They Told me Truth was a Casualty

I was going through old photos and thought about when I worked at Universal Studios Hollywood, which was years ago in the 90s. Now It is 2025 and I am 75. I don’t like to talk about myself, but I remember a lot of good times. We laughed, cried, danced, and worked our booties off. It is pleasant. I turned off the news. We all need to laugh a little, think about the good times for a bit, but VOTE BLUE.

“Union Reel” Rosa

They told me that truth was a casualty,

And that the healing would not be televised,

but here I stand,

under buzzed neon,

midway between forgetting and becoming.

My body is a jukebox of ghosts.

My tongue is a borrowed trumpet,

and tonight, silence owes me music.

They call it magic,

but I see memory on repeat.

Hollywood’s ghosts do not haunt,

They pitch scripts.

Every blink, a remake.

Every silence, a sequel.

And somewhere between the edits,

We forgot how to dream anew.

“I did not just watch the stories.

I filmed them.

Documented truth in motion,

while the credits rolled past my name.

I walked the lots at Universal,

not as a visitor

but as a union rep,

a voice for the crew

who made the magic happen.

They called it Hollywood.

I called it work.

Long hours, hard edits,

contracts inked with sweat and solidarity.

I was not a whisper in the backlot.

I was the echo in the boardroom.

The reel deal."

They thought I vanished.

But I turned that silence into a soundtrack.

While they whispered lies,

I stitched truth into every verse.

I documented justice on the studio lots,

edited courage into late-night cuts.

I saw credits crawl past the names that mattered

so, I archived the real ones

in rhythm, in memory,

in gumbo steam rising like testimony.

Texas washed the reels away,

but could not touch the story.

I saved one The Palomino.

And it sings louder

than their silence ever could."

They told me that truth was a casualty.

And that the healing would not be televised,

but here I stand,

under buzzed neon,

midway between forgetting and becoming.

My body is a jukebox of ghosts.

My tongue is a borrowed trumpet,

and tonight, silence owes me music.

written, created, edited by

Vicki Lawana Trusselli

Trusselli Art

copyright 2025

California