Dreams and Nightmares
Jan 2, 2020
I've been up since before five. The world has been burning in flats below me for days on end.
I woke up a from a dream. From a nightmare. I killed a woman. I killed her in a dream. I was on mushrooms, and I thought she'd been fatally injured. I didn't want to do it, it just happened, and I fled, or at least that's what I tell myself
In the reality of the dream, I'd shared the mushrooms with her. We were on some sort of a rollercoaster, and she did something stupid, and she injured herself. I didn't want people to know what had happened. I didn't want to be held responsible for her death. I didn't want people to find out. I didn't want go to jail. So I beat her to death.
Other people saw. They knew. Her frat-boy friends. They knew.
It happened in my hometown of Kent, Ohio.
Since the dream I've carried the guilt of her death for years. It was one of those hyperrealistic dreams. The kind where there are colors, and maybe even smells. So even though she never existed, the feeling of horror at what I'd done has persisted in some web ridden corner of my mind.
That was years ago. I'd forgotten about it, but tonight it came back, as I was showing my partner around my long-absent home town of dreams. How the hell did I get here? How the hell did my guilt bring to this place. Or perhaps the question is how that place brings me to my guilt.
The police. This overwhelming sense of guilt that I must have done something wrong or the police wouldn't have pulled the gun on me. They wouldn't have held me in the freezing cold for 45 minutes as they went through my car and everything I owned, lying to me about bringing drug dogs. There were no drug dogs. And more importantly, there were no drugs for them to find.
I was 13 when they pulled a gun on me and my friend. He was 13 too. We were coming out of a ravine, coming up from the creek were we'd been hunting for snakes. The police jumped out from the greenery with pistols pointed at us, screaming at us. I don't know if it was for us to freeze, or put our hands up, or both, or something else. I just stopped.
My friend and I understood what to do when you were confronted by poisonous snakes. You froze. You moved slowly. You didn't disturb them. They were more afraid of you than you were of them. So we did. And we were OK in the end. That was Houston.
In the reality of the dream, I'd shared the mushrooms with her. We were on some sort of a rollercoaster, and she did something stupid, and she injured herself. I didn't want people to know what had happened. I didn't want to be held responsible for her death. I didn't want people to find out. I didn't want go to jail. So I beat her to death.
Other people saw. They knew. Her frat-boy friends. They knew.
It happened in my hometown of Kent, Ohio.
Since the dream I've carried the guilt of her death for years. It was one of those hyperrealistic dreams. The kind where there are colors, and maybe even smells. So even though she never existed, the feeling of horror at what I'd done has persisted in some web ridden corner of my mind.
That was years ago. I'd forgotten about it, but tonight it came back, as I was showing my partner around my long-absent home town of dreams. How the hell did I get here? How the hell did my guilt bring to this place. Or perhaps the question is how that place brings me to my guilt.
The police. This overwhelming sense of guilt that I must have done something wrong or the police wouldn't have pulled the gun on me. They wouldn't have held me in the freezing cold for 45 minutes as they went through my car and everything I owned, lying to me about bringing drug dogs. There were no drug dogs. And more importantly, there were no drugs for them to find.
I was 13 when they pulled a gun on me and my friend. He was 13 too. We were coming out of a ravine, coming up from the creek were we'd been hunting for snakes. The police jumped out from the greenery with pistols pointed at us, screaming at us. I don't know if it was for us to freeze, or put our hands up, or both, or something else. I just stopped.
My friend and I understood what to do when you were confronted by poisonous snakes. You froze. You moved slowly. You didn't disturb them. They were more afraid of you than you were of them. So we did. And we were OK in the end. That was Houston.
More than half a lifetime later I returned to my home town of Kent, OH. I returned for the first time in twenty years. The place oozed familiarity. I could imagine living there. I could work remotely. I could make a very good living working remotely. A house there cost the same as downpayment in Oakland or San Francisco.
