In my dreams, I am not afraid to hold her hand. I hold it in delight and pride. I am not afraid of her warmth upon my body. The tenderness of her touch, the delicacy of her fingers, the softness of her skin against mine. In my dreams, we stay like this forever. Perhaps we lie beneath the sunny sky in a vast meadow, among vibrant peonies or violets or sweet-smelling roses. Perhaps we lie beneath the moonlight, too, blessed by the constellations in the heavens. The fields of stars are watching us, only us. She is holding my hand; I am not afraid of it.
In my dreams, I can breathe next to her — it feels so nice to finally breathe — and I am weightless in the airflow. I fall into it; I glide through the peaceful breeze.
I fall into her embrace.
And her hand is in mine. In my dreams, I exist with her.
I am not forced to be nothing but an idea to them — “I exist; I exist; I exist; I exist” — I am not their olive-skinned fantasy, caged to fulfill their unspoken desires and needs. I exist with them, not for them. I am not their loyal Filipina wife, expected to declaw my fangs and soften my gum-smacking glamour and armor up, just to keep their oppressive white hands on mine. My roots don’t wither for them.
She helps me stand up.
They don’t tell me to wash my mouth; their lips — a dampened sponge — glide across my body until my skin is bleached clean into their design. They don’t suck the sacred language from my tongue, trapping inelegant noises beneath them as they make me listen to their clever talk about color and inclusion. I am not their concept, their idea or their wish — something they must protect on a high pedestal so I can shine conveniently for their friends. They don’t leave me as “some brown cow best left in darkness” if I tell them, “No.”
She helps me stand up.
In my dreams, she was holding my hand; she was holding me close. We were lying beneath the dancing stars.
And then I wake up.
Her hand was still in mine.
And it’s just us — only us. We are lying in bed together, and she whispers, “good morning,” and I can breathe next to her. It’s so nice to finally breathe. Perhaps we let the hours pass, talking endlessly through the dawn. She whispers all the things she loves dearly to me, and the words flow out of her mouth like poetry.
We talk about our tasks for the day, the mundane list of what we need to complete. We talk about our future goals, our dreams, our passions — all the things we strive to achieve. We listen to each other. We understand one another deeply. She is holding my hand; she is holding me close.
And I am at ease.
MiC Columnist River Strasner can be reached at strasnrr@umich.edu.
