The Dream Keeper

Published April 7, 2020 | Composed February 20, 2020

       I cried in my parent’s laundry room today. To be fair, I cry at most things. Animal rescue videos, and most certainly anything with laughing babies will take me out. However, todays tears were tied to a matter very near and dear to my heart. In the search of finding your purpose it can often feel that you’re barely scratching the surface. Most times, your calling has been right in front of you the entire time. Reflecting back at you as a mirror does. Often times this mirror has smudges, is maybe too small, or sometimes even broken-which make seeing the larger image that much more difficult. With some cleaning house, aligning the small pieces back together, and allowing The Most High to be the glue (by way of faith); the imagery you’ve been seeking will come into focus. 

       Cleaning, was what I was doing when God cleared up my vision. For months I’ve been back and forth in my parent’s basement laundry room without so much as a second glance at any of the randomly placed pieces of furniture neatly stacked against a back wall. As I popped a small load in today a small worn blue book caught my eye. The cloth covered blue which was probably once vibrant in it’s heyday was now a little deeper with a slight tinge of grey to it from years of dust exposure. The bottom inch of the spine was tinged with white, almost as if it had come into contact with bleach, water, or a mix of both. Without a second thought I reached past a very healthy spiders web and grabbed it from the shelf in which It had been obviously (?) been resting for some time. I moved toward the ground level window which graciously allowed a small amount of day glow to seep in on a cloudy day as such. The light brought the once embossed silver printed title into view: “The Dream Keeper” by Langston Hughes. My jaw dropped. I hurriedly opened it to the middle to not only find words but imagery as well. Wood block illustrations accompanied poems on the subjects Hughes tapped into most often: love, faith, his pride in his people, and there you have it- dreams. Now noticing it’s fragile binding, I slowly flipped back to the very front title page and read “The Dream Keeper, and Other Poems by Langston Hughes with Illustrations by Helen Sewell copyright 1932, First Edition.” I read it again slowly processing that in my hands I held an original Langston Hughes book of poetry that was almost 90 years old. 

       My eyes gave way to the stream of tears that quickly flowed down my face and spilled onto my sweatshirt. You see, I have been praying over my purpose. I stand solid in my belief that the things that resonate with us deeply are the gifts that The Most High has bestowed upon us. In doing the things that we feel most alive- we are not only giving praise and thanks, but fulfilling our purpose. As I previously noted the metaphor of the mirror- sometimes our purpose doesn’t come across so clear. Or even when it does, the execution of said fulfillment can be not just challenging but paralyzing if given into doubt, fear, or both. I’m guilty of falling victim to it all. 

       Finding this book in my home means so many things to me, and is but a small weave in the beautiful intricate design that the creator is laying out for me. Last year, I left my home of almost a decade on a leap of faith. I was blessed with the opportunity to travel the world but before doing that I spent some time living in Chicago preparing for said journey. In a city so rich in Black artistic culture I found myself immersed in the spaces of many of my most revered role models. The South Side Community Center in Bronzeville was one of the magical places I was blessed to visit. A place where Hughes and many of his contemporaries honed their crafts and taught new generations of artist alike. Fast forward a few months, I hit 3 countries within 3 weeks and spent almost half a year living out of a carry-on size luggage. True to character, I had just as many books as I did articles of clothing and would not have it any other way. In fact, I was searching for books by Black artist in every country I visited (Basquiat in Israel anyone?). One of the periodicals I’d travel with had a beautiful profile of Langston Hughes as a feature. I poured over these words and the legend and legacy this artist, poet, and playwright left behind for aspiring writers like myself. We are a people that come from the dirt. When I say the dirt, I don’t mean the slums. Like the first man and woman- we who identify as Black people come from the earth like flowers. Trees, if you will. We were seeds planted into dark soil who bloomed into the light. We have deep roots, a solid foundation, and a resiliency to grow despite the strong winds of adversity. My travels and experiences have forced me to grow in ways that were far from comfortable; eh, let's be honest- it was painful. Though there were many times I’ve wilted, I’ve also been watered and poured into by the graciousness of the creator. Words, stories, and the true beauty of books have been a passion of mine since I could remember. I’ve been staring myself in the face for a long time. I’ve dedicated the last few years of my life to learning, appreciating, teaching, and collecting the works of Black artist that came before me. The Most High is patient. Sometimes as stubborn seedlings trying to find our way to the surface of the soil, he’ll give us a little extra watering to get us there. I give all thanks, please send my regards to Mr. Hughes as well. 

| Magazine photos Courtesy of Kinfolk Spring 2019 Issue