  He took a hit and passed it to me.  My turn.  I always turned away as I lit it up.  I don’t know if I didn’t want him to see me because I was more embarrassed of my techniques or ashamed that this became the one thing I needed to calm myself down at nights.  I lit the smallest green plant and watched it cherry in the dark night signaling that it was ready for inhalation.  I brought the pipe to my lips and took a deep breath in closely watching the red consume more of the green.  The vivid colors and the way it burned fascinated me so much so that I got lost in time.  I held my breath for as long as I could and passed it back to him.  Slowly, I began to exhale.  The smoke made one long strand to the sky, wisps through the air like a spider web.  It began to swirl around in the night leisurely taking the form of a claw that made its way into my mind releasing it of any clarity I thought I had.  It reminds me of the melodic accent of Ariel’s voice curling towards the seashell necklace when Ursula seizes it by making her sing.  That’s how I envision it happening anyways.  I soon became consumed with everything around me.  I could hear even the tiniest of details in the night- the conversation taking place three doors down, the crickets chirping, the news that played on the tv. I felt everything.  The slight breeze rustled through my hair, which I had let fall ever so softly across my shoulders and down my back.  At times, small strands made their way across my forehead and he reached up to sweep it off my face.  The wind raised the little hairs on my arms sending a chill down my spine. At the same time, he rested his hand, equally strong and gentle, on my shoulder.  He let his fingertips trace my collarbone as they found their way up the flesh of my neck, lifting my chin ever so slightly.  My eyes met his and the wings of the butterflies inside my stomach began to flutter.

The Coffee Shop

     "Oh my gosh, what a day! I cannot wait to get off work.  I'm so exhausted I am going to pass out in two   seconds as soon as I get home."

     "It hasn't really been that busy today, Elisa. Why are you so tired?"

     "Ugh, my roommates were up until three in the morning playing their stupid video games again.  I could not sleep."

     "Oh, that sucks. Well, I hope you get some sleep tonight."

     "Thanks Mariah! See you tomorrow."

     Walking through the double doors to the back room which housed our industrial size refrigerators, sinks, and dishwashers, I thought about that day.  Mariah was right, it hadn't really been that busy.  And I only worked a five hour shift.  But with the hour of sleep I got, it seemed like the day was never going to end.  The lines never seemed to fall below three people.  One lady even made me cry.  It was the first time I had ever cried on the job.  She had a really complicated drink order, which I usually have no problem with.  It's not that they are really all that complicated, it just takes a couple extra seconds to get out the soy milk instead of the regular 2% and sometimes that annoys the baristas.  I poured the soy milk into the pitcher and carefully began to steam it.  This was my favorite part.  I always made sure the steam wand was tucked right below the surface of the milk, creating an airy, frothy foam that tasted delicious atop the decadent vanilla lattes and dry cappuccinos. Once the foam had reached the perfect consistency, I placed the steel pitcher on the ledge, letting the wand dive deeper into the milk, heating it to the consummate temperature which happened to be the perfect degree for drinking.  As the milk began to heat, I felt a sneeze coming on.  I took a step back and turned my head, burying my nose deep into my shoulder making sure that in no way were my germs getting near that succulent treat.  I'm pretty sure my hands were at least three feet away from the blow.

     "Excuse me, are you going to tell her to go wash her hands?"  The customer rudely asks my co-worker.  Um, hello lady. I'm standing right here.  I can hear you.  He just looked at me blankly, not sure if he should laugh or demand that I go wash my hands.

     "Well," politely yet nonchalantly I said, "I didn't sneeze into my hands so it's okay.  Thanks for your concern though."  I should have asked her if she wanted me to wash my shoulder.

     She then started to throw a fit about how my hands were dirty and had germs and that I needed to go wash them right away because if I didn't, she was going to demand a talk with our manager.  I honestly don't even remember what she said exactly.  I just knew that she was another entitled customer, invoking what little power she had on the pitiful baristas who were forced to make her coffee with a contrived smile.  And I had one hour of fucking sleep last night.

