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In My Dream

In My Dream


I am wandering from room to room in a somewhat public place in DC. It is like a mall but without the merchandise. I am not sure I belong here. Some people who work there might see me and find me suspect. I don't know if it's kosher, but I nonetheless go through some back hallways that connect one room to the next. 

 I stumble across two employees who recognize my presence but don't care that I am privy to what they are saying. In fact, they include me in their conversation, which is hard to follow out of context. As near as I can tell, some guy got in trouble with their institution. The story makes more sense when the two folks explain to me that the guy who got in trouble was suing their organization (or was it vice versa--the organization was suing the guy who got in trouble?).

 In any case, the two strangers and I suddenly decide we must go to NYC. As soon as we step outside and go to the curb where the bus stop is, I realize that I have left my Rosario Resort bag inside the building. It has my money and keys. Before I can practically say anything, the bus immediately pulls up. I ask my two new friends if I can borrow some money for the bus ride, and I mentally retrace my steps hoping I'll be able to find my bag upon my return. 

 We manage to make it to NYC in about an hour. The last thing I remember is telling new people we meet that we are from Washington, DC. I have to pause to remember that I really am from there.


The dream makes me think of two things I watched on social media the day before. One is the connection to New York City. Right before going to bed, I saw a wonderful rendition of Willie Nelson's "My Grandfather's Immigrant Eyes," which had beautiful images of ancestors coming through Ellis Island. (It also had a link to his touring schedule, including Ohio and Michigan, and everyone needs to see Willie at least once, Dear Reader.)

And the DC part? Well, I had also watched Democracy Now the day before my dream. I was fascinated by Amy's interview with a British woman, Katharine Gun, who worked for her country's equivalent of the NSA. She--Katharine Gun--almost averted the Gulf War 15 years ago because of being guided by her conscience to leak a memo, at great peril to her own life and safety. (They're making a mainstream movie about her that comes out on August 30, which I can't wait to see!)

Just like in my dream, I didn't fully understand the story about this whistleblower. (I mean, if I knew all there is to know about spying and security agencies, then they wouldn't be doing their job very well, now would they?) I didn't even get to finish watching the whole interview. In the movie and in real life, Katharine finally turns herself in, as terrified as she is.

A clip from the movie shows Katharine in jail awaiting trial for treason. The guy who is interrogating her says, "You work for the British government." It is more of a statement than a question. But her response is "No." His statement was false. "I work for the British people. I do not gather intelligence so the government can lie to the British people." Pow!

The dream reminds me that I (little old me) am from this country. Despite being a dissenting woman with any other impurities as defined by the occupant of the white house, I belong here. Not sure where the president belongs--prison, perhaps! But I. Belong, Here. America, hear me roar!




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