There was a fellow, he seemed to be an activist. Maybe a nerdy activist with a t-shirt on (like someone you’d find at Occupy Wall Street) and that t-shirt read, “Trayvon Martin was a good man.”
The t-shirt was a light blue color.
The guy, the activist, he was a nervous guy. He pretty much brimmed over with anxiety. Anxiety seemed to be the fuel that made him run.
I don’t know why he approached me, but I do know that he approached me.
I don’t know what he was trying to say.
All I know – full stop – is that I dreamed him up. The activist is the last thing that I remember from being asleep this morning. And what I’ve just told you is all I can remember about him.
Why Trayvon Martin?
Is it because I wear a hoodie sometimes when I walk the dog?
I threw the hood up on my sweatshirt just this very morning…
Oddly, as I did so, I thought, “What if someone shoots me?” After all, I have my hoodie up. And then I thought, “No, my ass looks too much like a girl’s ass and I have weird studded, bling, bling, on the back pockets of my jeans. No one is going to be threatened by that. No one will shoot me today.”
So, why do we dream what we dream? I’m not usually the kind of person who thinks too much about these things. However, lately, I find myself very interested in psychology. Truth is, I tend to sneer at crystals and cards and things that claim to tell you your future.
But, I do believe in the mind. And I do believe that our mind tries to work things out while we sleep.
I’ve also heard that we are the main character of every dream we dream up. Our subconscious puts us into a variety of roles to “work things out.” So, am I the nerdy activist in the t-shirt? Or am I actually Trayvon Martin? Or am I a little bit of everything?
I read a great instructional piece on the inter-webs that talked about how everything in your dream is a little bit of you.
The article went on to say, put YOUR label on to everything in your dream.
So, if I were to re-write it, it would go…
I’m in an Occupy Wall Street setting (part of me). All around me is chaos (part of me) and activism (part of me). I get approached by a black (part of me), nerdy (part of me), anxious (part of me) activist (part of me) with a t-shirt on. That t-shirt says, “Trayvon Martin was a good man.” (also, part of me.)
Then you take each “part of me” piece and pull it out of the paragraph. You define those things with a functional metaphor. In other words, what do those things DO, metaphorically, for me, in my mind.
Here goes nothing…
Occupy Wall Street / Chaos – the part of me that is trying to do something great, but is confused and lacks a real mission. Hey, wasn’t that the whole problem with Occupy? In a sense, the real message that I received was, “THEY are rich and WE are pissed.”
Activist – part of me has always thought of myself as an activist. I don’t “officially” belong to any groups, per se, but I find myself always sticking up for the little guy. And I have a strong injustice chord. When I see injustice, it bothers me, far more than other things.
Black man – part of me that is the picture of strength, but, yet, also feels oppressed or held down in some way.
Nerdy – part of me that will never be accepted by the whole.
Anxious – part of me that doubts, always. the part of me that I see most clearly as my father – a man filled with anxiety to keep everything he loves safe and to keep himself safe.
Trayvon Martin – misunderstood. Sure, the whole Trayvon Martin tragedy was more an act of racism than is was just a simple misunderstanding. But, in relation to my dream, the main thing I see in Trayvon is misunderstanding. A huge part of me has always felt misunderstood from a very early age. As a result, I think I’m always searching for clarity from myself and others.
Now, the instructional says to go ahead and re-write the story, exaggerating where I want, and adding anything that comes to mind using those associations. So, here goes nothing, again…
I had a dream about a nerdy, young, black, activist that IS me. I have never felt like your typical “white” girl, even though my name is often used to describe all “white” girls. Becky, as a girl’s name, has become the default punchline these days (if you listen closely) for the bland, boringness that images of the whitest of white ladies produce – say Lindsay Lohan, for example. When I think of Lindsay, I think of wadding up a piece of white bread and choking down the hard dough ball with a milk chaser. I could not be further from a Lindsay Lohan archetype. I suppose the default “whitey” category that myself and others can get lumped into assumes that I have no soul. And soul, passion, tenacity, -well- I seem to have been overloaded with those things. The part of me that is not the typical white girl part of me, approached the other part of me at the rally, and seemed nervous. It was a nervous excitement that he had (and likewise, perhaps, I have) about a desire to do something good. Yet, with no concrete idea about how to go about doing the good thing. The nervous, nerdy, activist, part of me, thought I could help him out. Can I? I guess we both don’t know. Then there was the Trayvon Martin t-shirt. I think the activist was trying to tell me that some people will always misunderstand. Some people are not on a quest to understand themselves or others at all and those people will always jump to conclusions. So, if you want to be understood completely, you can expect that from a few people, and probably not from the world at large. But, maybe, maybe through a good story, you can reach a few more. A few more calm, converts who will understand you and themselves fully. Now, THAT could be satisfying.
Hey, a girl can dream. Or, at least, I think that’s what that dream means.
If I had a simple dream about my teeth falling out, I could look that up much easier. Unfortunately, I don’t dream easy like that.
What about you? Dream much? Do you think your dreams are based on wish fulfillment or something you are trying to work out in your waking life? As always, I’m dying to know…
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