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L.A. Affairs: Could a chance romance help me feel whole again after a family tragedy?

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L.A. Affairs: Could a chance romance help me feel whole again after a family tragedy?

In December 2022, I was at Zara in the Glendale Galleria, helping my sister find a coat suitable for a funeral, when he first messaged.

“How are ya?”

It was a loaded question. My 27-year-old brother went to sleep the week before and never woke up, and our family didn’t know why. I was a wreck but I swiped through dating apps seeking a sense of normalcy. Among the suitors, one guy seemed special: artsy and attractive with empathetic eyes. So, I divulged.

“Admittedly not great. My brother died last week,” I responded.

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“Well, I know we’re near strangers,” he wrote. “But if you want to talk to someone removed from it, I’m happy to.”

I was taken with his kind response to my overshare, and we established a long-distance rapport (he had just moved from L.A. to New Orleans after a relationship ended).

Three months later, he came to town. I was at a house party in the Pacific Palisades when he texted.

My phone screen showed the time as 11:09 p.m.

“Is this a booty call?” I texted back.

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“It is, yeah. Like, adjacent.”

I pondered the proposition. Still grieving, I was acutely aware of mortality and eager for anything to make me feel the opposite. I requested his location.

As I drove east on the 10 Freeway, more texts illuminated on my dash.

“I took a buncha ecstasy. Fair warning.”

Apparently, he was eager to feel something too.

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He hopped in my car outside Prime Time Pub. His hair was pulled back and he smelled like beer. We were matching in gray thermals and black pants. I was relieved to feel attracted to him.

“I’m enamored with your face,” he said. So it seemed we were on the same page — or same MDMA.

Throughout the night, his brazen statements continued. “I love your big eyes,” he remarked. “How are you not married?”

I was cautious of his molly-colored claims. Even so, as he followed me into my apartment and leaned down to kiss me, I co-conspired, standing on my toes to meet him.

By morning, his tone was more practical. He shared his plans to sign a lease in New Orleans.

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But before he left, he took me to dinner at Tsubaki in Echo Park. Later that night, back in my bed, he ran his fingers over the freckles between my ribs, and said they resembled the constellation Cassiopeia, channeling a scene out of “Serendipity.”

I had wanted to feel something and I was starting to. Yet I was wary of feeling joy.

The next night, I was barhopping the Sunset block in Silver Lake, when I bumped into him having dinner. What were the chances? He kissed my forehead; I stepped on his foot.

Two days later, he ran into me at the reservoir. I slid my headphones around my neck, stunned.

The coincidences humbled me; suddenly, the clamp clenching my atrium loosened a notch. Nevertheless, he left for the Gulf Coast, and we carried on a touch-and-go dialogue, a “Serendipity” JPEG here, photos of his new apartment there.

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Then, one night in April, I was having dinner at Greekman’s when he stumbled in. I couldn’t believe it. Here, we’d been planted in the same place unplanned a third time, and yet he hadn’t told me he was in town.

He sent olive oil ice cream to my table, an olive oil branch.

“You looked like you saw a ghost,” he’d later say, conveying that he hadn’t reached out because he needed to remain single.

I understood even if my ego didn’t, and defaulted back to dating apps. Then, something extraordinary happened.

The first two men I went out with had just vacationed in New Orleans. I wrote it off as a Baader-Meinhof frequency illusion, but the signs didn’t stop. One day it was a Louisiana license plate, the next an LSU sweatshirt at Starbucks or Linda Ronstadt’s “Blue Bayou” on the radio.

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After a month, I couldn’t ignore the onslaught. I fired off a text.

“I was thinking of you earlier,” he replied.

That was all it took for me to suggest I visit. He obliged, and thus set in motion plans for our third date (if you counted the booty call, which I did).

I booked a plane ticket and checked the forecast: excessive heat warning. We barely left the hotel room. When we did, we traipsed through the French Quarter holding hands. We ate beignets on Bourbon Street and went night swimming.

“How did he die?” he asked as we simmered by the pool.

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“Liver failure. Maybe from alcohol or genetics. We don’t really know. He was 27,” I shared, surprised by my vulnerability.

A few weeks after the trip, he invited me back for his photography show. I couldn’t attend, but to show support, I bought a nude he took in the mirror, with proceeds going to Planned Parenthood.

The next time he flew to L.A., I was giddy to reunite, but the sentiment deflated when, in a postcoital moment, he put on his sneakers.

“You’re leaving?”

“We’ll both sleep better this way,” he said in a tone I didn’t recognize.

