The Dream By Juann Merchant

The Dream

I was once told as a child at the age of eleven by my mother Catherine on how to dress, how the look in to the eyes of your competitor and most of all how to inspire others of doing the right things. In the village of Santa Morge, where I grew up, there you can smell the fresh bread out of the oven, the sounds of birds and chickens on an early morning as they wake you out of the dawn into a new day. I can still remember the pain through the eyes of my father when they took him away. I hadn't any idea why? In his mid-thirties they captured him with huge shackles around his arms and legs as if he was a slave. They dragged him into the county van and took him down town. Mom stood and watched on with her hands to her side. I couldn't understand what was going on but to stare in a state of shock with placket shirt all muddied. I bowed my head in a state of disbelief. As I looked on while they kept beating him, one of the men out of the four others grabbed what seemed to be a small black book out of his pockets and threw it out of the moving van. They laughed and drank moulted rum on the way back, since then I never seen him again. I closed the door shut behind and shouted for mom, inside the old cottage shack. Inside, laid the dog Bruno with cheeks all wearied. I held onto to his book like a baby in arms, their mom quickly grab me while the book fell to the ground. I tried to reach for the very book while grabbing the loosened ends but she kept pulling me out of the shack and there she told me to get into the van. There Bruno jumped into the back of the van at what was in his mouth leaved me shocked! All what was left were trails behind not even any clothing but just what was on our backs. I cried along the bumpy tracks on a long journey heading towards her sister's home just of the Coast of Canterbury. A larger town where the people shopped all sort of goods there. Even though I didn't have the gut to question her where they had taken dad? But my ego had gotten the very best of me. I was comfortable for a while listening to the good old country songs coming from a nearby liquor shop while Bruno rested peacefully on my lap as he moored to the music. Almost asleep while she drove about four miles away from the Coast of Canterbury, with fury in my gut still wondering why they had taken him away and why? We suddenly came to a junction as the sign reads Casterello New town. Along the journey to my aunt home, we finally meet and what leave me shocked was the fact of her uttered my name 'Jonathan Reige', for the very first time. I heard

about her mean ways but I never knew her personally. Only stories were told by Grandma of her when she was alive. I was so young and dumb! But most of the time she would argue with her and for God knows what for? Even on Mom's wedding day there were shouting in the corner, while Grand ma tried to calm her down from the loud noise in the private room. She was an addict and very high tempered individual. At that time I thought she was an addict for money, since she merely wore skimpy clothing that hardly covered her loins exposing her innocence. But she was an addict for men and their make-believe conspiracy. At some point at the age of seven I was very inquisitive and smart; I could remember Grandma looking at her in her eyes trying to let her understand the importance of self.

'You are more than just a woman, but a wise and beautiful person who can rise above the odds', said, Grandma.

'Why can you be more like your sister'? She exclaimed.

In her quiet voice she held her while wiping the tears away with an impression on her face while she utters these few words. 'I Love you'. While the tears dripped along her beautiful face.

Then there was a bang!

'A huge storm ahead', said aunt Maria.

'Boy quickly grab you stuff from the truck and get in here'. She angrily replied.

I grabbed Bruno and the book and tucked in the ragged clothing into my trousers just to look neatly attired. With arms to my side as if I was all grown up, every step I made into her home made me quiver. She was dressed in one of those expensive dresses that you see in a magazine, the shiny sequences that glittered and the tightness of it skimmed her body. She then placed her left arm upon my shoulder and the other she waved mom good-bye. In my head with ideas all wavering through, mom didn't even say where she's heading, but the way she accelerated as her feet stomped the peddles she was in a rage of fury. As I looked on all I can see was the image of our van getting smaller and smaller until it ceased to exist. In a moment of silence, with a smile on her face that camouflaged the ugly monster within her, the node in my throat while I tried to swallow my saliva as I walked into

her world of misery. She had a maid by the name of, Betty that once worked for her, with a phone call in the middle of the night, mom answered with a tired voice, 'Good Night'. I can hear the tears coming from the other end of the receiver. She had a gun to her head; while in a midst of shock she tried to calm her down of not making a huge mistake. At that time I can hear her voice trembling across the phone about 'shooting' someone. In my pyjamas I leaned over just to get closer to the wall, while it collapsed causing me to fall to the ground with a tremendous thud. The receiver that once held by my mother swayed from side-to-side, over hearing the last few words uttering, 'Betty'.

