Flea in a Cage

Creative Non-Fiction by Lori Yeghiayan Friedman​​​

A flea can jump up to fifty times its height, unless it has no knowledge of the sky.

Could my limits be a trick of the mind? A psychological jail cell built by a history I hadn’t even
lived through? I had never considered it.

I certainly wasn’t looking to learn about limitless leaping that autumn day, more than thirty years
ago, when I sat across from a therapist at my first college counseling center appointment. I just
wanted to understand why nothing seemed possible for me, why I wasn’t happy and never would
be.

Eventually, I learned that fleas practically fly; their jumping range is the equivalent of a human
catapulting to the top of a 20-story building. Fleas trapped in jars not only learn a false limit but
also pass that knowledge to their offspring.

I thought the cage was my family and that once I was away from them―in another city 120
miles away―I would be free. Instead, in the months after I waved goodbye to my parents in the
dorm parking lot, everything had changed on the outside, and nothing was different on the inside.
I felt limited, even doomed. Why would I feel that way when my family had dedicated
themselves to ensuring that every possibility would be open to me?

Reina would help me figure it out.

Reina was from Brazil. It means Queen in Spanish and Portuguese. And, she was―queenly, that
is, with her smooth, glow-y skin and easy, regal bearing. She dressed impeccably, in light-
colored suits and heels; her lush dark hair hot-roller-ed into waves. It reminded me of my mom
who had a similar elegance and sometimes wore her hair that way.

Reina spoke in buoyant, fast-talking, accented English, and also had a pronounced lisp which
only added to the charmingly energetic way she spoke. When Reina declared my diagnosis:
dysthymia―Dith-TY-me-ya―it sounded like good news. Everything that came out of Reina’s
mouth sounded like a party. I was struck by this, almost couldn’t believe it. A grown woman
who was confident and joyful? This was nothing like my mother.

“It’s not like my family were alcoholics, or they beat me—,” I said to her.

“―Nothing that would make it into an after-school special,” she replied, only “after school
special” sounded more like “after THkool THpecial.”

Exactly! Maybe she would understand. She was an immigrant. But not in the same way my
mother was. Reina wasn’t a refugee, forced to flee her home when she was a child, her family
hadn’t lost everything: hadn’t had their lands seized, the future they dreamed of stolen. To hear
my mom tell it, all possibilities for her to have a happy life ended in 1948 when the war began
and they left.

My mother’s parents were Armenians who had survived a genocide, had been forced from their
ancestral lands as children. Their families had found refuge in Palestine, where Armenians had
lived for centuries. They rebuilt their lives from nothing. Then suddenly it was all gone, again.
They survived, again. But surviving is not the same thing as thriving.

Growing up my mother made sure I knew how lucky I was because I would never experience
anything like what she had.

“Everything is possible for you.”

“Did you know a flea can jump very high?” Reina asked me. “But if born into a cage with a
ceiling that’s this high,”— she gestured with her hand--“it will only jump that high.”

My eyes focused on the perfect crease in Reina’s cream-colored pants.

“If you take the flea out of the cage where there is open sky, it will still only jump that
high”—gesture—"even though it is free to jump higher.”

My throat tightened. Water pooled in my lower lids.

“This is good news,” said Reina, head cocked to one side like a parrot. “There are no bars
anymore, no ceiling [THeeling]. You can jump as high as you want.”

It was dark by the time I left her office. Making my way across campus to my dorm I kept my
head down, hoping no one would see my my red-rimmed eyes.

Back in my room, I ate three bowls of my roommate’s Lucky Charms, telling myself I’d replace
it later. I sat on my bed which was next to a large window, the curtains drawn as they usually
were for privacy and warmth. My roommate was out with her new boyfriend. 
​
I pulled the curtains aside, unhooked the window latch, slid the heavy glass panel along its track,
placed my face up against the screen―and looked up.

Lori Yeghiayan Friedman

Lori Yeghiayan Friedman's creative nonfiction and essays have appeared in Mizna, Phoebe, Consequence Forum, Longleaf Review, Lost Balloon, Pithead Chapel, Memoir Land and the Los Angeles Times, among other outlets. Her creative nonfiction has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She earned an MFA in Theatre from UC San Diego and attended the Tin House Winter Workshop 2023. She is the recipient of the 2024 International Armenian Literary Arts Creative Writing Grant. Follow her @loriyeg (IG and Blsky).