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I didn’t sleep at all. The conversation carried over to morning, when by phone he confirmed my feelings had outpaced his.

“Are you OK?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I lied.

But when we hung up, I sobbed. As tears fell from my chin, I wondered how long they had been needing to come out.

In the following days, I moved through the world in a state of compounded grief. Back at the reservoir, the path felt lackluster — a reminder that there was no divine order. I stopped seeing New Orleans signs.

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But after the dust settled, in their place came winks from another 6-foot-plus figure from my past, another ghost: Turtles, Pokémon and license plates with my brother’s name, JJ.

I realized they had always been there; they were just too painful to pull into focus. It was easier to get caught up in a blossoming love story than to confront the unending horror of loss.

Weeks later, the full-frontal photo arrived via FedEx, and I asked my friends for their input. “Return to sender” and “Gift the world’s most elevated d— pic to the Louvre,” they suggested.

I weighed their opinions, until a fresh perspective crystallized. In life as in love, art and death, we get to choose what we see and how we interpret it.

So, I hung the photo on my wall.

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Some days the image reminds me of getting my heart broken. On others, I recall my courage in being vulnerable — and how I started to open my heart back up.

The author is a screenwriter who lives in Silver Lake. She’s working on a novel.

L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.

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Is the viral cheese pull saving chain restaurants?

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Is the viral cheese pull saving chain restaurants?

Images from Karissa Dumbacher’s TikTok account, @karissaeats, where she makes videos about food. She has over 4.5 million followers on the platform.

@karissaeats via TikTok/Screenshots by NPR


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@karissaeats via TikTok/Screenshots by NPR

Affordable, familiar and reassuring are the features that make American chain restaurants a near-ubiquitous presence throughout the country; it is almost as if they are baked into our roadside culture.

Despite well-documented financial struggles, a tough economy and shifting diet trends, these restaurants withstand time.

This series explores why these places have such strong staying power and how they stay afloat at a time of rapid change.

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Go back to read our first two pieces on how these restaurants trigger nostalgia and how these places stay afloat in a tough economy.

The magical cheese pull.

It’s a viral social media trend and a powerful marketing tool, where diners post videos of themselves slowly pulling apart gooey strings of cheese from a steaming hot slice of pizza or deep-fried mozzarella sticks.

A good one brings in millions of views and, increasingly, helps lure diners off their phones and into seats.

Sara Rafael, 23, flew from Ireland to New York City in November. She and her mother had a list of must-stop eats, including Olive Garden, The Cheesecake Factory, Raising Cane’s — all of which were discovered on TikTok, Rafael tells NPR.

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The platform’s food videos – including those trendy cheese pulls – she says, “always make the food look so appetizing.” So, most of her dining itinerary consisted of mid-tier American chains straight from the recommendations of strangers online.

This is a critical moment for restaurants, says Stephen Zagor, a restaurant industry expert, consultant and adjunct professor at Columbia Business School.

With many American diners spending less and eating at home more, restaurants, especially older chains, risk fading into what he calls “the wallpaper.”

Zagor says that every restaurant needs to “have a viral moment” either in their menu or inside the restaurant in order to survive now.

But, he admits, the tradeoff is “a certain loss of authenticity.”

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Chili’s cheese pull moment

Few restaurants, particularly chains, have ridden the viral cheese pull wave as well as Tex-Mex national chain, Chili’s.

Its Triple Dipper – a mix-and-match trio of appetizers and sauces – has become popular online thanks to the thick, stretchy fried mozzarella sticks. The company tells NPR it sold 41 million Triple Dippers in fiscal year 2025.

And that’s been a boon to the company’s bottom line. The Triple Dipper accounted for approximately 10% of sales in the fourth quarter of fiscal year 2024. A year later, that figure rose to 15% of sales, according to data Chili’s shared with NPR.

Chili’s Chief Marketing Officer George Felix says the sales numbers reflect “a massive gain in a short amount of time” for a company the size of Chili’s. “Essentially 100% of that can be attributed to social media,” he says.

Once it became clear just how popular the menu item was, the company’s culinary team leaned into the fandom and innovated on the fried mozzarella sticks by developing Nashville Hot and Honey-Chipotle flavors, Felix says.

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For a 50-year-old chain restaurant that had been suffering from the “wallpaper” effect, Zagor says, this was a huge boost in helping the restaurant stage a stunning comeback.

“I think it speaks to the fact that Chili’s is back in the culture,” Felix says, Chili’s chief marketing officer.

