Dream a Little Dream: The Woes, Wiles, and Wonder of Having a Dream

A while ago when working at a Christian school, I created a sub-unit on "Dreams" that fit under the Civil Rights/Harlem Renaissance eras of literature we were studying. We analyzed speeches like "I Have a Dream" and musical pieces by Jazz greats, but two specific poems always stick in my mind, not only because we studied them in this unit, and teaching is the highest form of learning; but also because, I have had more than this one encounter with them, and, as you may know, meaning is discovered through repetition (it's why we're told to meditate on scripture!). "A Dream Deferred," by Mr. Langston Hughes, came into my life during my own high school career. We analyzed it in Sophomore English class alongside Cry, the Beloved Country and A Raisin in the Sun. The poem itself gives a list of possibilities for what will happen when a dream is put off--dry up, fester, crust over, or EXPLODE!, the last being perhaps the scariest and yet best option of all as hinted at in the poem. The other poem that sticks in my mind is called "kitchenette building," by Mrs. Gwendolyn Brooks, which I first encountered in my time at Covenant College. I analyzed it and wrote an analysis paper on it for American Literature; in fact, I got so into the research that I read the entire work the poem is from: A Street in Bronzeville. "kitchenette building," at first glance, has little to do with dreams save from the 3-line-stanza which describes how much care a dream would require, but therein lies the whole point of the poem--dreams are work, and are difficult to keep when survival is priority. 

This brings me to my wider exploration--both my own "dream deferred," and my own "dream embraced," which I worked hard, darn hard, to keep for so long until I left it behind in paradoxical dust of regret and exodus. 

When I was young, I remember quite easily my childhood dreams, not only because I have a sharp childhood memory. I also have a mom to remind me and anthropological proof of some of said dreams. Oceanographer Barbie, books on Tide Pools from Scholastic book fairs, and the tears I shed (as a 27 year old!) at Sea World serve as proof of my childhood hope of becoming an Oceanographer. The mathematics involved in the scientific portions of this job and the simultaneous existence of mistreatment of large aquatic mammals at higher paying jobs and the near non-existent pay for more ecological research positions put me off the path (What can I say, I was a third grader who did her research!). Pictures of me teaching classrooms of Barbies, the family jokes about my bossiness and delegation strategies, and the homework assignments I gave to my brothers during our homeschool years are proof of my childhood hope to become a teacher. And lastly, creative writing stories my mom saved, 4-H projects with plethoras of pictures AND writing, and stellar reviews for Living History projects and teen newspaper articles are proofs of my childhood desire to write. 

Though I can say with confidence that I am still all of these things and that childhood dreams really are great indicators of who someone is and will be, I can also say with confidence that I pursued only one of these dreams doggedly, namely, that of being an English teacher. I pursued it with such gusto, and lost about that same amount of gusto when that dream EXPLODED, both meanings of that word being accurate. The dream EXPLODED!---after years of keeping that dream of teaching alive; tending to it, nurturing it, feeding it---it came to pass in a passionate, exploding kind of way. And the dream EXPLODED!--it blew up in my face both due to my own idolatry of it and due to the fact that right now, teaching in this society kind of blows. Everyone knows from the outside that it's a hard job, but only those on the inside know just what a chuckle-nut it really is. (If I ever have a kid in school, his teachers will be the most spoiled people in our lives!). 

I could make it easy and say I gave it ten years of my life, and those years were (at least overall) good, especially the last two, after I learned more work-life balance and the true fact that no one will take care of your body but you (and maybe your spouse, if you're as lucky as I!). But it's harder than that, more complex than that, and I don't feel like being inauthentic. 

The truth is I gave teaching much more than ten years of my life. I gave it at least 4 years of high school planning, scholarship applying, competition entering, teacher cadet training and internships, observations and conferences, and time, time, time. I was never going to make it to or through college on my connections, sports skills, or money, so I knew I had to keep my grades tip-top and write my tail off in essays and applications to eke through to career. And I did that. Covenant College, a private out-of-state Christian college, was almost completely paid for via scholarships, grants, private church funding, and competitive earnings. Work-study, a loan taken out my Senior year (once they upped tuition), and a small grant from my grandfather Senior year pushed me through to graduation. I'll always be thankful to all who helped me--persons and churches and businesses and yes, even my national government....though theirs came with the most strings. But now that I've exited the biz, I wonder sometimes, was it all worth it? Was the care and keeping of this dream which never paid much and eventually exploded into oblivion worth it? ...