     I ran to the back room and pushed through those doors just as the cold tears of regret began to stream down my face.  I don't need this shit.  I have a college degree and I'm stuck here making coffee, assumed by customers to be some kind of idiot because I wear an apron and serve people all day from behind a counter.  For all they knew, I could have been some self-made millionaire who worked at a coffee shop because I truly enjoyed the human interaction.  The sweet and spicy aroma of the coffee that fumigated my senses day after day.  The romanticism of the dim lighting and the soothing sounds of cool jazz playing in the background.  The connections people made in the simple yet gratifying ambiance that the coffee shop subtly provided.  Here, seeds were planted everyday in people's minds.  They fell in love here- with an idea, with a person, with their life.  I enjoyed watching that.

Scratching the Surface of the Good Stuff

“Good morning Louise.”

“Good morning Miss Elisa. Beautiful weekend?”

“Yes, indeed,” she said so genuinely that you felt the purity of her response as a smile was ignited upon her face.  “And yourself? How are the children?”

“Wonderful.  They got to go to the beach and John is teaching them how to surf.  It seems like they had a good time, so maybe this will become a new hobby of theirs.  You know, get them out of my hair for a little bit.”

            Elisa Herron forced an uncomfortable chuckle as if she were offering some kind of condolence to Louise.  Their nearly seven year marriage was rocky and Louise never went more than a day without complaining about her kids, or her husband, or her life.  Unhappy as she was, Elisa thought she was pleasant to work with and never minded hearing her stories.  Louise married her husband John when she was young, only 22.   He is the tall, dark, and handsome type- a wealthy entrepreneur that comes from an affluent family who has resided in Los Angeles for at least six generations.  He is athletic, great with kids, and very loving.  Louise loves him too, but makes it known that she married him for the security of the white picket fence that surrounds their house.  Now at 29, Louise often grapples with the toxic “what ifs” that fill a person’s voids with regret.  She secretly envies the life Elisa lives.

            Me. I’m Elisa.  I recently graduated from UCLA and am only one semester away from earning my Master’s degree.  I have a great job that allows flexibility and the opportunity to travel.  As I arrive to work on an unusually warm October morning, I breathe a sigh of relief.  She must have missed the dark circles under my eyes.  Either that, or I did a really great job of applying my makeup this morning.  Putting my stuff down in my office, I pull out my chair and sit at my gorgeous mahogany stained desk.  My chair is one of those typical black office chairs-you know, the padded ones that swivel and lean back.  I adjusted the seat height to the highest level, even though sometimes I can’t see the top of my computer screen because it is blocked by the overhanging cabinets.  Sitting up tall makes me feel like I can accomplish anything and I find that here at my desk is where I am most successful in completing tasks. 

On the left flat of the desk is a lucky bamboo plant graciously given to me by one of my clients.  Hmph. I smile and shake my head.  If I had actually believed in luck, I might have thrown that plant away weeks ago.  But, there it sat.  The luckiness waiting to emerge.  Delicately taken care of, its’ lush green leaves positioned near the place in the office that received the most indirect sunlight.   I read somewhere that bamboo plants, in order to thrive and grow, need the warmth of the sun and rejuvenation from water.  There’s no way I’m letting it die.

The office space stays pretty neat.  Behind the bamboo in the corner are all the files of the projects that need to be worked on this year.  To anyone else but me, it looks like I’ve got my life pretty much in order.  I look organized.  I guess people think that I get up, go to work, do my homework, go to class, go home and fall asleep.  That’s a pretty accurate assumption of my day, actually.  Only, I don’t technically have a home where I consistently lay my head at night.  But nobody knows.  I suppose it started about three years ago.  Fresh off a college graduation, I had really high hopes and big dreams about who I was going to be and what I was going to contribute to this world.  Never in those dreams did a global recession take place that would knock people  (myself included) to the ground over and over again, challenging our every little belief in whatever we all believed in: God, Buddha, the government, our education system, our families.  They say that what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.  But I can tell you, without a doubt, there are times where death seems like the strongest option.