In a crowded market, content, and cheese pulls, are king

Content creators like Karissa Dumbacher, who focuses on food posts as @karissaeats, has made a host of videos about Chili’s, including one listed as a paid partnership that’s received 2 million likes documenting none other than the iconic cheese pull.

She’s found the recipe to success for making a video pop on social media.

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“The first three to five seconds of the video has to pull you in visually,” she explains. “People are gonna stick around to see if it’s worth it, and that’s what you want. That’s why so many people go for the cheese pull.”

Dumbacher has posted consistently since first beginning her TikTok journey during a COVID quarantine in Beijing. Almost daily she posts “everything I ate” videos from her home, fast food chains, casual chains and high-end, gourmet restaurants in the U.S. and abroad.

Her recording style has garnered her a legion of more than 4.5 million followers on TikTok alone.

Even though viewers have a chance to virtually travel the world and eat alongside her at luxury restaurants, Dumbacher says she still finds that her videos from classic chain restaurants like the Cheesecake Factory do “really, really well.”

And while Dumbacher has found success eating at casual sit-down establishments, the restaurants themselves benefit as well from the extra air time.

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“Most people that are posting these viral videos aren’t getting paid by the restaurants, and it’s creating a bunch of traffic. So it’s huge,” she says. “That’s why there’s so much money going into TikTok, YouTube, Instagram ads these days, as opposed to ads on TV or billboards.”

Michael Lindquist, senior vice president of social for the media company, BarkleyOKRP, says social media “is now what I would consider a key business driver” and “an infinite feedback loop” for businesses.

Lindquist works in the company’s social content studio that works with brands like Red Lobster, Marco’s Pizza and others.

“It really does start and end on social media,” he says. “So you’re starting to see even broadcast and TV campaigns that take more of their cues from social [media] behavior, and comments and the way that we interact with one another.”

But Zagor, the restaurant industry expert, says virality can only get restaurants so far.

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“You would like all businesses to be organic, because people love it, and they come back because the food is great,” Zagor says. “Not because you saw this incredible dessert, and [say], ‘Wow, I need to have that.’”

Zagor teaches college students and is struck by their focus on documenting the meal for social media instead of eating. He says he asks his students how many of them take pictures of their food:

“Everyone raises their hand. And then I say, ‘How many of you take more pictures of your food than you do of your family and friends?’ And they all raise their hands.”

For Zagor, that’s concerning. So much of the human experience now, including eating at a restaurant, is focused on capturing the perfect, photographable moment rather than an organic, enjoyable, social experience.

“And something’s just weird about that.”

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Retired, they moved from 6 bedrooms to a tiny L.A. ADU built in 3.5 months

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Retired, they moved from 6 bedrooms to a tiny L.A. ADU built in 3.5 months

Ever wondered how long it would take to build an accessory dwelling unit, or ADU, in your backyard?

In the case of Alvaro “Al” and Nenette Alcazar, a retired couple, who downsized from a six-bedroom home in New Orleans to a one-bedroom ADU in Los Angeles, it took just 3½ months.

“We went on vacation to the Philippines in November, right as they were getting started on construction,” Al says of the ADU his son Jay Alcaraz and his partner Andy Campbell added behind their home in Harbor Gateway. “When we returned in March of this year, the house was ready for us.”

The Alcazars were surprised by the rapid completion of their new 570-square-foot modular home by Gardena-based Cover. By the time construction was finished, they hadn’t yet listed their New Orleans home, where they lived for 54 years while raising their two sons.

Andy Campbell, seated left, and his partner Jay Alcazar’s home is reflected in the windows of the ADU where Alcazar’s parents Al and Nenette Alcazar, standing, now reside.

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Jay Alcazar and Andy Campbell's backyard in Harbor Gateway before they added an ADU.

Jay Alcazar and Andy Campbell’s backyard in Harbor Gateway before they added an ADU.

(Jay Alcazar)

Alexis Rivas, co-founder and CEO of Cover, was also surprised by how quickly the ADU was permitted, taking just 45 days. “The total time from permit submittal to certificate of occupancy was 104 days,” he says, crediting the city’s Standard Plan and the ADU’s integrated panelized system for making it the fastest Clover has ever permitted.

For Al, a longtime religious studies professor at Loyola University New Orleans and community organizer, the construction process was more than just demolition and site prep. Seeing the Cover workers collaborate on their home reminded him of “bayanihan,” a Filipino core value emphasizing community unity and collective action.

