In my dream the little league was playing down the street from my house as they do every summer. In this small Midwestern town, it’s like Dandelion Wine, Ray Bradbury’s memoir of a childhood summer in early 20th century (white) America. Barefoot kids ride their bikes with fishing poles attached to their backs; cheers erupt at all hours from the high school stadium; the marching band practices every morning, doing their maneuvers in and out of the school parking lots.
Not this summer.
But in my dream the little league played to a noisy crowd, little kids were running around, parents talking, some yelling. One of my former students, Reed, now a grown young woman, slid into third base. A dispute began over whether she was safe or not. (Why Reed? I don’t know, I often dream of my favorite students.)
I saw it all through a grainy lens and underneath it was a sense that something was terribly wrong. A man stood near me talking, and I found myself staring at his mouth and the spittle coming out of it with every word. Then I remembered and stepped back from him. I had forgotten, as I do sometimes for a few minutes when fully awake, that this was no ordinary summer. I’d left my mask at home.
As I stepped back a loud, rusty Ford diesel pick-up drove by blaring the famous song DILLIGAF (look it up, it’s not pretty), flying US and blue striped flags, with TRUMP in block letters on the back windshield. Bradbury’s idyllic American summer turned nightmare.