My name is Ruth.  This is my story, though it could be Angelita's story ...or your story.  I am enrolled at Oakland Community College in Union Lake.   I live in one of the apartments next to campus.   I only recall one act of violence ever happening here before I enrolled in the college.  I'm not sure who it all involved ...I just know my friend Stephen was the victim, and I'll never forget the day he died.

I am not a stranger to violence ...though there is not often anything much stranger.  I could never understand the depths of anger.  I grew up in a house where dad constantly beat Mom and me.  My dad is no longer alive. He was involved in something most of us don't really think much about ...organized crime.  That's all I know. And to be honest, I never wanted to know more.  I just know that some of it wasn't organized.  My dad had a bad temper, and he seemed not to be able to help himself.   So Mom and me ...well, we were beaten often.

I believe it was meant by God for me to live next door to Angelita.  I'll start with the first day I met Angelita.  There is laundry room which the apartment building provides.   That's where I will begin the story.

As I enter the laundry room, I see this young girl.   She looks about, maybe thirteen ...max.  She is doing laundry while taking care of her baby brother.   The baby begins to cry.   She seems to be having difficulty, both getting her laundry together and comforting the baby at the same time.

"May I help you?" I ask the busy young girl.  "I'm okay", she replies timidly.  "I insist", not waiting for an answer, and picking up her huge laundry basket, "My name is Ruth,"  The baby now quieting down, she smiles reluctantly, "My name is Angelita ...and oh, thank you."   When I get to her door, a man appearing to be a displeased father, quickly grabs the laundry basket from me and places it just inside the door.   While still blocking the door, he quickly ushers Angelita and the baby inside. He reaches inside his pocket, handing me a five dollar bill, "This is for carrying the basket up."   Attempting a slight smile, I reply, "No, that's okay ...it's my pleasure to help." His mannerisms remind me of how my dad used to be, so when he says, "I insist!", I take the money.  But I barely have enough time to say, "Thank you", before he closes the door.

That night I have a difficult time falling asleep ...and when I do, I dream about my dad; and I dream about Angelita's dad, and how much he reminds me of how my dad used to be.  I want to talk with Angelita again, but I don't really want to see her dad again.  I resolve to be patient.   I'll wait for another chance to meet her in the laundry room.

The problem with my plan becomes evident.   After two weeks of laundry piling up, I have somehow not been able to catch a time when Angelita is doing laundry, even though I go out of my way to walk past there every chance I get.