sept. 22, 1998.
dream #7: surrounded.
     there is a church that i think i've seen on past visits to mexico. it's so big that it blocks everything behind it like it's blocking off the rest of the world. it's one of those great huge stone churches that looks like a castle. very well decorated with flowers of all colors. the people must have had a festival a few days earlier. there are remnants of fireworks on the floor. my younger cousins are running around and laughing. these are cousins that i haven't seen for a long time, but i recognize them all. my surviving grandparents are sitting in front of me. we are sitting in the middle of this park where the church lies in front of me. we are sitting on the inside of two u-shaped benches. my dad is sitting next to me. my mom and sisters are sitting across from us, next to my grandparents. i'm happy. i haven't felt safe near a church for a while. these people dressed in black robes with black pointy hoods approach us. all the trees in the background disappear. the hooded people become the background. they tell us that we don't belong there. they could almost pass for monks or nuns because they're wearing big crosses around their necks. most of them are women. they begin to make racist remarks against us. they're telling us, but i think they're talking more to me, that we're stupid. i start to cry. there's nothing i can do, and i hate that. their big bodies tower over me. i'm so small compared to them. i start shaking. i'm not sure if it's out of anger or fear. i decide to confront them but my dad holds me back. everyone else is just sitting there. no one is reacting. i'm not sure why the rest of my family is just sitting there, emotionless. all this while i keep shaking and crying, clinching my fists.
sophomore year. creative writing class assignment.