A message to Trump: You’re Fired! (I hope)

I’m a firm believer that dreams mean something. Dreams communicate messages to us. They confirm feelings. It was a dream that told me my eldest sister was going to have a second child and it would be a girl (because I chose Big Red over Winterfresh in a flooded choir stand). It was a day dream that told me my grannie wouldn’t see the end of 2003 when I passed by a cemetery during Christmas break (She died three hours later). It was a dream that let me know that same grannie was at peace and I could let her go.

A recurring dream told me my husband’s name. Okay, just the first letter but still. And yet another one was mentally preparing me for the financial devastation I’d face as an adult.

My point is I listen to my dreams. And I dream vividly. I am an active participant.

Or maybe they are the ancestors. Either way, I listen.

I keep having this recurring dream about “President” Trump. Nah, don’t be nasty. It’s not one of those dreams. But it was a wild one to me!

Okay, I’m on a field trip to Washington, DC. with a group of kids I’m chaperoning. It’s a pretty cool trip for the most part. I mean, I’m in the home of Go-Go music. Mambo sauce y’all! I’m in Chocolate mofo City!

I’m in the city where are laws are passed. Where the “Slave Amendments” came to life. I’m in the, as I’d call it in civ pro, the United States’ Principal Place of Business (you know, if the US were a corporation 👀).

We end up at the White House. In the Oval Office. The kids are all spread out taking it all in.

Me? I make myself comfortable behind The Desk. THE desk of desks. The desk that has supported President after President.

And I felt quite at home.

Then Trump walks in. He thinks he has a room full of impressionable minds. He sees me behind the desk and comes over.

In my dream. This was the exchange:

Trump: You can’t be there. This is the president’s desk.

Me: I’m aware. When I see one I’ll move.

T: You’re not understanding. This is MY desk.

M: No. YOU are not understanding. This is MY desk. As a matter of fact, this is MY office and MY house. This is the desk of every person in this country who pays taxes. This entire building belongs to us.

We, the taxpayers, pay for the upkeep of this place. We pay the salary of your staff. We pay your gardeners. That garden your wife destroyed? I paid for that. Those clean clothes you have? I paid your laundry bill.

We pay your bodyguards. We pay your chef and valet. We bought your food.

All of us taxpayers pay to keep this country running. Those kids? Their parents are the reason you have utilities and a cellphone. Hell, they are the reason this desk, the one you don’t want me to sit at? They are the reason it still shines like new or why you even have ink pens. And I doubt you pay anything so *shrug*

No. This isn’t YOUR desk. This is mine. *turns to the widows* And I look damn good sitting at it too. Wheels and all. So, you can go now. We are through here. *he sticks around* I said you’ve been dismissed. //end

Ok so at the very end I of course get a huge backlash because how dare I speak to the CIO with such a tone. But guess what. He works for us and it’s been high time we acted like it.

It was just a dream. And it tells me that his days are numbered. He will get evicted. The only question is when? Will it be as a result of the 2020 Election? Or will this country somehow (*cough* vote suppression *cough*) end up with another Trump term? We won’t survive that.

So, I’m choosing to listen to my dreams again. I just KNOW we can dance in the street shouting “You’re Fired!”