Dusty Totems

In this morning's dream, I crossed over a 3 foot wall of stacked stones into a vast desert. Nothing taller than sand was visible between me and the horizon, save but one tree. The tree was like an ancient cedar, only not tall, like Lebanon Cedars. It was almost like a huge bush of tangled trunks, bleached by the sun, white and leafless. It was something scary yet safe in the landscape. The tree was charred down the middle, where lightening or the voice of God had descended. The dream said this was called the “Siani tree” and it protected all those who once hid within it.

Morning breaks with a dull light. A world is beaten open with bullets and bully sticks. Not my world – my world maintains a status quo of bird song and entitlement collusion. White Suburbia wakes to go the grocery store, cut the grass and grab a latte before repurposing an old desk in shabby chic, antique aqua paint. After evacuating the violence of a revolution overseas, I chose to live here, where it is “safe.” But PTSD has a way . . .

Shame has a way.

Guilt has a way.

Privilege has a way.

We watch the news all night and remember the suffocating choke of tear gas. We remember how it feels to be caught in a crowd that was standing still one second ago but is now screaming and running and getting shot in the street. We remember black bodies mangled and macheted, red blood seeping into red dirt. We remember hiding people in our house from mobs at the gate, with a barricaded door and prayer as a weapon.

But we were white there. And we are white here.

Sunlight streams through the graduation sign hanging from dining room window. Meaningful nick-knacks from Kenya stand as dusty totems on our shelves, a portal to a place we no longer live. The refrigerator buzzes a little while it hums. There is no one on my street burying a murdered son or daughter.

I've been challenged and found lacking. But a new day is here. Socialization has roots and I'm going to name each and every one.