Not only was it work to keep that dream alive during high school, it was work during college to go to classes, do work study, complete papers, do practical service and internship hours, think hard about the ins and outs of educational philosophy and practice applications of that, and finally, to, write that Senior Integration Paper, complete two internships (middle school and high school teaching), and basically write a curriculum and fulfill it alongside my friend Lynn (thank God for her!) for a final measurement since we were the last two Upper-Ed High-School teachers to complete the Covenant degree program before they added the MAT program (Masters). Don't get me wrong; I'm not complaining. I love every single requirement Covenant College had and has for teachers (I barely survived ten years WITH all of that training!), and I enjoyed the grit and sweat of that program. In fact, I relished it. But that doesn't take away from the fact that it was hard work, and that sometimes, though I agree that it's always good for a man to bear the yoke in his youth, I wonder if I chose the right yoke or perhaps I'd put it on the wrong way. 

So no, I didn't just give teaching ten years of my life. I at least gave it 18. I raised it to adulthood before it left me in the dust on its way out of my heart...with some shards still left behind that I'm still working out what to do with. Some shards have no place and need to be removed. Others I think I'll need to learn to live with, the pain prompting compassion and wisdom and the heart flesh of those areas remaining tender for a purpose. 

The death of dreams, whether immediate or slow, feels painful. As a child, reading "A Dream Deferred" was pleasant, and though I thought it was a good poem, it didn't hit me as deeply as some of the poet's other works (namely, "Theme for English B" and "Mother to Son"). Reading it as an adult who feels scorched or burned by some of my dreams, especially the ones I worked hard for, is a different experience. Langston Hughes understands the reality of dreams. He was right about the feelings, entirely right. Though it feels as though my dream EXPLODED!, when I really think about it, it went through, I went through, all of the descriptions Hughes gives.

Yes, in 2021, I felt my dream of teaching exploded, blew up in my face in the form of shock followed by burn-out. The Spring semester of that year felt like I was on fire, but I burned brightly and well because I was determined to love the kids well until the bitter end, the bitter end being the Summer of 2021 being filled with sleep, therapy, and the thought "what happens to me now..." I also felt like my dream "festered like a sore...[threatening to, and somewhat] running down my leg" and that it threatened to "stink like rotten meat." These are those feelings of bitterness and hurt which I worked with my friend Deej to heal and to throw out since they have little room in the Christian's life. These are also how many of my friends remained after teaching through Covid, and I pray healing over them whenever it comes to mind. Another part of my healing resided in my last two years of teaching--I am so glad I didn't quit during burn-out, that the Lord gave me two more years of healing and time to remind me that teaching wasn't just a "sore" or "rotten meat;" it was always much more complex than that, much more beautiful amongst its thorns. 

My wound is now mostly healed, though the occasional irritation still threatens to snag at the scar. The rotten meat is where it belongs, in the trash, and God help me continue to resist the urge to go and get it out like a dieter on a binge. The greatest temptation to me has been to let teaching "crust and sugar over like a syrupy sweet," to reminisce only about the good times in teaching, the kids I loved, the days that were wondrous and life-affirming. To dwell on years 1 & 2 and 9 & 10 of teaching and letting those other memories fade into the background of my mind, of my heart. To lie to myself about the profession having "not been that bad," to let the sugary crust of self-deception grow over my wound, readied for the shock of future memory to tear the truth back open--no thank you! I'd rather face the truth bravely, and deal with the things fully as they are, not as I want them to be.

For a while also teaching and the dream of it just "sagged like a heavy load," this thing I couldn't shrug off that made my body and spirit heavy, that felt like an add-on to my life which had sewn itself into my flesh. It now, praise God, feels like a backpack that I can remove when it starts to feel bad, but I confess I fear returning to a school even as a substitute since I think the burden may threaten to become part of me again should I set my foot inside the place of my demise--a school building. You can call this co-dependency, idolatry, or simply what happens when a dream takes so much for a person to accomplish, and you'd be right in all cases. Poverty makes dreaming harder, and that includes what happens when the dream is no longer your reality and you think back on all you sacrificed to achieve it. 

