Mingus M.
Yelp
Lately I find myself immersed in a midlife crisis and have acquired an acute case of Nostalgia. Indulge me while I reminisce...
Lincoln Heights used to be called East Los Angeles. This was one of the first suburbs of LA and was built for Hollywood's Elite, hence the grand Victorian mansions scattered about a very walkable five mile radius. Over time white flight happened and in a last ditch effort to remain upscale, they changed its name from East LA to Lincoln Heights.
Upscale sounding it may be, by the 80's these neglected Victorians were split into numerous apartment units rented to immigrants, street gangs and the poor. Life went on as usual and in squalor for decades. Then, seemingly overnight, gentrification came knocking on our doors and judging from the high real estate to all the recent hipster shops lining Broadway, I fear we are regressing back to the days of the Elite. Or are we?
I went to school here at Lincoln High for a short time. This is one of the oldest public schools in LA and was designed by prolific architect Albert C. Martin who also helped design City Hall (!). They don't make 'em like they used to, just look at these gorgeous grounds. I hear it's about to get even more gorgeous thanks to a $200 million modernization plan to spiff up the halls and hills of this historic school.
I must admit I did not learn much life skills here. I suppose that's what college is for. So if you peaked in high school, good luck living the rest of your life, brah. I'd often cut class and would scale the fence by the tracks but I'm sure they've reinforced the gates. I almost didn't graduate because I was failing PE. Who fails PE?! Moral of the story? Stay in school.
With Nostalgia on my mind and inspired by the month of love because I am a hopeless romantic, I want to share a peculiar letter written by an anonymous student who slipped these words between the slots of my locker all those years ago:
To you I write, with all the brilliance of the Stars and Gods.
I know you only by sight and the abundance of gleam that comes through as you lingerly walk past friends, strangers, and me, with a smile for your beauty and for the world.
This passion for you is no fabrication on my part, it is true as are the dark skies that are above me as I write this epistle. I hope you don't think I'm a maniac for writing to you, for I only write with all my sincerity.
I ponder a thought of a day when you and I could speak. Speak of everything under the sun, to feel your breath near me, to sense the tenderness you give forth without a dubious thought in your mind.
I wish I could succumb to my desires of speaking to you, but the fear of humiliation keeps me abroad. My mind is overflowing with revelations, we pass each other so many times a day and still I haven't spoken a word to you. These words of mine are corrupt, yes, but frankness is the only life I known.
Perhaps I'll write you again. Perhaps I'll speak to you...
-- If you are the author of this letter, hit me up. It's been a lifetime and we've much to say...