Week 15: Summer Night’s Dream
“Summer Night’s Dream”
Collage, cut New Yorker Magazine paper, 9" x 12"
INNER CRITIC URSULA: Oh god, you’re not going to talk about your dreams, are you?
ME: Have you been lying in wait for me?!
URSULA: Nobody wants to hear about other people’s dreams.
ME: It’s not gonna be like that.
URSULA: Mmhm. I’ll be the judge.
ME: I’m sure you will. Simma down.
It turns out that taking on a huge art challenge and blog is essentially a part time job. Add that to my actual full time job, and I don’t have a lot of spare time. But lately I’ve taken on an extra project that seems vital right now.
I’ve been participating in a series of conversations within my spiritual community about race and racial healing. I am co-facilitating some of them, so there’s a fair amount of preparation. If you’ve been reading along from the beginning of the challenge, you know this is a topic that is close to my heart. I believe we are finally on the precipice of changing the paradigm around race in this country. I want to do my part to help make that happen.
So it’s been on my mind more than usual—racial equality, justice, and healing. It is in my daily energy work. And I consume as many anti-racist books, articles, and videos as my schedule allows. It’s vital, and it’s draining. But I’m white. I get to choose to put the books down and not think about race.
“Crosswalk” by Greg Foley (@gregardless)
The New Yorker, September 21, 2015
Because my time was limited this week, I selected a New Yorker that was guaranteed to give me lots of color to work with in case I couldn’t read the full issue. Plus, I needed the color. I needed a lift.
I chose the special Style Issue from 2015. It did not disappoint. After looking through it and reading some, I got a visual for the collage. But I had no idea what I would be writing about this week.
Eventually I found the title for the piece while reading an article about a swanky Dolce and Gabbana fashion event in Italy (in the midst of Greece’s financial collapse. Remember?) “Summer Night’s Dream” was tied in with the theme of the fashion event, and it seemed appropriate for my collage. I still had no idea what I was going to write about.
And then I had my own summer night’s dream.
URSULA: Oh, boy. Here we go.
ME: Zip it.
First, I have to tell you that, once, I had a gun put to my head. I was pretty sure I was going to die in that moment. Obviously, I didn’t. The Hubs was with me and pretty much saved my life. We weren’t harmed physically, except I had a scab on my ear from where the gun was pushed against my head. But the psychological effects lingered.
After that night, I could have easily made a choice—to fear black men. The man who put a gun to my head was black. Thankfully, my first love was also black (see Week 12). Fearing all black men really wasn’t an option for me.
But the PTSD was real. My body could be racked with fear if I felt like someone was approaching me from behind. Nightmares involving guns plagued me for years, eventually tapering to once in a blue moon.
There must have been a blue moon this week. I had a dream—
URSULA: Is this a long story?
ME: Pipe down.
—that I was in my hometown of Milledgeville, GA, walking on the sidewalk near the house I grew up in. I was headed toward town, and the streets were bustling with people. It felt a bit like protests were happening, but it wasn’t super crowded.
Suddenly, a young black man grabbed me. We were side by side. With one arm he held me tight around the waist. With the other, he held a gun near my heart.
You know how in dreams sometimes you can become the observer? And even start consciously changing the events of the dream? Almost instantly after he grabbed me, my observer decided to flip this situation around.
I decided to respond to this man with love. I leaned into him and whispered, Black Lives Matter. I put my hand over his heart and said it again. Black Lives Matter. Then I said it again louder. And again, even louder, as if joining a group chant.
The young man’s body softened. He let me go. He handed me the gun. I took it and started to head back towards my house, awkwardly trying to put the gun in a pocket without accidentally firing it.
Then I woke up.
That was my summer night’s dream. It wasn’t flowery. But it felt healing.
I pray for deep, deep racial healing. For all of us.
URSULA: Well.
ME: Well, what?
URSULA: I guess it could have been worse.
ME: You’re a real peach.
URSULA: Mmmm. A summer night’s peach!
ME: I think you’re onto something!
URSULA: Let’s celebrate your finishing week 15!
ME: I think Inner Cheerleader Jules is rubbing off on you.
URSULA: Did I say peach? I meant Pall Mall. (Pulls out a pack and tamps it while exiting.) Catch you later.
ME: No rush.
URSULA: What?
ME: Nothing. (Smile, blink, blink.)
THIS WEEK’S FEATURED CARTOON
