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Jaleesha Johnson tied her black work shoes, stood up, tucked her tan blouse into her chocolate brown slacks, grabbed her uniform blazer and hat, and left her small apartment. There was always a breeze, albeit today it was a warm one for an afternoon in late October, as she turned onto Woodward Avenue. She counted herself lucky to be working in the largest city in Michigan, let alone be able to afford a small place of her own around what was termed as the historic cultural district of Detroit. Wayne State University, museums and galleries set the atmosphere for an area that was urban eclectic.

The leggy, coffee-with-cream colored, young woman covered the city blocks with a stride that rivaled a man's. She was blessed with her father's height and her mother's beauty. Even in her uniform and hat covering most of her short black curls, her good looks and curves refused to be hidden. Jaleesha had been conceived by her Columbian-born mother and African-American father prior to his being deployed overseas. Her father died without ever knowing she had been born, killed by a road-side bomb in Iraq. Unfortunately she never really got to know his side of the family.

She could see the gray stone building up ahead - the Detroit Institute of Art. She had been forced to leave school when her mother died of breast cancer. Jaleesha hoped to save enough money from her job as a security officer to return to her studies. For the time being, the museum satisfied her hunger for art. ...

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