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“Both of my parents were public school teachers,” says Al, who was exiled from the Philippines in 1972. “When they moved to a village where there were no schools, the parents were so happy their children wouldn’t have to walk to another village to go to school that they built them a home.”

A living room of an ADU with a yellow chair and orange sofa
A dining room with a birch dining table and red area rug

“It’s only one bedroom but we love it,” says Nenette Alcazar. “It’s the right size for two people.”

Like his childhood home in the village of Cag-abaca, Al says his and Nenette’s ADU “felt like a community built it somewhere and carried it into the garden for us to live in.” Only in this instance, the home was not a Nipa hut made of bamboo but a home made of steel panels manufactured in a factory in Gardena and installed on-site.

Jay Alcaraz, 40, and Campbell, 43, had been renting a house in Long Beach for three years when they started looking for a home to buy in 2022. Initially, they had hoped to stay in Long Beach, but when they realized they couldn’t afford it, they broadened their search to include Harbor Gateway. “It was equidistant to my job as a professor of critical studies at USC, and Jay’s job as a senior product manager at Stamps.com near LAX,” Campbell says.

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When they eventually purchased a three-bedroom Midcentury home that needed some work, they were delighted to find themselves in a neighborhood filled with multigenerational households within walking distance of Asian supermarkets and restaurants.

A wood-clad ADU and deck in a garden
Orange tree
Purple sage

The ADU does not overwhelm the backyard. “It looks like a house in a garden,” says Al Alcazar.

“We can walk to everything,” says Jay. “The post office. The deli. The grocery store. We love Asian food, and can eat at a different Asian restaurant every day.”

Adds Campbell: “We got the same thing we had in Long Beach here, plus space for an ADU.”

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At a time when multigenerational living is growing among older men and women in the United States, according to the Pew Research Center, it’s not surprising that the couple began considering an ADU for Jay’s parents soon after purchasing their home, knowing that Al and Nenette, who no longer drives, would feel comfortable in the neighborhood.

They started by reviewing ADUs that the city has pre-approved for construction as part of the ADU Standard Plan Program on the city’s Building and Safety Department website. The initiative, organized by former L.A. Mayor Eric Garcetti’s office in collaboration with Building and Safety in 2021, was designed to simplify the lengthy permitting process and help create more housing.

A white bathroom.
A hallway leads to a bedroom.

The 570-square-foot house has a single bedroom and bathroom.

Jay and Al Alcazar have coffee in the kitchen of their ADU.

Jay and Al Alcazar have coffee in the kitchen of the ADU.

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They reached out to several potential architects and secured a line of credit for $300,000. They decided to go with Cover after touring its facility and one of its completed ADUs. “We liked that they were local and their facility was five minutes away from us,” Campbell says.

The couple originally envisioned removing their backyard pergola and lawn and adding an L-shaped ADU. But after consulting with Rivas, they decided on a rectangular unit with large-format glass sliders and warm wood cladding to preserve the yard.

The configuration was the right choice, as the green space between the two homes, which includes a deck and drought-tolerant landscaping, serves as a social hub for both couples, who enjoy grilling, sharing meals at the outdoor dining table and gardening. Just a few weeks ago, the family celebrated Al’s 77th birthday in the garden along with their extended family.

Nenette, a self-described “green thumb,” is delighted by the California garden’s bounty, including oranges, lemons, guava trees and camellias. “I can see the palm trees moving back and forth and the hummingbirds in the morning,” she says.

A family of four visits in an open dining room and kitchen.

“They’re a lot of fun,” Jay Alcazar says of his parents. “They are great dinner companions.”

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Although some young couples might hesitate to live close to their parents and in-laws, Jay and Campbell see their ADU as a convenient way to stay close and support Jay’s parents as they age in place.

Besides, Jay says, they’re a lot of fun. “They are great dinner companions,” he says.

Campbell, who enjoys having coffee on the outdoor patio with Al, agrees. “When I met them for the first time 12 years ago, they had a group over for dinner and hosted a karaoke party until 3 a.m.,” he said. “I was like, ‘Is this a regular thing?’”

A hand-carved teak bed
A family photo and accessories on a bedside table

A teak bed from the Philippines and family mementos help to make the new ADU feel like home.

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Unlike the Alcazars’ spacious 1966 home in New Orleans, their new ADU’s interiors are modern and simple, with white oak floors and cabinets and Bosch appliances, including a stackable washer and dryer. Despite downsizing a lifetime of belongings, Al and Nenette were able to keep a few things that help make the ADU feel like home. In the living room, mother of pearl lamps and wood-carved side tables serve as a reminder of their old house. In their bedroom, a hand-carved teak bed from the Philippines, still showing signs of water damage from Hurricane Katrina, was built by artisans in Nenette’s family.