Then the sound of a bell that woke me out of a state of shock to a table all prepared with delicious food that trickled my taste buds, with watery mouth, she quickly ordered the maid to get rid of Bruno, I got mad nearly knocking the food off the silver plates as I desperately tried to choke her. At that very moment I was sent to a local Boy Scout Institution, just located far off Castello New Town. There I spent three years learning how to cope with my social problems. I was mentored by a teacher named, Denzel Murray, I must say he was one of my leaders whom had taught me the very things to know as a young boy and how to deal with the real world, but none could compare to the strong hands that once held me as a baby, the one whom caught me when I fell and most of all the one whom taught me to be a man. It is funny how time goes by, the time I can remember Maria when she let the state officials taken me away and now at the age of eighteen I can still see her in my dreams, in my thoughts and in my soul.

The following morning I had a visitor, I got dressed into some old used clothing, the threads didn't even bind properly, the seamed over used, but with a huge smile on my face like a little boy, I stepped into the waiting area thinking it was my mother but in shocking state, there she stood with her marvel red dress and a cigar in hand like a model of the year. There I got mad all over again like it was yesterday. The time ticked on the wall, the huge glass in front me as if I was in jail. I looked at her with raged as if I wanted to grab her long blonde ponytail for the pain and sorrow she had put me through. But as nice as I can be there's another side she hasn't seen yet. If it is anything else we didn't have in common was the fact that we were blessed with strong genes. The power to reason and to be smart, I know for a fact that those genes came from my father, and after all these years not being able to see him

made me even angrier. She then uttered a few words that surprised me. 'It's nice to see you all grown up',' so strong like 'Brusberry'. The veins in my head felt as if they wanted to burst. 'You are different from him, 'I don't know how Catherine could stand his obsessive behaviour for writing on God's know what in that stupid black book for all these years, came to think of him cheating on her, but what was ironic was the fact he wrote all his formulas in his make-believe laboratory just in the basement'. I can't help but to stare at her with rage and as I rolled my fist into a ball of fury. I contemplated on the past and to think drastically on where she's heading with all of this. For all these years I now know what it's like to not have any parents and the abjure to my Christian faith made me think twice. But why was she here after all these years? Was she here to make a scene, or to mock the very steps of my father's work? These questions lingered in my head, but out of the blues she leaned over and told me her secrets through the holes in the thick glass window. Then she reached in her purse and pulled out the very black book. She then looked at the time and it reads 13: 00pm. In her world she was free to do as she liked, but as compared to my world I was owned, not by self but by the state. On her way out she once puffed on her cigar and said; with no fury, 'your father had written everything there is to know about modern technology and through his vessels he dedicated his work to you'. I collected the book and tucked it in my pocket and proceeded to the other side of the room.

I returned to my room and placed my hands beneath my head and looked up at the ceiling wondering when my days are going to be over, when will I be able to live free once again? I studied many articles and read the daily News Letter and hoping someday they would find my parents. But in these times you have to think on how to survive, how to protect your love ones from harm. In this institution you cannot be a 'cub', or you will be eaten. I spent most of my times in the library trying to learn Black History and where my ancestors came from. On the weekends I volunteer at a local state community as a janitor, moping after white people and cleaning ceiling and taking out the trash they left behind. What was ironic is the fact they also treated us like trash, but they weren't strong like us nor they wise like us, every black person in the town of Casterello were murdered after Rebellion of Black History in May 1920. He was named after Malcolm X. His named made an impact for the civil rights of our black community, he exclaimed, 'that we are one', 'we are leaders and we fought for

same rights as the white people'. But just before the Annual State Elections in May 1922, he was murdered by the K.K squads. They brought him before every civil servant of the white community and murdered him. They even named the Galas after his name as a trade mark of his long-lived days.

