I haven’t watched the video of George Floyd’s murder, but I’ve seen pictures and read what he was saying. “Please I can’t breathe…they’re going to kill me.” Maxine saw it, which I wasn’t aware of until she showed up in my bedroom in tears. I still can’t bring myself to watch it, but that didn’t stop me from dreaming about dying.
I was in the car with a friend, and we kept driving up and down a very steep, icy road. I kept thinking, “Shouldn’t we stop the car? This seems very dangerous,” but she seemed to be handling the wheel with unshakable confidence until… the car careened off the edge of a cliff, and suddenly I was alone in the car. I felt so sad because I knew it was the end. I was sad for myself, sad for my family, and so desperately wanted to turn back the clock a few minutes and stop the car.
At some level of consciousness, I must have known I was dreaming because it wasn’t a nightmare. I didn’t wake up sweating or crying or anything. As I processed the dream throughout the day, I started thinking more and more about George Floyd.
At some point during those eight minutes and forty-six seconds, he realized he was going to die, that there was no going back. What a nightmare he had to experience, and how incredibly lonely to be surrounded by people, none of whom is willing or able to save you, as you take your last breath. I can only imagine what it must feel like to have been in his shoes.
My Corner of the Village 