“Madonna and Jack Nicholson both ordered this bed,” Nenette says proudly.

Wood cladding

The couple chose a thermally processed wood cladding for its warmth. “It will develop a silver hue over time,” says Alexis Rivas of Cover. “It’s zero maintenance.”

But one thing didn’t work out in their move West. When they realized their sofa would take up too much room in the 8-foot portable storage pod they rented in New Orleans, they decided to purchase an IKEA sleeper sofa in L.A. It’s now in the mix along with their personal artifacts and family photos that further add memories to the interiors, including a reproduction of the Last Supper, a common tradition in many Filipino homes symbolizing the importance of coming together to share meals. With limited storage, the families share the two-car garage, where Al stores his tools.

“It’s only one bedroom, but we love it,” says Nenette, 79, of the ADU, which cost $380,000. “It’s just the right size for two people.”

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The ADU feels private, both couples say, thanks to the 9-foot-long custom curtains they ordered online from Two Pages Curtains. “When the curtains are open, we know they are awake, and when their curtains are down, we know to leave them alone,” Jay says, laughing at their ritual.

In terms of aging in place, the ADU can accommodate a wheelchair or walker if necessary, and Rivas says a custom wheelchair ramp can be added later if necessary.

Now, if only Jay could mount the flat-screen television on the wall, Al says, teasing his son. It’s hard to escape dad jokes when he’s living in your backyard — and that’s the point.

“It’s really nice having them here,” Andy says.

Jay Alcazar and Andy Campbell pose at a dining room table.
Al and Nenette Alcazar in their living room.

Jay Alcazar and Andy Campbell enjoy having Al and Nenette Alcazar close. “They feel like neighbors,” Jay says.

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After losing his family and home in the Philippines when Ferdinand Marcos declared martial law in the country, Al, who once studied to be a priest, says he’s deeply moved to be the recipient of the bayanihan spirit once again.

“I was tortured in the Philippines, and it didn’t break me,” he says. “So having a home built by a friendly community really points to a shorter but more spiritual meaning of bayanihan, which is, ‘when a group of friends,’ as my grandma Marta used to say, ‘turns your station of the cross into a garden with a rose.’ Now, we have Eden here in my son’s backyard.”

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Her 1951 walkout helped end school segregation. Now her statue is in the U.S. Capitol

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Her 1951 walkout helped end school segregation. Now her statue is in the U.S. Capitol

A model of the statue of Barbara Rose Johns pictured in 2023, two years before the real thing was unveiled at the U.S. Capitol.

Amy Davis/The Baltimore Sun/ZUMA Press Wire via Reuters


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Amy Davis/The Baltimore Sun/ZUMA Press Wire via Reuters

In 1951, a Black teenager led a walkout of her segregated Virginia high school. On Tuesday, her statue replaced that of a Confederate general in the U.S. Capitol.

Barbara Rose Johns was 16 when she mobilized hundreds of students to walk out of Farmville’s Robert Russa Moton High School to protest its overcrowded conditions and inferior facilities compared to those of the town’s white high school.

That fight was taken up by the NAACP and eventually became one of the five cases that the U.S. Supreme Court reviewed in Brown v. Board of Education, whose landmark 1954 ruling declared school segregation unconstitutional.

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“Before the sit-ins in Greensboro, before the Montgomery bus boycott, there was the student strike here in 1951, led by Barbara Johns,” Cameron Patterson told NPR in 2020, when he led the Robert Russa Moton Museum, located on the former school grounds.

Johns’ bronze statue is the latest addition to Emancipation Hall, a gathering place in the U.S. Capitol Visitor Center that houses many of the 100 statues representing each state.

Every state legislature gets to honor two notable individuals from its history with statues in the Capitol. For over a century, Virginia was represented by George Washington and, until a few years ago, Confederate Gen. Robert E. Lee.

Lee’s statue was hoisted out of the Capitol — at the request of then-Virginia Gov. Ralph Northam, a Democrat — in December 2020, the year that a nationwide racial reckoning spurred the removal of over 100 Confederate symbols across the U.S.

The same month, Virginia’s Commission on Historical Statues in the United States Capitol voted unanimously to select a statue of Johns to replace it. Johns, who died in 1991, was chosen from a list of 100 names and five finalists, including Pocahontas and Maggie Lena Walker, the first Black woman to serve as president of a U.S. bank.

