Angelina Jolie is an Academy Award-winning actress who rose to fame after her role in Girl, Interrupted (1999), playing the title role in the “Lara Croft” blockbuster movies, as well as Mr. & Mrs. Smith (2005), Wanted (2008), Salt (2010) and Maleficent (2014). Off-screen, Jolie has become prominently involved in international charity projects, especially those involving refugees. She often appears on many “most beautiful women” lists, and she has a personal life that is avidly covered by the tabloid press.
Jolie was born Angelina Jolie Voight in Los Angeles, California. In her earliest years, Angelina began absorbing the acting craft from her actor parents, Jon Voight, an Oscar-winner, and Marcheline Bertrand, who had studied with Lee Strasberg. Her good looks may derive from her ancestry, which is German and Slovak on her father’s side, and French-Canadian, Dutch, Polish, and remote Huron, on her mother’s side. At age eleven, Angelina began studying at the Lee Strasberg Theatre Institute, where she was seen in several stage productions. She undertook some film studies at New York University and later joined the renowned Met Theatre Group in Los Angeles. At age 16, she took up a career in modeling and appeared in some music videos.
I Allowed a Homeless Woman to Stay in My Garage—One Day I Walked in Unannounced and Was Shocked by What I Saw
I tapped the steering wheel, trying to shake the weight on my chest, when I spotted a disheveled woman digging through a trash can. I slowed down, drawn in by her grim determination.
She looked fragile yet fierce, fighting for survival. Without thinking, I pulled over, rolled down my window, and asked, “Do you need help?”
Her response was sharp but tired: “You offering?”
“I just saw you there,” I admitted, stepping out. “It didn’t seem right.”
“What’s not right is life,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “You don’t strike me as someone who knows much about that.”
“Maybe not,” I replied, then asked if she had a place to stay.
“No,” she said, and I felt compelled to offer my garage as a temporary home. To my surprise, she accepted, albeit reluctantly.
Over the next few days, we shared meals and conversations. Lexi’s sharp wit broke through my loneliness, but I could sense her hidden pain.
One afternoon, I barged into the garage and froze. There, sprawled across the floor, were grotesque paintings of me—chains, blood, a casket. Nausea hit me.
That night, I confronted her. “What are those paintings?”
Her face went pale. “I didn’t mean for you to see them. I was just… angry.”
“So you painted me as a monster?” I demanded.
She nodded, shame in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I struggled to forgive her. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
The next morning, I helped her pack and drove her to a shelter, giving her some money. Weeks passed, and I felt the loss of our connection.
Then, a package arrived—another painting. This one was serene, capturing a peace I hadn’t known. Inside was a note with Lexi’s name and number.
My heart raced as I called her. “I got your painting… it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I didn’t know if you’d like it,” she replied.
“You didn’t owe me anything,” I said, reflecting on my own unfairness.
“I’m sorry for what I painted,” she admitted. “You were just… there.”
“I forgave you the moment I saw that painting. Maybe we could start over.”
“I’d like that,” she said, a smile evident in her voice.
We made plans to meet again, and I felt a flicker of hope for what could be.
Leave a Reply