I Had A Dream, Too

I had a dream. I had a dream I woke up in my Harlem neighborhood. And as I stepped off my front stoop, I noticed something strange. Every black adult was going to work and every black kid was going to school.

Every which way you turned, everyone was dressed to the 9s. Dressed as if there was a purpose involved. No Jerseys. No durags or head scarfs. All the adults were either carrying a briefcase, a book or a notepad to write down ideas. All the children had bookbags. Nice big bookbags with nice sharp creases in them where the textbooks bulged. And everyone looked tired and dutiful. You know, that look us black folks have in the morning when we've worked hard yesterday and have an even harder day of work ahead? Yeah, that look. But we don't mind because its the type of work that let's us know we mean something to somebody. So we're willing to make whatever sacrifice to take care of our own. You know. Like Romans 12.

Every which way I listened, blacks were carrying on conversations about how to better ourselves. Thoughts flowed from brain to brain like beautiful rainbows. I mean you really could see them!!

I began to walk down the street and I noticed something very strange. My feet were not touching the ground. I walked some more to see if it were true. A smile came over my face and I giggled a little. Fancy that, I had become a living, breathing example of frictionless progress. And it was simply amazing to me.

I began to think to myself, this must be a dream. Fancy that. I dreamed I was dreaming. Now don't that seem to be the way of black folks? Always dreaming of what really could be. Always thinking that the possible is out of reach, blocked by the river of effort. And dilligence.

I kept walking through this dream smiling and taking it all in, knowing that at any moment, it could be taken away from me if I was awakened. I found myself hoping that for this one morning only, the cat would not jump on the bed and play with my feet. I found myself hoping that for this one morning only, that loud garbage truck would not come through the block. I found myself hoping that the dysfunctional couple that lived in the apartment next to me, could for this one morning kiss and make up instead of argue and fight loud enough for the whole building to hear. And then the saddest thing in the world happened to me in this dream. When I felt like I ran out of hopes, I wished I was dead. I wished I was dead so that I could not awaken from this dream; this black utopia. . .this opulent feeling that things could get no better. Only worse if I awoke. How sad.

And right there. Right in my very own dream, I began to cry. How could it be that right there in the happiest of places, could I cry? I cried so long and so loud that my stomach and throat began to hurt. How could it be that in a place without friction, I could feel pain? I was confused in my very own dream.

Then like a skyrocket or a shooting star, it hit me. This dream of mine could only be just that; a dream. You see, no matter what my mind wanted, my heart wouldn't let me sustain, what was not real. This can't all be chance. My black people were chosen to struggle. I was chosen to struggle. And I'm not above the lowest of my people. For I am I, and I am them. We are we. And with that, reality settled again.

There was no cat playing with my feet. No garbage truck or argument. There was just me. And I awoke. Some could say in more ways than one. I didn't awake to myself, I awoke to us. And how are we doing today? Some good, some bad, but all black and all in it together.

I left my Harlem apartment with a smile on my face. The dream that had brought me a new sense of life and death, tucked firmly in the crevices of my subconscious. Reality brushing my face like a light wind on the left of me and a bright warm sun on the right of me. I am whole with my black people again. Thank goodness for dreams.