Dreams

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Dominique Daye Hunter

I have this theory that every hippie Indian mom who rocked out in the 70’s favorite song was “Dreams”. Okay well most of the ones I know anyway, including my mom.

I cruised down the freeway in 112-degree heat. It was a hot ass day in Phoenix, Arizona. My car’s AC had died. As time went on I was stuck in traffic, and only after 20 minutes I was already suffering from self-diagnosed heat stroke.

Fleetwood Mac was in the CD deck. I had listened to a few tunes on random. “Gypsy”, “Sara”, “Rhianna.” By the time “Dreams” came on, I was floating through my own delirium.

Now here we go again, you say you want your freedom…

Mady stuck her hand out the window of the rusted and brown 1978 Volkswagen bus. She made it wave and glide like a snake and a bird, as the wind whipped her hair around her head.

She had finally left him. Well who am I to keep you down… 

No one, she thought. No one was going to keep her down.

She missed her family, especially shimá, but she couldn’t stay. She knew he would keep pulling her down and down until she couldn’t even leave, wouldn’t even want to leave.

She turned to look at Faith and smiled. That night their band played at the Red Pony. Mady was on the drums.

Play it the way you feel it…

At the end of the set, she got up to the mic and sang.

But listen carefully to the sound
Of your loneliness
Like a heartbeat drives you mad…

She sang and sang, until the room was empty. Until the turquoise on her squash blossom bracelet fell to the floor and grew into corn. Until the folds in her skirt turned to waterfalls as the corn grew and grew out the window and toward the clouds. Until her moccasins grew wings, and she flew passed the stalks and into the night sky of corn pollen constellations

Now here I go again, I see the crystal visions…

Lisette sipped on her glass. She was a classy alcoholic.

It made up for her first 25 years spent living in dirt. Not physical dirt, per say, but the filth of worthlessness and fear that people like her mom and children’s father spewed on her for most of her early years.

They taught her to keep her dreams safe in the darkness of her bedroom, only visible in the space between her lids and pupils.

I keep my visions to myself…

She remembers after she ran from him, moving from Buffalo to New Jersey. Lisette used to be a go-go dancer. She hated the way the men stared, but it fed her children. She pretended to be someone else, just like she pretended you could dance to rock-and-roll.

It’s only me who wants to wrap around your dreams…

She moved her body to the music as her legs wrapped the pole, the manifestation of the dreams of her spectators.

“I mean at least you’re not selling your body,” Mercedes, her co-worker, responded to Lisette complaints as they powdered their faces in the dressing room, “We’re selling our movement,” she said motioning her hands downward over her curves. “Your image. Just like modeling, you know?”

Lisette nodded.

Have you any dreams you’d like to sell?

Two years later she found herself walking down the streets of New York City, holding her head shots in her arms. In the folder her afro, almond eyes, wide nose, and high Saponi cheek bones stayed hidden from a world that wasn’t ready to accept her existence.

Thunder only happens when it’s raining… 

Nelsie yelled and ran to the house. She was used to desert monsoons, but this loud prairie thunder she didn’t expect. She was followed by her boyfriend Bobby. The Lakota man ran after her laughing all the way.

“Eee! I feel like this is the apocalypse!”

He looked out nervously, then turned quickly and kissed her, rain dripping from her bangs.
Players only love you when they’re playing…

 He pulled away.

…They will come and they will go…

Just like he pulled away the last time she saw him. She stood in the August rain as he drove off the dirt drive-way and away from Sacaton.

When the rain washes you clean, you’ll know.
 

I played it again and again until I reached my destination. I waited outside the warehouse for the guys to get off of work. I closed my eyes, now so dry they barely shut. Dreaming of my mother and of rain.

 


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Dominique (Saponi/African/Irish/Polish descent) is the co-founder of Indigenous Womxn In Solidarity Empowered and Rising and owner of Est. Time Immemorial Clothing.
Dominique is also a poet/spoken word artist, short story writer, and aspiring recreational therapist. She is currently working on her B.S. in Nonprofit Leadership Management with an emphasis in American Indian Studies, and lives in Phoenix, AZ.


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