Caught in the System. On Spring Street.

I’m standing in line at the Metropolitan Court House on Spring St. in downtown Los Angeles; how ironic that a concrete mountain of authoritarian architecture would be on a street called Spring Street - more like Death Street - or Wake Up and Smell the Coffee of Life Street. I am feeling like a complete reject of society, like I want to fight, fist fight maybe, just so that I can unleash my aggression and have something to show for it, even if it is a black eye.

I wonder why all the rest of the people are in this line? They can't be hardened criminals, or else they wouldn't let them freely wait in the line. But, a part of me wishes they were. That would make life more exciting, wouldn't it? Just a little...

I imagine the man in the blue Dodgers’ hat three people in front of me throws me against the wall and passionately kisses me. I like it for a second and then I pull out my Jiu Jitsu and throw him on the ground. The security guard startles me out of my martial arts fantasy when he asks me to remove my belt so I can go through the metal detector. Now I'm a dangerous cowgirl on the run, turning in my guns so I can enter the Court House. - in my imagination, of course.

How have I gotten to this place where I am in debt, lonely and lost? I'm so angry at society. No. Myself. Angry at myself. That's the real truth. I am the only white girl in a line that wraps around seven or eight times. None of the signs are in English. Only Spanish and I feel proud that I can read them. I speak Spanish, so I am not really a stranger.

I admire the beauty of the other women in the line. She wears Michael Jordan red high tops, the woman in front of me. Gold hoops. Glittery acrylic nails. Perfectly styled and swooped hair. Dramatic eyeliner. I feel like a country bumpkin. My outside doesn't match my inside. I wish I looked like her. Her outside matches my inside.

A woman asks who is here for collections and a man yells out, “I'm completely broke, I don't know what they're gonna collect!'” Everyone in the line laughs like they feel his pain. I feel the pain of this line. I am in the same line.

There is one man dressed entirely in camouflage splattered in paint- not blood. Its artist’s acrylics not house paint. He calls his friend (on his Smartphone mind you-- everyone here manages to have a Smartphone) and talks about how he's going to head down to the beach later and sell everything out of his van before he gives it to the mechanic. I get the feeling he won't be picking it up from the mechanic though. I get the feeling that what’s in his van is all he's got left. But then he starts talking about how “there's a chance the sun might make it through the clouds at the beach. He's not depending on it, and he'll go either way. He's not closed to the idea of a little light.” He hangs up and starts to sing scales. He's warming up his voice. Maybe he's going to sing it out after this. Sing the pain out, that is. He may have lost everything today, but like Bob Dylan said, 'He's got everything he needs; he's an artist he don't look back.'

I want to be like him. Instead of feeling so angry that I am 26, alone and in debt, when everyone I know seems to be in a serious relationship and on their way to being everything their parents always thought they would be, I want to remember why art is so important to me. The only vehicle to seek and express human truth.

I look up and I see a man wearing shorts that rest only an inch or two above the tops of his high-tops. I remember a man I once knew that used to wear those shorts. When I first met him I wondered if he just didn't know that they were actually a few sizes too big, not understanding his deliberate style. I think about how I fell in love with him, despite the fact that I thought he looked completely silly. I wonder how silly I looked to him. He probably thought I was a country bumpkin. Maybe he still does. Do we ever feel fully understood, or is mutual understanding just one of the many illusions of life? Is the ultimate goal to just understand ourselves and be fully satisfied alone, as individuals?

My thoughts swirl, but now that I understand them, by writing them down on my Smartphone, I feel less blocked and I've almost made it to the front of the line.

Now I feel like the people around me are my friends. I probably wouldn't throw that guy in the Dodgers’ hat on the ground if he tried to kiss me. Instead I would thank him for waking me up out of myself, just for a minute. Maybe this place should be on Spring Street after all.

What's in a dream? Shani knows.

What's in a dream? The American Dream. We all have one. What did you want to be when you were a kid? What are you most afraid of? Do that. Go for it. Take a leap of faith. Messages I have received and listened to and followed for that matter. Here I sit in LA, 'following my dream' considering myself to be brave, when all the while, what if my life's purpose has been completely superficial?

Shani Cohen. She's 2 years younger than me and is entering her 4th year in the Israeli army. So full of life and joy, she is. The ultimate bad ass. A horse riding, basketball playing, baby sister to three older brothers, multiple ring wearing, long hair shaking, uniform rocking, Ethiopian shoulder dancing, beat dropping kind of girl. Completely in the moment. Her passion for life and people permeates the air around her.

You would never know that at any moment she could be forced to leave everything behind and risk her life for her country. And the most unbelievable part, she would do it. Gladly. Her life has a purpose. To serve her nation, her people, her family.

As we pull into Jerusalem, caked in the dirt of the desert, smelling like the camels we just rode, after crawling through underground caves that the Jews dug to escape the persecution of the Romans, Shani leans across the aisle of our giant tour bus. A tour bus reminiscent of the Polar Express, only it's not a train, it's not a Christmas story and it's filled with wide eyed American young adults, not children, ranging from ages 22 to 26. They are not on a journey to the North Pole, instead they are exploring Israel, looking for some meaning in their lives through a connection to their pasts, the pasts that existed generations before their time on this planet came to be.

She asks me if we can room together. She is one of 5 Israeli soldiers who has been awarded a week vacation from the army to join this group of 49 Americans and teach them about Israel. It is difficult for me to imagine that out of all the interesting people on our trip that she could room with, she picks me! I jump at the opportunity, excited to get to know her and learn about her perspective on life. Never did I expect for her stories and friendship to change my life. Strange how that happens. One conversation with someone can change everything. It can reveal all of our denial and fears and truths in one fell swoop.

After dinner, I brush my teeth and wash my face and round the corner as Shani sits on her bed laughing at the TV. She is watching the MTV show, 'My Sweet Sixteen.' She asks me if people are really like this in LA. I am unsure of how to answer her question... 'Not all people are like that... But, some are.' I tell her.

I find myself feeling shame for a culture to which I don't subscribe, but somehow undeniably belong. She wants to know what it's like living in LA--what my story is... So I tell her. All the while realizing how far away I am from my family, how self centered my pursuit of happiness sounds and how empty such a dream seems when standing next to the dream of a person who actually fights for the existence of their country and their people every day.

The next day I find myself standing next to her in the graveyard of Israel's deceased soldiers at Mount Herzl, the national cemetery in Jerusalem. Story after story of young person who gave their life to a cause greater than their own existence surround me. Shani asks me in a completely honest and somehow jovial way, how many funerals I have been to in my life? I tell her, '5 or 6.' She doesn't respond. I gather that she has been to many more... I realize that all 5 soldiers who stand nearby, including Shani, most likely understand the death of loved ones, and not from old age, on an entirely different level than I. The existence of their country is a question that is raised every day. Living like that causes one to appreciate what they have. Family. Love. Friendship. What else is there really?

I come home to the US to find out that my 70 year old father has to have a hip replacement. My parents are probably moving. An empty apartment and a realization that the people I care most about are the furthest away from me. All I have is my dream and I'm not sure why it is my dream.

So now here I sit. And my stream of consciousness leads me to the acknowledgement that maybe being close to my family is the most important thing. Maybe finding a job where I help others every day is what I should do. Maybe allowing myself to love instead of guarding myself for some future moment is the answer. Maybe following the dream isn't necessarily the most important part, but instead figuring out what it is about my dream that makes it worth the fight.