I closed the book, with dust all over my shirt as I wiped the tears from my face, in their library you couldn't borrow any of the books, they were rules as followed, and if anyone caught stealing, or damage to any of such will be dealt with seriously. On the cover reads 'Black History', vol: VIII. At some point I wondered why would they left such a book like this behind, but in a distance I can hear Murray's voice when he told the Chief Inspector that he had forgotten to put one of his books into the Master's drawer. I looked up to him as a leader and a father, but what is it about this book that he also needs to uncover? I reached over and replace another of its kind, quite similar as the one in hand onto the dusted shelf. He had taught me to be honest, but what is honesty in his world when he could also have secrets, so then I realised I cannot trust anyone. I quickly hidden the book in my shirt and proceeded in the

gent's washroom. The smell of urine and filt on walls which were imprinted with waste as if this was a motel down town, the sounds of mourning on the other end of the room. If it is anything in life my mother taught me was to respect a woman, but to take advantage of her in a smelly putrid place like this, was 'out of order'. The women were of coloured and their voices were not heard, nor do they have anything to say in the white community. They were owned and captivated of their rights, the liberation to fight in the white community. Their children were taken away to a farther place where they grew up not knowing their real parents, nor to mock their very first steps. I couldn't bare the sounds but then a bunch of keys fell to the ground with a shingling sound, I tried to reach for it, and then a man in the distance grabbed a woman, with his face all wearied while he held her waist firmly out of pleasure. I braced myself firmly to the ground and reached over and grabbed the very keys and escaped. In the air I smell hot potato boiling and the sound of oil while the chef mar maid the chickens, even though I missed dinner there was something about this place that made me wanted to leave. I looked across the kitchen and placed the apron around my waist and a hat on my head as if I was of one the chef; there I saw fresh stakes of ham, huge buckets of butter and large bags of potatoes. In my head this was a place where work was the ultimate task, a place that was once a home, a

place of another Whiteman's 'Throne'. There I saw the driver Lair who would always get beaten for his drunken habits. So I waited until he entered his room, when he's sober then he would unload the Master's truck. I didn't hesitated any longer, I got into the truck and drove as if my life dependent it, knocking down the Masters plants, as I proceeded out of town, at some point I didn't had a pass but what was dangling in front of me in the inner review, was a photograph of Lair's. I kept thinking it's just a few miles ahead to pass the gateway, but how? I then decided to roll up the thick glass window inside the doors to hide myself from the guards ahead. With my chest all puffed up I place one hand in front and showed him Lair's photograph. The sound of bullets and the reload of another gun in hand made me quiver. One of the men decided to examine the truck, and ordered me to lower the racks. I began to perspire, but then a call from the State County, where they both decided to let me go. I gasp for air and a relief of knowing this day and the journey to my parents have just begun.

Almost sunset I drove about forty miles heading out of town, with my throat all dried and lips begging for a drink of water. There in a distance I saw some camping grounds. Some sort of tent and men training like armed soldiers. So tired and hungry I got closer as they reached for their guns. One of men told the other to not 'shoot'.

I got on both knees and put my hands up into the air by surrendering. 'I am not here for you guys'. I fell to the ground all out of energy. With eyes almost shut I saw a light in the distance. Then the lights were out, all I can remember they chanted my name, while a soft hand with wash cloth wiped my face and a sweet scented perfume that trickled my nose.

'It's time for you to go, let him go you hear me'! All battered and bruised I can hear the thud in his voice, the firmed grip he once held me as a child. A father's passion, while his son held him, the very black book fell to the ground.

His father uttered 'this is just the beginning son, the sight of tears in his eyes while holding onto to him as he blew his final breath'.

The End