No More Dream

From the age of six my father knew he would be lawyer like his father, and like his father’s father before him. When it comes to ambitions, he’s never known what it was to not know. Dad doesn’t want for me to follow in his foot steps, but can’t give me advice on how to find anything else to do with my life. I think it’s for people like me that a young man called Rap Monster dedicated a song to “all da youngsta’s widdout dreamz” (3:43). For kids who have never met The Phantom.

You see, me and Raoul have been going steady since elementary school. He held my hand when it first dawned on me every car holds real people with their own important lives and destinations. In high school he helped me apply to the University my dad went to.

I don’t know how to tell him that I took eight AP classes between this year and last because I like them. College didn’t factor into the equation. College never factored into the equation, because when all the times my life was added up, I reached zero before graduation.

But Raoul doesn’t know any of that, doesn’t know anything about me; even if he’s all I’ve ever known, I don’t know him either. Whether this guy is a childhood love like a old worn shirt, or an arranged match is unclear. He is comfortable, despite his holes. No idea what he’s gonna do with the business degree or how many kids he wants, but it’s no matter. He’s convenient. There’s nothing easier than falling into comfort with someone who can’t look at anything but you.

Yet I can’t help up look past him on the sidelines at every track meet to the stands, wondering if the Phantom has finally made his way watch.

I want to say that I’m moving work to fulfill my dreams, but I don’t any. Not a single one. In middle school, the girl I spoke to my councilor with was taking xyz classes and would go to so-and-so college to become a surgeon. My mouth was blank, hands grasping ink-less pens. A failure.

“I guess I like math? Or English?”

Eye’s never settling, I can the bleachers for a face made of other’s words, not memory. Words like “attractive,” “breathtaking,” and “he’ll find you one day.” My phantom doesn’t have features or a name, and I’ve been told you can’t dream of faces you’ve never seen.

And to be honest I couldn’t even tell you if Raoul really is care worn, ridden with holes but clearly loved. That’s what Nelson and my mom have said, but my Raoul is collecting dust in the closet, he’s never taken off the hanger by me. His face doesn’t come to me in sleep either.

At the age of six, I didn’t want to be a princess, or an astronaut, or a vet. When asked the question, the answers adults wanted came. Now the adult, I don’t know what answer I want to here from myself or Raoul or the Phantom. I just hope he searches for me a little longer.

I’m searching for him too.