the ugly earring

J, my old roommate, had this habit of collecting abandoned pictures and handwritten paper notes from street corners and sidewalks. He has an interesting collection of photo-booth snapshots, love letters and torn journal pages–all written by nameless strangers.

On my way to the supermarket last night, I came across what looks to be a hand-written homework assignment. It was written by Tania on March 29, 2005 for English 10B. Its cursive penmanship looks like that of an older woman’s and reads like this:

1. I love my room for many reasons. My room is pink and white. I choose pink because it is my favorite color. My bed is a queen and has off white sheets with pink flowers on it. My has two windows with matching curtains to my bed sheets. I have a green leaf color dress that has a mirror on it.

2. In ten years, I want to be a teacher. I want to teach kindergarten. I want to be working to LAUSD. I plan to be married and have at least one child. I want to be in the process of owning my own home.

3. I have had some interesting experiences at LA high. At LA high I met my current boyfriend wich I have been going out with for 2 and a half years. Ive met some of my best friends and some great teachers too. Ive enjoyed my four years, most of the time. Some days are pretty boring and long.

I start to wonder is Tania’s homework a reflection of a regular American’s aspiration and expectation of life? Where is her passion? She reminds me of my coworkers. They speak Tania’s dream. Simple and bland. One coworker says, “I just want to get married.” The other responds, “I want to marry rich and have a house in Brentwood.”

I can’t even imagine what Tania looks like from her homework and her description. Does she paint her nails? Is she chunky and wears black? Is her favorite shirt a pink Mickey Mouse T-shirt? What about her boyfriend and her friends? They are as blank as the page that preceded her homework entry. Will Tania’s life be this…predictable?

I think back to my journals and the poems I wrote when I was her age. I dreamt of being the first in my family to finish college, that one day I’d publish a book of poetry, join the Peace Corps, and travel across the U.S. with Henry K.–the long haired boy I met at journalism camp. I have diary entries about how I thought Pearl Jam were genius but not as good as Nirvana. How I hated the way my French teacher mocked the way I couldn’t roll my r when saying “monsieur” (I took her class every year just so that I could read Hiroshima, Mon Amour in its original form). My high school life consisted of me breaking my parent’s overprotective barriers. Instead of rebelling, I worked hard for my independence. I wanted their approval; but I also dreamt of living the hippie way and going to my senior prom with Henry.

The last year of high school, I interviewed for a college scholarship. More than 2,000 applicants applied and only five were selected. For the final round, 12 finalists sat in front of a panel of judges who threw out unplanned questions which we’d answer in a roundtable fashion. The answers would determine the five recipients.

The final question: “If you were told you had seven hours to live and were given a million dollars to spend it how would you use the money?”

Most of my competition rattled off how they’d give it to charity or someone in need, that they’d spend their last hours with their boyfriend and family. When it came time for my response, I told them about the independent coffee house/bookstore where I bought my first copy of Dharma Bums. I told them about my side of town where people didn’t read poetry and were lucky to even graduate, that my AP English teacher didn’t know what a beatnik was. So for my last seven hours of life, I told them how I imagined flying my friends, teachers, parents and my friend’s parents to this coffee house in Steamboat Springs. There it would be a big party, everyone wearing wool berets, sipping espresso, Dizzy Gillespie howling in the background, Allen Ginsberg, Ken Kesey and Diane Di Prima reading from their books and sharing stories about the Beat Generation. And then I would die. The ones I cared about taking part in the world I had fallen in love with.

Maybe Tania is like those who I grew up with, those who never fell asleep to a Thelonius Monk record or imagined themselves running in a field of poppies barefoot, who didn’t care to change the world or their life for that matter. Instead, they hoped for a future like that of a freshly oiled train–running smooth, on schedule, following a paved, unbroken path.

I wonder if it’s too late for Tania.

This evening, management posted notices on every apartment door about a forum they had attended concerning general neighborhood issues. According to the notice, the Los Angeles Police Department had requested neighborhood help in ending car robberies and burglaries in our area. Additionally, the following requests were being made by the LAPD:

1. Notify the authorities when you witness suspicious activities such as a stranger running through private property, someone looking into the windows of homes and cars, screaming and shouting for help, or when witnessing a drug transaction.

2. Vending Trucks–these vendors are illegally set up for business. Much of their produce and dairy products are spoiled. These vendors are also known to be involved in criminal activity and are a front for bigger crimes.

The posting continued to read in bold letters–DO NOT SUPPORT THESE VENDORS. STOP BUYING ANY AND ALL PRODUCTS FROM VENDING TRUCKS.

Christina owns a vending truck several feet from the Wendover. Every day from 9am to 10pm, she sits in her truck surrounded by produce, bags of potato chips, candy, soda, water and laundry soap.

For almost a year, we have frequented her truck especially when there wasn’t enough tomatoes to finish the pasta sauce or when ripe avocados were needed to complete a meal. She greets us with sincerity though sometimes her cheerfulness reveals a darker mood–that business is slow or that she’d like to go home to her family. But she prevails, every day she is there, in that truck, waiting to make a dollar or two. After all, this is her livelihood, her bread and butter.

When the weather is nice, she teaches Jimmy a few Spanish words. She waves when I walk by. Every now and then she’ll throw in an extra orange and tomato for free.

Appalled by such a notice, I am reminded of the many times seeing Christina dig through her tomatoes for the freshest ones or when she refused to sell me an avocado because hers were not ripe. I see the neighborhood kids race to her truck to spend their quarter allowances on apple-flavored lollipops dipped in caramel. She’s a part of the Hobart Blvd. I admire most– her, the Filipino karaoke singers and the smoggy, fluorescent view of the city from the rooftop.

So is Christina really involved in a ring of criminal activity? This Hispanic woman with her tired eyes, her reddish-dyed hair and gray roots, her dry hands and chipped nail polish?

I highly doubt it.

Why didn’t the notice mention the 16 rounds of gunfire shot in front of our complex two weeks ago? Why didn’t they tell us what happened to the kid who was shot several weeks ago a block away? Why is it that all the more prevalent issues are kept disguised while people like Christina and other vendors must pay the price for such carpet sweeping?

I simply can’t believe it, that this notice was on my door, that Christina and car burglaries are considered a more serious threat than the weekly gunfire and the gang graffiti that decorates our street.