I think what I most want now is for my dream and experience of teaching to "dry up like a raisin in the sun," not to explode and send shrapnel into others, freeing me from memory in some ways. No, I want it to remain a part of me, the good and the hard--all of it, but I want it to age. I want to go from being a grape in the vineyard, fresh and full and perhaps squeezed too hard to produce wine, to drying up into a wise old raisin, whose taste is mostly sweet but who remembers the hard, perhaps has some wrinkles from it. Who isn't everyone's favorite, but can add some wondrously sweet flavor to the dishes of people's lives, perhaps with a slight bitter tang of truth as well. May my life-song be an offering, full of the sweetness of grace and the tang of truth, and may my pain not be wasted. As a Christian, I know it won't be wasted, for our Lord wastes nothing. 

"kitchenette building," that other poem, is all about what it takes to dream in difficult circumstances, and I believe this adds another layer to my story. Dreaming of any profession which required a college degree was for me what the poster in my Senior English class said--"Shoot for the Moon: If you Miss, You'll Land Among the Stars." It was near impossible, yet appealing. My brothers had a hard task when it came to college too, but they were helped by my mom being single by the time they applied for school. The money my Nana saved for me before her death would have helped, but due to circumstances, that was spent by others before I could touch it. I often felt I was on my own, and that wasn't entirely incorrect. College was a hard win. 

And yet...I kept the dream warm, cared for it, fed it, and we, the Lord and I, graduated from college and started that career we'd dreamed of, which made it all the more difficult to leave. Can 10 years of the profession make 8 years of work worth it? Perhaps. But I think the bigger discussion lies in what poverty-culture, immigrant families, city-school kids feel when they can't hack it at the college they worked hard for or the career they sacrificed much for (we'll save that for a separate post)--and the EVEN bigger discussion lies in this--Is a college degree really only for the singular profession it was intended for and furthermore, does God waste experience? Of course, the answer to both is no. Even if I never step foot in a classroom, I use the niche experiences from teaching everyday--in my marriage, in teaching children at church, in ministry, in life; in counseling, and I'll use my degree and skills in any and every job I have in the future. Teaching skills really are versatile. Teachers, in my opinion, are one of the biggest resources on the planet given the myriad of skills we've gained in such a challenging profession. Also, Christian, Our God is TOO BIG to waste. He is the most resourceful being alive since he works most closely with and through humans (I mean, we ain't that great, low-key). 

So yes, dreams are hard especially if you grew up hard (props to Mr. J.D. Vance--I felt that "Hillbilly Elegy" hard-core). Yes, dreams deferred, whether never embraced and hence filled with what-ifs, or put-off after a few years in the bull-pen, are painful. And yet, God uses pain. I am convinced that hard work, pain, and experience are better than youthful energy and naiveté any day of the week. I feel more like a raisin than a grape, and I feel more old than young even at only 35, and yet I like myself more than ever, my husband loves me more than than ever, and I feel more useful than ever. Perhaps going through the hard, losing a dream, leaving a former lifestyle, killing idols, hurting badly...perhaps all of that is so, so good since it transforms. Perhaps sometimes in our culture we worship the youthful, childish caterpillar without seeing the beautiful butterfly of adulthood that emerges from a chrysalis that felt trapping and horrible. That's what I think. But what do I know? I have a lifetime of more hard, more pain, and more experience left to gain....Let's go. Let's do hard things on purpose. Let's dream and live and hurt and learn and grow into the adults we were always meant to become.

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P.S. I realize my interpretation of "A Dream Deferred" is not necessarily its full or niche meaning, but alas, this is how poetry works. It's beautiful partly because it possesses both objective and subjective meaning. Both poems referenced as well as a song by Michael Card that relates to this post is attached. 

 https://allpoetry.com/Dream-Deferred

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43308/kitchenette-building

https://genius.com/Michael-card-mourning-the-death-of-a-dream-lyrics