Dreams Never Die
Youth said “Dreams Never Die.” Twenty years passed then Recession kicked in. New Realities were born. Twelve hour workdays became the norm.
Like a drowning man Dreams surfaced again and again only to plummet down to the watery deep. All the while knocking at 1% door watching them through one-sided window laugh, play, drink and party with no thought for the ‘Morrow’. We the unseen only imagining free time for our dreams.
Dreams that must wait until Social Security beckons if death does not reach us first. Fore bread, water, warm clothes and a place to live cry louder. Goodnight Sweet Dreams. May you one day resurrect to a New Dawn.
The Working Poor Leave No Footprints
Surrounded by a plethora of people who seemed to surface like bloated corpses after spring thaw. Worker bees we are all meaningless specks of dust being recklessly scattered by blustery winds. Modern day Robber Barons throw battle weary soldiers back into the battle while they sit sipping tea in Ivory Towers. Thirty-seven years a professional, now placating rot breath Sabbath suits long in tooth, visions of Mammy dancing in their heads. Limestone Liver spotted wrinkled bone bags befoul the air with endless demands. Dontcha know Miz Daisy learned to drive herself and the Help all went to the French Rivera.
I am Hagar cast out of my prosperous household, denied by the Master and Mistress I once served. Thrown out of my protectors’ house my Dream-child and I await Our Avenging Angel of Salvation.
My Dreams now dead buried under work obligations, mountains of rules and regulations that I seem to constantly violate just by being. No miracles exist for me. Only years of mindless drudgery ahead. Millennial Overseers govern my every move with their remote control mind games. Freedom lies dormant within my imagination. My brain has been put out to pasture because intelligence is not needed or wanted and creativity has become a sin. Automaton Me clad in nondescript dull uniform easily replaceable by the next set of hungry hands yearning for the pence dispensed from the rich mans table. Hey!! Who’s next up on the Auction Block?!! Come lock step into the Plantation Mausoleum filled with objects which are valued more than drones who guard them. We be Aliens in our own Land. Serfs never reaping a hard earned Harvest.
Yet soon a New Day will Dawn, Dreams will bear fruit and Visions be reborn.
When I was a little girl during the 1960s my mother had a love affair with Better Homes & Gardens and House Beautiful magazines. However try as she might and my Mom was an excellent decorator (I believe she missed her calling) with two kids, a husband who smoked and various dogs our house was never as clean or as orderly as those pictured in the magazines. Periodically my 4’11” 95 lb mother would move those big heavy 1950s furniture from one end of the living room to the next causing my father great consternation when he tripped over tables or chairs that seemed to magically appear usually around Midnight when he got home from his late shift.
Though the houses and rooms were beautiful, they were only beautiful in an anti-septic, unlived in way. Pure white living rooms untouched by jumping muddy dogs, kids with drippy Popsicles, or cans of Rheingold and Schaefer beer cans making little rings on the end tables.
Everything is arranged, after all those pictures are photo shoots put together for maximum impact to the readers. Kitchens where nary a fried chicken or pork chop popped grease or soup boiled over. No cans of Crisco sitting on the counter-top. No spilled glasses of Kool-Aid, Orange Crush, Coca-Cola or Pepsi.
No smells of fish and chittlin’s being cleaned or bugs flying in from the holes in the ratty screens we put in the windows during the summer because we had no air conditioning. The pop and sizzle of the steel straightening comb being pulled through my Ultra Sheen saturated nappy kinky hair on a Saturday night in preparation for Sunday school in the morning.
Too perfect and we all know that life is not perfect. I like furniture to have character. Those little cracks, dents and chips give an openness and appeal that utter perfection cannot rival.
My family’s lives were not perfect. We were and are real people with real lives. Nothing is staged. My mother was a functioning schizophrenic alcoholic, my Dad was in a job that he found not fulfilling, my brother was born with Autism, I’ve battled depression since my teen years. No there are no picture perfect lives here. But now I’m no longer afraid or ashamed of my battle scars. I wear them proudly. I’ll take the nitty-gritty, those who society has deemed damaged goods, the unloved, the unwanted, the back alleys and the under belly of the business district at night, inner-city over Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous any day. I’m Blessed to be a Broken Angel.
As for disability Jesus said it best, John 21:18
Common English Bible (CEB)
18 I assure you that when you were younger you tied your own belt and walked around wherever you wanted. When you grow old, you will stretch out your hands and another will tie your belt and lead you where you don’t want to go.”