Still Dreaming
Photo courtesy of Alyssa Sieb
A little black girl’s imagination is her superpower. When that imagination becomes a recurring dream, the world should get prepared because she is preparing to fly. Dreams can foretell the future, give a warning, teach a lesson, or enlighten. Our childhood dreams, whether fulfilled or not remain in the back of our minds forever and keep us hopeful, forever seeking, flailing, or flying, watching, and waiting. Dreams can take us where we want to go.
At seven, Nell dreamed of being a princess. She tied her mama’s scarf around her head and made a two-strand twist with the tails banded at the end into a long braid that hung down her back like Rapunzel, then gazed out of the living room window of the upstairs apartment looking down at the kids playing in the street. She did not see any reason why she could not be a princess.
As she got older, Nell saw visions of herself with a fresh piece of white chalk in her hand, writing skillfully on a chalkboard in the front of a classroom. She wanted to be like Mrs. Singletary, her English teacher, a tall white woman, sharply dressed, every hair in place, perfect make-up, and a raspy voice who had full command and attention of every pupil who tried desperately to write everything she put on the board while simultaneously trying to absorb the information she was presenting. Her penmanship on that blackboard was impeccable. The white cursive letters, perfectly curled and slanted neatly floated across the board in even lines as if they were musical notes that came alive with every stroke, matching the rhythm of her voice mesmerizing and amazing the little black girl in the first row on the right side of the classroom by the window convincing her that someday that would be her.
She excelled in English. She filled notepads, strips of paper, and journals with poetry, prose, and emotional carousels never shared, never read aloud turning to yellow, fragile pages that crumbled like crushed crackers, the dust floating into the air like scented white particles of baby powder aging as she aged, waiting.
Nell still dreams in fairy tales despite closed doors, broken promises, missed opportunities, and the myriad of obstacles this world has for a little black girl in the front row on the left side of the classroom by the window, not seen, not heard, not invited to the poetry contest, and red-inked essays not eligible for the teacher certification programs. She still dreams of black love, brick houses with white picket fences, high-heeled shoes and a briefcase, and a King that greets her at the end of the day and loves her like the princess that she is. She dreams that her sons, grandsons, brothers, and nephews could navigate the world without fear of dying and that her sisters, daughters, and nieces could be and do whatever their own dreams command.
Nell still dreams at seventy as she did at seven, sweet dreams, hoping, watching, and waiting for visions to manifest as they will, if not for her, for those she loves, those she cherishes, and those who dare to dream.
“Write the vision; make it plain on tablets, so he may run who reads it. For still the vision awaits its appointed time; it hastens to the end—it will not lie. If it seems slow, wait for it; it will surely come; it will not delay”
Dream bold, dream big, dream on!