Three Years Ago

            After having just graduated from college, I decided to take a job at a local coffee shop-just until I figured out what I was going to do with my life.  It’s funny, you know.  You spend four years in college taking classes in a specific major, intending to do one thing with your life. Or maybe intending not to figure it out until later. But either way, you are expected to know your career path once you finish.  That’s like the one and only question everyone asks you at your graduation party. 

“So Elisa, what are you going to do now?” 

And when you reply that you aren’t sure, they just look at you with pity and sympathy and say, “Oh, it’s ok. You’re young.  You have plenty of time to figure it out.”  But after your family and friends leave your party, they go their separate ways gossiping behind your back about what you could have been.  About what you should have been.  As if you don’t have all the time in the world that they just finished telling you that you do have.

“I can’t believe she’s working in the food industry!”

“Tell me about it- with a degree and everything? What a shame.”

They go on babbling about all the potential you have, about how intelligent you are, never really realizing that the world they lived in at 20 is not the same world you live in at 20.  Can you blame them?

            Let’s back up about fifty years.  During the second world war, people were taking any and all jobs necessary to survive.  No one was too good to clean houses or flip burgers or serve someone their coffee.  Work became an essential component of everyone’s daily lives.  Many of our grandparents took up trades and became apprentices in one specific area which they would most likely end up doing for the rest of their life.  Since then, there has been an economical shift and many industries started booming once again.  New technology became instantly available to the general public creating an abundance of new jobs- jobs that our grandparents never in their wildest dreams could have imagined would exist during their lifetime.  The emergence of the Internet as an immediate global encyclopedia has given younger generations access to information at the drop of a hat.  Instant gratification has become a way of life, as people flock to car dealerships and realtors to make sure they are keeping up with the Joneses. Or the Smiths.  Or whoever it is on their block that always gets the new stuff first.  Hell, they could afford it now.  And if they couldn’t, there was always a credit card.

            The public was unaware that the recession would have such a huge personal impact on them.  People lost everything faster than it took to charge it on that credit card.  Today, you take any job you can get.  It might not even be what you would consider a “real job.”  We’re talking about taking gigs that would normally be reserved for high school kids, like babysitting and delivering pizzas.  Not a day goes by that you don’t hear the story about the man making six figures as a car salesman five years ago who just filed for bankruptcy and had to sell his house for a loss.  Or about the woman with a Master’s degree who is cleaning houses and living paycheck to paycheck, wondering how she is going to put food on the table for her three beautiful children.  The recession has taught a lot of people about the value of a dollar and that hard work is the only way to make it through tough times.

            I never understood the need to have all the latest and most expensive items.  Perhaps it was because the words “instant” and “gratification” were never used together in the same sentence when I was growing up.  Or maybe it was because I consider myself to be one of the few people left in Los Angeles who actually tries to live within my means.  It’s pretty impossible though.  The people here mask their dire financial situations with the cars they drive and the expensive, trendy restaurants they frequent on the weekends.  One of the easiest and most dangerous things to do in Los Angeles is to get caught up in this superficial struggle to appear wealthier than you are.  And unfortunately, the world happened to enter this global economical recession.  How opportune.  Taking a job at a coffee shop might have been the kind of job that people here once looked down upon, especially since I have a college degree.  Alas, the economy doesn’t care about your fucking degree.

            So it’s 2007 and I work at a coffee shop.  Living in a house with five other college coeds makes it hard to fall asleep anytime before two in the morning.  When I moved in, I agreed to pay $200 to sleep on the couch because all the rooms were taken.  Two hundred bucks seemed like one hell of a deal for living in LA and there was no way I can afford to pass it up.  Cheap rent, I figure, allows me to save most of the money I earn working so that eventually I can move out on my own.  For a while, I’ll admit that the couch has been pretty great- especially for $200.  But with things turning ugly, the couch is the last place I want to be.