Witches Competition

I am an avid Harry Potter fan. As a boring, middle class girl with overprotective family, the idea of escaping to this magical world was wonderful. At twenty years old, I went to the Harry Potter theme park at Universal Studios, and I felt like my life was complete. My constant need to escape the loneliness of reality led me to often blend fiction and reality. For years as a little child I believed the cartoons on the television  were real and I only needed to find a way to access the world through the television to be with Jimmy Neutron and others.

I always wanted to be a witch. My dreams reflected that. This dream is one of the few storylines I remember. I was in my backyard in New Jersey with some girls from my high school. My house was deceptively small, and my yard was actually small. I was learning magic for the first time, trying to levitate something with my wand. Fast forward to the end of the dream, I was standing on a diving board high, at least two stories high, above this pool in this dark natatorium with dark wood paneled walls.. The pool was so blue, the water glowed. This woman reminiscent of the flamboyant host in The Hunger Games movie series explains the task. I needed to jump into this pool to prove my magical capabilities. In my attempt to jump, I end up leaping to the wooded walls and running along the walls on some Spiderman shit. On this journey I ran past some African masks hung on the walls. Then I woke up. I don’t know if I actually made it to the pool.

I was about thirteen or fourteen years old but still believed in magic. I believed in the experience of learning. I believed in taking small leaps of faith and excepting where I landed. Like my dream, like most people, magic started at home. It starts on our blocks, in our backyards, or in our basements. I loved Harry Potter because the books always started in the mundane muggle world where some random magical moment unleashes an entire magical adventure. I loved the books because there was a character for everyone. We are or have a Harry Potter, Malfoy, Hermoine, Ron and Voldemort in our lives. We definitely all have a Dumbledore, some caring wise person who is a positive influence, in our lives. Dumbledore is a family member that always throws bible verses at us in every family function. Dumbledore is the teacher who saw a special talent in us and noted it in club recommendations, encouraging comments on coursework or blatant compliments. Dumbledore is a pastor or even a friend.

Today, I believe less in magic but more in this inexplicable human capability to exceed expectations. I believe in this natural human inclination to never be stagnant, either physically, emotionally or intellectually. Think beyond your backyard and take leaps.



Racism on the Beach

By God’s grace, I have never been in a life threatening situation, at least not one I can remember or am consciously aware of. However, my time at Mary Help was emotionally stressful. For the longest time, I was confident that I was going to die before age eighteen. I had no disease or death threats. I was not suicidal. I was just confident that I was going to die at a very young age. I believe a lot of those fears began after a dream I had in February around the age of thirteen, which was my freshman year of high school.

Although high school was not too far into the past, it is still difficult to remember all of the details of the dream by sifting through ten years worth of memories. I do remember being on a beach. By this age, most of my dreams are from my point of view. The view was golden hazy. On the beach was a wooden playground where a group of black teens and I played and relaxed. Suddenly, an older white man, wearing country clothing, in other words, the usual stereotype of what a southern white supremacist would look like, appeared with a rifle. You can tell he was on a mission. Like a viral police versus minority teens video, we scattered. I heard the shot go off. I did not feel the bullet, but I hid behind the jungle gym and things went silent. Although the idea of getting shot is terrifying in and of itself, the feeling I felt afterwards was scarier. This was a silence unlike any other, and darkness. The constant hum of existing, like the sound of your breath, your heartbeat, your conscious menial thoughts, your emotions, were all silenced. From the darkness, slowly emerged a light that began to grow and a feeling of peace. Silent peace.

I woke up with a wet feeling down the back of my neck. Still shook, I felt the back of my neck as if the bullet transferred from my unconscious to my reality. To my relief, it was just sweat. I don’t know what death feels like, thank God, but I could imagine it being something similar to what I felt, or didn’t feel, in that dream.