Although I lived and worked in Northern California, I'd driven from Toronto. I'd had the trip to Toronto scheduled for months, and my uncle died a week before I left. My father's brother Bob. He was buried in a pauper's grave in Ashtabula, OH. So I went to Toronto as planned, and there I rented a car, and I drove four hours down to Ashtabula.
Ashtabula's not far from Kent, my hometown. Kent is not far from Chardon, where my Aunt and Uncle on my mom's side live. They're both lawyers. That's important soon.
I slept in the car the first night. That was the plan. I'm a cheapskate, so I tend to sleep in a car if I have one, and if I'm alone. Or a one-man tent. But if it's cold, I sleep in the car. I don't remember that first night, but that was the plan for the second too.
Ashtabula is beautiful. I don't know if I'd ever been as a child, but I'd heard about it, and it was as beautiful as my mom said. I didn't find his grave. I don't even know if he really had one.
The next day I drove to Kent. I spent the day visiting the spots of my childhood. The little woods behind the married students' dorms where my friends and I used to go camping on warm summer nights. We'd make fires. We'd tell ghost stories. It was a five minute walk from home.
I saw how incredibly tiny the apartment of my first memories was. The one where my mom heard someone banging on pipes for nights on end, only to discover that it was our African clawed frog's mating call. She had plants everywhere. She'd repot them on the concrete walkway that bordered the giant courtyard. When it rained the sidewalks would be covered in an ocean of worms, and when it wasn't worms it was toads. Vast numbers of them, like a biblical plague of cuteness and excitement for a young herpaphile. The student gardens were no longer there.
On the other side of town, in the place where I had caught my first salamander, the forest was gone, and there stood a faux-colonial mcmansion. Brady's Leap and the graveyard near where I lost my first bicycle were still there, almost untouched by the same passage of time that had replaced the beauty of the salamander's forest with an architectural monstrosity and pristine green lawns.
I drove by Fred Fuller park. It was dark by now. I'd had a corned beef sandwich, and a single beer hours before. I'd visited my first elementary school, Holden. Now I was going to see my second, Central. Then I'd find a place to pull over and sleep for the night.
There was a highway between us. I waited for the light to turn green. Or maybe it was a flashing red, and I waited until there was no traffic. When the way cleared I floored it across the road, I accelerated quickly, and as I crossed, I saw the cop car coming over the rise in the highway. There is that moment where you know the cops are going to try to bust you.
I never crossed the speed limit. In fact I never reached the speed limit. As soon as I saw them, I knew that I was the most exciting thing happening in that sleepy town, and sure enough they pulled onto the street behind me.
You know how to handle that. You stick to the speed limit, and you obey every single law, because they're just looking for an excuse to fuck with you. That's part of growing up in a bad neighborhood, or having long hair in the South, or driving your family's shitty old car. You avoid the nice neighborhoods because the police are going to fuck with you.
So what do the cops do? They pull in behind me. What do you do if the cops are behind you? You look at the speedometer and nail it to the 25 MPH speed limit. You follow every rule. You know what sucks? Not realizing that you're nailing it to 25KPH because you're in a Canadian car, and the big numbers aren't in MPH. So now you're driving too slowly, just like a drunk.
Although I lived and worked in Northern California, I'd driven from Toronto. I'd had the trip to Toronto scheduled for months, and my uncle died a week before I left. My father's brother Bob. He was buried in a pauper's grave in Ashtabula, OH. So I went to Toronto as planned, and there I rented a car, and I drove four hours down to Ashtabula.
Ashtabula's not far from Kent, my hometown. Kent is not far from Chardon, where my Aunt and Uncle on my mom's side live. They're both lawyers. That's important soon.
I slept in the car the first night. That was the plan. I'm a cheapskate, so I tend to sleep in a car if I have one, and if I'm alone. Or a one-man tent. But if it's cold, I sleep in the car. I don't remember that first night, but that was the plan for the second too.
