Alienation

Your guess is as good as mine for where we will end up. The life size chess pieces at the USC gates could only do so much for campus safety and your next move. Might as well be Mars for how far we drove away into the geography. Civic wheels stayed inflated by the amplified sound of turntables, pianos and guitars drumming the distance with no end in sight. Departing hearts hum from the premise found in the outer-space of MySpace. Freeway Entrance signs scribbled out with paint spray like crayons on a non-coloring book. On three twelve oh seven, the 10 East ramp will close at 8 p.m. It’s the right direction. The Ten and One-Ten’s catty-corner pockets: USC and the city center of Los Angeles, California. Deep into 60 East for a leave of absence. Kilned mountain ranges rule the landscapes like ceramic empires. An unhidden, hairless mammoth stands on the rocky shelf like a prehistoric idol. The presence found in fidelities.

Driving California: rusted and busted roadside attractions keep going farther into the desert republic where the might of the city is dispersed. It’s not over yet. 150 miles away. Round trip. 215 South to the Ramona Expressway and finally to Button Bush Drive was farther than set easy riders. The default setting was to not leave the Trojan gates of education. Two out-of-state students in particular loan out their time on borrowed dimes. A documentary officially began in Perris, California before the default notices burst into flames.  Mortgage meltdowns everywhere. Claims to comfort lie on these settlements. Green balloons pitched high in the sky promise hopeful life on Mars. Creative visions drive far into alienation in a foreign land and arrive in a vessel of empathy for the other.

God saw a women in distress from the immediate loss of her son’s life. Ms. King pressed by seething burdens. Headlines read but then insight came by the light shed upon her story. Living in a household of someone else’s American Dream was not simply a Housing Act. An act of mercy to find shelter in a small section of the most blessed nation on earth. It’s referred to as “eight” in legislative text, but to Ms. King it meant grateful. The impression upon my heart came by way of God. He pressed the button: go there to the alien wasteland. My attendance at Southern California’s premier university did not follow a typical trajectory. A Spirit filled heart led me to leave the sunny frisbee tossing quad and party blocks to be present with a struggling single mother seeking justice.

So I went there, where new homes appealed to the eye, but what stories lived inside the walls grounded ballooning notions of why we are here. I am a citizen here based on all the paperwork even as the Spirit works within me among a citizenry of heaven. How I got here is as fast as I could disappear. I am alien committed to effectively serve in love for the King who rules over all other kingdoms. On Adams Boulevard and Vermont, Ralph’s grocery store sold all the provisions for the Chicago-style pizza easily reinvented from my grandmother’s mom’s recipe handed down to me like a manual manuscript. The gift was rapidly rising within me like yeast as I knuckled impressions on the dough. Something happened as my total being integrated into other people’s lives. My last name is Campbell, but I’m not writing to be chicken noodle soup for your soul or to be sold near the clothing piles at Costco.

Ms. King allowed me to have free reign in her kitchen to make pizza. Nobody bothered me during the process. Thick waves of dough dunes contained all the outrageous changes, layer by layer. My metric hands toughened by barbell repetitions weighed in the cookie sheet around twenty pounds as it slid into the oven. Thick and square pizza slices coupled with cold Coca-Cola cans were our nourishment during the preview of footage captured at Eldorado skate park for the first year remembrance for Ms. King’s son, Michael. The pizza and care of character seemed to seal the deal to tell Michael’s story. The permission slip was signed. After all the dishes were washed and leftovers were put away into the refrigerator James and I put our belongings into the trunk of my Imola, Audi S4. The hazard sign tightly held in place underneath the trunk lid. Thump. I walked around to the front of my car.

Ms. King gave me a hug and simply told me, “This is the first time in a long time I haven’t had to cook for my family.” Her words made me take a second look at what was happening inside my world. The lion’s share of thought dealt with placement. As we drove back to USC, the risk began by not fully knowing what would happen during the commitment to document this story. Gas prices surged. Driving to the story to pick it up did not make sense most of the time. The financial meltdown burned most of the paper graduates could earn and return to our conveniently generous lenders. The Author says the story doesn’t end here and puts it all back together by the One who was sent to all of us.