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Exactly five years and a multi-step approval process later, the 11-foot statue — created by Maryland artist Steven Weitzman — has finally moved in. It shows a teenage Johns standing at a podium, raising a book overhead mid-rallying cry.

Its pedestal is engraved with the words: “Are we going to just accept these conditions, or are we going to do something about it?”

Johns is credited with helping end school segregation

Johns was born in New York City in March 1935, and moved to Virginia’s Prince Edward County during World War II to live on her grandmother’s — and later, father’s — farm.

According to the Moton Museum, Johns — the niece of civil rights pioneer the Rev. Vernon Johns — grew increasingly frustrated by the lack of resources at her school. Classrooms were located in free-standing tar-paper shacks that lacked proper plumbing, with no science laboratories, cafeteria or gymnasium at all.

She later wrote in an unpublished memoir that when she finally took her concerns to a teacher, they responded, “Why don’t you do something about it?” She felt dismissed at first, but gave the idea more thought and decided to unite the student council members to coordinate a strike.

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“We would make signs and I would give a speech stating our dissatisfaction and we would march out [of] the school and people would hear us and see us and understand our difficulty and would sympathize with our plight and would grant us our new school building and our teachers would be proud and the students would learn more and it would be grand,” Johns wrote, according to the museum.

On April 23, 1951, Johns gathered all 450 students in the auditorium and convinced them to walk out, to protest their school’s conditions and campaign for a new building. The strike lasted roughly two weeks and caught the attention of the NAACP.

NAACP lawyers Spottswood Robinson and Oliver Hill filed a lawsuit (Davis et al. v. County School Board of Prince Edward County, Virginia) in federal court, challenging the constitutionality of segregated education in the county’s schools.

The court ultimately sided with the county, but did order that its Black schools be made physically equal to white schools. A new Black Moton High School — known as “Moton 2” — was built in 1953 to avoid integration.

The following year, the Supreme Court declared school segregation unconstitutional in Brown v. Board of Ed, based on the Farmville case and four others from across the country. But it took years for the ruling to actually be enforced throughout the U.S., especially in Virginia, which enacted a set of anti-integration laws that came to be known as “Massive Resistance.”

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Prince Edward County schools were officially integrated in 1964, after being closed for five years in an attempt to avoid it. Moton 2 was reopened as the Prince Edward County High School and remained in use until 1993.

As for Johns, she was sent after the walkout to live with relatives and finish her schooling in Alabama due to safety concerns. She attended Spelman College and graduated from Drexel University before working as a librarian for Philadelphia Public Schools. She married the Rev. William Powell, with whom she raised five children before her death at age 56.

Johns has been recognized in Virginia over the years. Her story is now a required part of lessons in the public school curricula. In 2017, the Virginia Attorney General’s Offices were renamed in her honor. And the following year, the Virginia General Assembly designated April 23 — the anniversary of the walkout — as Barbara Johns Day statewide.

Johns’ sister, Joan Johns Cobbs, told member station VPM last year that their family is honored by this newest tribute in the nation’s capital.

“I think Virginia is trying to correct some of its inequities,” Johns Cobbs said. “I think the fact that they chose her was one way they are trying to rectify what happened in the past.”

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Bucking a trend in 2025

Plans for Johns’ statue have been in motion since well before President Trump’s second term, which has been marked by a rollback in diversity initiatives and the reinstallment of Confederate monuments.

One of Trump’s executive orders along those lines, aimed at “restoring truth and sanity to American history,” calls on the secretary of the Interior to restore public monuments and markers on federal lands that have been changed or removed since 2020.

In October, a statue of Confederate Gen. Albert Pike was reinstalled in a D.C. park, five years after protesters tore it down and set it ablaze.

As is customary, state leaders and members of Congress will be in attendance at Tuesday’s statue unveiling. Among them will be House Speaker Mike Johnson as well as Virginia Gov. Glenn Youngkin, a Republican who campaigned in part against critical race theory and has eliminated DEI initiatives in office.

Sen. Tim Kaine, D-Va., who also plans to attend the ceremony, issued a statement beforehand praising Johns’ “incredible bravery and leadership she displayed when she walked out of Moton High School.”

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“I’m thrilled that millions of visitors to the U.S. Capitol, including many young people, will now walk by her statue and learn about her story,” he added. “May she continue to inspire generations to stand up for equality and justice.”

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