Ashtabula is beautiful. I don't know if I'd ever been as a child, but I'd heard about it, and it was as beautiful as my mom said. I didn't find his grave. I don't even know if he really had one.
The next day I drove to Kent. I spent the day visiting the spots of my childhood. The little woods behind the married students' dorms where my friends and I used to go camping on warm summer nights. We'd make fires. We'd tell ghost stories. It was a five minute walk from home.
I saw how incredibly tiny the apartment of my first memories was. The one where my mom heard someone banging on pipes for nights on end, only to discover that it was our African clawed frog's mating call. She had plants everywhere. She'd repot them on the concrete walkway that bordered the giant courtyard. When it rained the sidewalks would be covered in an ocean of worms, and when it wasn't worms it was toads. Vast numbers of them, like a biblical plague of cuteness and excitement for a young herpaphile. The student gardens were no longer there.
On the other side of town, in the place where I had caught my first salamander, the forest was gone, and there stood a faux-colonial mcmansion. Brady's Leap and the graveyard near where I lost my first bicycle were still there, almost untouched by the same passage of time that had replaced the beauty of the salamander's forest with an architectural monstrosity and pristine green lawns.
I drove by Fred Fuller park. It was dark by now. I'd had a corned beef sandwich, and a single beer hours before. I'd visited my first elementary school, Holden. Now I was going to see my second, Central. Then I'd find a place to pull over and sleep for the night.
There was a highway between us. I waited for the light to turn green. Or maybe it was a flashing red, and I waited until there was no traffic. When the way cleared I floored it across the road, I accelerated quickly, and as I crossed, I saw the cop car coming over the rise in the highway. There is that moment where you know the cops are going to try to bust you.
I never crossed the speed limit. In fact I never reached the speed limit. As soon as I saw them, I knew that I was the most exciting thing happening in that sleepy town, and sure enough they pulled onto the street behind me.
You know how to handle that. You stick to the speed limit, and you obey every single law, because they're just looking for an excuse to fuck with you. That's part of growing up in a bad neighborhood, or having long hair in the South, or driving your family's shitty old car. You avoid the nice neighborhoods because the police are going to fuck with you.
So what do the cops do? They pull in behind me. What do you do if the cops are behind you? You look at the speedometer and nail it to the 25 MPH speed limit. You follow every rule. You know what sucks? Not realizing that you're nailing it to 25KPH because you're in a Canadian car, and the big numbers aren't in MPH. So now you're driving too slowly, just like a drunk.
The cops are tail-gaiting you. You can't see because their headlights are blinding you. So you pull out. You park somewhere where you can legally leave the car. Hopefully they just keep going, even if you know they won't. So that's what I did. I pulled into my old elementary school's parking lot, and sure enough they followed me in.
I tell them while I'm in Kent. I cooperate with them at every step. I submit to their tests. They shine lights in my eyes. They have me walk a straight line. It's something I couldn't do at the time. It wasn't until seven years later when I started taking yoga classes that I could walk a straight line or stand on even one foot for more than a few seconds.
My eyes stutter as they shine a flashlight into them. It's imperceptible unless you're looking for it. They ask me if I have a medical problem. I don't remember that I spent what seems like years of my childhood with my mother holding flashcards on the end of a pencil and moving them in patterns while I read the words, so that I'll be able to read when read. So that I wan't be crippled with dyslexia. I was young, younger than when I caught my first salamander. I don't remember, so I say no.
The two cops are convinced that I'm drunk. They ask me what I'm doing there. I tell them. They don't believe me. They tell me they can't tow my car, because by luck I'd parked in a place where they can't legally tow my car. Well no fucking kidding dude, that's why I parked here. I know how this bullshit works. I don't tell them that. They seem to want me to know how I've fucked their plans.
