A Dream Like My Daydreams

by Ernie McCray

I had such a lovely dream the other night.

A dream where I sat amongst beauty during a sunset.

When the sun slowly drifted over the horizon the visions began, the first one featuring a young Black man.

He was about 18 and he moved down the street, bopping and nodding to a beat coming from his earpiece, with White people all around him paying no more attention to him than anybody else on the street.

I mean everybody is perfectly at ease, no grabbing of purses like he might be a thief; nobody at the ready to call the police.

And, speaking of the police, in the next scene a brotha is leaning against a squad car as a cop, who just happened to be White, as this was a “race card” kind of dream, was saying over his radio: “Yeah, it’s him again, same old routine, trying to pick up some extra change selling a couple of bootlegged cigarettes, acting crazy as hell and everything, but as harmless as a dove taking wing, so I’m going to run him by the counseling center and let his mother know where he is. See if I can ease her worrying.”

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I was digging this dream. But I was thinking a nightmare is bound to put an end to what was unfolding in front of me, this world of fantasy.

But before I could take in a breath of air, a young Black woman comes out of nowhere.

And she is a wondrous sight to see: hair in cornrows, making a dress of African print pretty as it could be, walking with Black pride, in her stride, a little late arriving for an interview for a position at a corporation high on Forbes List and even I, a very wishful thinking kind of guy, said to no one in particular, “This woman is a bigger dreamer than I if she thinks these people will even give her the time of day.”

Then, in the next sentence, I hear a receptionist say, with a smile as bright as the sun occupying her face: “Shaneekwa Jenkins! Welcome! So glad you’re here,” and then she whispers in Shaneekwa’s ear, “Hey, just between me and you, you’ve already got this job, my dear. You don’t need to interview.”

Then the room was filled with folks with whom she will be working, folks of every hue, welcoming her like she was a long-lost boo.

At that point I just knew some night terror was due and then I heard the sound of distant drums, war drums, and I thought “Oh, boy, here it comes!”

But before me I saw soldiers crying, returning from all the world’s battlefields, burdened with the sadness that comes with the madness of humankind’s “us versus them” mentality, their postures loudly declaring that they wanted nothing to do with “Thank you for your service” sentimentality.

The signs that they carried over their heads read “No More Wars” and they spoke eloquently as to how, for the sake of children, if for no other reason, no future generation should find themselves in harm’s way.

No matter what the head honchos at the military-industrial complex might say.

Then my dream brought women into play, like ballerinas in a ballet, dancing in the joy of being recognized wholly as human beings, worthy of the esteem in which men take delight in the broad scheme of things.

Their movement indicated that they were finally free of being physically and sexually violated and mutilated and cut and trafficked and such.

No longer were they to be forced into marrying or subjected to legislation regarding the embryo or fetus they might be carrying.

Equal pay had become the law on payday.

Being kept “barefoot and pregnant” was a mentality of a day that had faded away.

I was viewing sights unseen and I didn’t want to wake up from this dream.

And, when I did open my eyes, I immediately realized that I had dreamed what I’m occasionally inclined to daydream: dreams where I’m sitting somewhere amongst beauty, as during a sunset, waiting for the sun to slowly drift over the horizon, awaiting visions of a world wherein such dreams are not dreams but figments of reality.

I offer my dreams to humanity.