We Shall Overcome

What's on my mind? Dreams. 

Dream Fact # 1: This morning, I dreamed I organized a protest rally against US President Donald Trump. No specific policy, no specific comment, but Trump. Period, full stop.

Dream Fact # 2: The rally was scheduled to take place in our garage. Our garage is dark, cold and grungy. Despite that, I expected all our neighbors to come. 

Dream Fact # 3: I do not sing or play the guitar, yet visualized myself as Joan Baez - a crusader around which our neighbors would cluster with raised fists that suggested they wanted to Do Something to express our shared dislike of Trump. 

Dream Fact # 4: Himself likes my hair long. I’d rather wear it short, but keep it long-ish for him. I look like a fat folk singer. 

In my dream, I ran around affixing posters to neighborhood lamp standards. They read: TRUMP PROTEST RALLY! FOLK SINGER! BE THERE! 

I realized I’d forgotten to note the date and time, so ran around again, adding FRIDAY, 7 PM! to the original poster.

Our neighbors are elderly. I ran around a third time, changing 7 to 4:30. 

Our neighbors are not activists. The only thing they protest are pooches pooping on their lawns and the never-saw-a-thing excuse of their owners. 

I ran around again, scribbling the enticement of FOOD! on the poster. I didn't tell our neighbors the FOOD! would be sandwiches made with Miracle Whip and Kraft cheese slices.

Our garage is freezing. I ran around once more, this time adding WINE! to the poster. 

Our garage has lousy acoustics. I ran around one last time, penning: PORTABLE MIC WANTED! And: BRING FOLDING CHAIRS! And: WEAR WARM JACKETS! And: EXCELLENT preceding the words FOLK SINGER. And then raced home to make those sandwiches for the overflow crowd that would soon squeeze into our garage.

No one came. 

My hair hung in strings, which made Himself happy because they were long-ish strings.

Standing on a wobbly chair, pumping my fist into the ether, I shouted protest clichés and sang We Shall Overcome as Himself whistled and clapped, egging me on. 

Himself and I drank the wine. And ate some of the sandwiches. And froze in our dark, cold, grungy garage. 

We wrapped it up at 5, closing the garage door and going home - which is to say, stepping from the garage directly into the laundry room of our house.

Despite my imaginary protest rally, Donald Trump is still in power. Despite the plaudits it might bring, I still don’t sing or play the guitar. And, despite my long-ish hair, I still look nothing like Joan Baez.

©  Nicole Parton, 2020