They tell me they're going to get a breathalyzer. I tell them to get the breathalyzer. They don't. Their conclusion is that obviously I must be on some other kind of drug. They accuse me of being a drug runner because I've got a California ID and I'm in a Canadian rental car. I tell them why I'm there again. I tell them about my Uncle's death, and about this being my hometown that I haven't seen in twenty years.
They ask to search my car. I say yes. They search everything I own. They find nothing. They say they're going going to get the drug dogs. I tell them calmly to please get the drug dogs. They don't. They don't know what to make of a young white man's calm agreement and complete compliance. It's not in their script. Obviously I must be lying, but they don't know what I've done wrong. So they stand in the cold in their head-to-toe back-bulky vests, more kitted out than any MP I've seen, and they grill me.
I don't bring up that my Aunt and Uncle have both been judicial officials in the next county over. My aunt may currently be at this time. I don't bring this up because I don't have their phone numbers on me, nor do I have precise details, nor do I want to call my Aunt and Uncle at three or four in the fucking morning. I was going to call my mom for their numbers the next day. That was stupid, but the lack of preparation is par for my personal course. It has bitten me before, and it won't be the last time that it bites me either.
It's now been forty five minutes or so that I've been standing in a light sweatshirt and jeans in sub-zero weather, calmly submitting to this bullshit, telling the same story over and over again. There is snow on the ground. My breath leaves clouds in the dry winter air. I start shivering.
My eyes stutter as they shine a flashlight into them. It's imperceptible unless you're looking for it. They ask me if I have a medical problem. I don't remember that I spent what seems like years of my childhood with my mother holding flashcards on the end of a pencil and moving them in patterns while I read the words, so that I'll be able to read when read. So that I wan't be crippled with dyslexia. I was young, younger than when I caught my first salamander. I don't remember, so I say no.
The two cops are convinced that I'm drunk. They ask me what I'm doing there. I tell them. They don't believe me. They tell me they can't tow my car, because by luck I'd parked in a place where they can't legally tow my car. Well no fucking kidding dude, that's why I parked here. I know how this bullshit works. I don't tell them that. They seem to want me to know how I've fucked their plans.
They tell me they're going to get a breathalyzer. I tell them to get the breathalyzer. They don't. Their conclusion is that obviously I must be on some other kind of drug. They accuse me of being a drug runner because I've got a California ID and I'm in a Canadian rental car. I tell them why I'm there again. I tell them about my Uncle's death, and about this being my hometown that I haven't seen in twenty years.
They ask to search my car. I say yes. They search everything I own. They find nothing. They say they're going going to get the drug dogs. I tell them calmly to please get the drug dogs. They don't. They don't know what to make of a young white man's calm agreement and complete compliance. It's not in their script. Obviously I must be lying, but they don't know what I've done wrong. So they stand in the cold in their head-to-toe back-bulky vests, more kitted out than any MP I've seen, and they grill me.
I don't bring up that my Aunt and Uncle have both been judicial officials in the next county over. My aunt may currently be at this time. I don't bring this up because I don't have their phone numbers on me, nor do I have precise details, nor do I want to call my Aunt and Uncle at three or four in the fucking morning. I was going to call my mom for their numbers the next day. That was stupid, but the lack of preparation is par for my personal course. It has bitten me before, and it won't be the last time that it bites me either.
It's now been forty five minutes or so that I've been standing in a light sweatshirt and jeans in sub-zero weather, calmly submitting to this bullshit, telling the same story over and over again. There is snow on the ground. My breath leaves clouds in the dry winter air. I start shivering.
The cops orders me to stop moving. They tell me. To. Stop. Shivering. I tell him in frustration that I can't. They move out of my vision, and I hear them one as the other, "Delirium tremens?"
I lose it, but I loose it in a tirade of eloquence, one of those moments in my life that I wish I could channel into every waking moment.
I tell them that I've been standing here for forty five minutes freezing in the cold. Of course I'm shivering. I tell them them about by Uncle's death the week before. About the previously scheduled trip to visit my dearest friend in Toronto. I tell them about searching for my Uncle's grave in Ashtabula. I tell them about visiting the Allerton apartments where I spent three years of my childhood. I tell them about the woods behind those apartments where I camped with my friends during the summer, where we'd catch fireflies in the warm evenings. I recount the schools I attended. I recount a litany of autobiographical and geographical details that only a child of Kent could know. I tell them about the mcmansion that sits where I caught my first salamander.
Maybe that did it. I don't know if any particular detail did it, but there isn't a pause or an "um" or an "ah" in the stream of words that flows forth from me, and it dawns on them: I'm telling the truth. You can see it written across their faces. They just fucked up.
But they're cops. They can't loose face to a civilian. They can't say, I'm sorry Mr. Younker, we fucked up. They can't admit to their boss that they just harassed an innocent person.
So they give me an offer. They can either take me to a hotel, or I can come with them to the police station where they'll take a blood sample. I'm fucking innocent of anything, but I don't want to go through this bullshit any more. They drive me to the hotel. As they drive me I have the thought, "Now I understand the attitude that led the National Guard killed four students in here."
I don't sleep that night, and rather than visit my Aunt and Uncle the next day, I have only one desire. I walk the mile or two back to my car, and I get the fuck as far away from Ohio as quickly as I legally can.
And so the dream is over, and I'm awake. It's now almost eight now, and I'm finally feeling some relief. As I sit the house in the Berkeley hills I can hear the freeway, below us and miles away, waking up. The slow rumble. The horn of a train traveling beside the I-80. Maybe it's the Capitol Corridor Amtrak heading towards Sacramento or towards its final stop in Emeryville.
The part about committing murder in my hometown? The part about visiting and being discovered by my victim's fratboy ? It's was a dream. It was a nightmare.
The parts about the police? They're all real. They really happened.
What if those things had happened to my niece or nephews? They are, no matter what their self-perception, by the standards of our society, black. What would have happened to them if they were in my place? Would the police have shot? Would my young relatives have gone to jail? Would they have been beaten?
I don't know, and I hope I never get to find out.
It was hard enough growing up poor. I can't even imagine what it's like to be black in the USA.
Policing is broken in this country. We are the enemy. They are an occupying force. Something needs to change.
But they're cops. They can't loose face to a civilian. They can't say, I'm sorry Mr. Younker, we fucked up. They can't admit to their boss that they just harassed an innocent person.
So they give me an offer. They can either take me to a hotel, or I can come with them to the police station where they'll take a blood sample. I'm fucking innocent of anything, but I don't want to go through this bullshit any more. They drive me to the hotel. As they drive me I have the thought, "Now I understand the attitude that led the National Guard killed four students in here."
I don't sleep that night, and rather than visit my Aunt and Uncle the next day, I have only one desire. I walk the mile or two back to my car, and I get the fuck as far away from Ohio as quickly as I legally can.
And so the dream is over, and I'm awake. It's now almost eight now, and I'm finally feeling some relief. As I sit the house in the Berkeley hills I can hear the freeway, below us and miles away, waking up. The slow rumble. The horn of a train traveling beside the I-80. Maybe it's the Capitol Corridor Amtrak heading towards Sacramento or towards its final stop in Emeryville.
The part about committing murder in my hometown? The part about visiting and being discovered by my victim's fratboy ? It's was a dream. It was a nightmare.
The parts about the police? They're all real. They really happened.
What if those things had happened to my niece or nephews? They are, no matter what their self-perception, by the standards of our society, black. What would have happened to them if they were in my place? Would the police have shot? Would my young relatives have gone to jail? Would they have been beaten?
I don't know, and I hope I never get to find out.
It was hard enough growing up poor. I can't even imagine what it's like to be black in the USA.
Policing is broken in this country. We are the enemy. They are an occupying force. Something needs to change.
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