Abacus was passionate about soccer. He knew he had found his true calling. Sure, he was eight. He carried a backpack full of rocks, to make him stronger. He read about it in a book by one of his soccer heroes. He wanted to be a professional soccer player. One day, a few years in, his Dad told him the odds of becoming a professional soccer player. He just plays for fun now.

Samurai was passionate about dance. She had been in love with dancing and the idea of being a ballerina since she was five years old. She trained five to seven days a week, was so excited when she made pointe. Her father says one day she looked up the salary of professional dancers and found they only made $27,000.00 per year on average. I don't think it happened then though. I think it happened when she went to auditions for summer intensive programs and didn't get the response she wanted. That was partially my fault. I wasn't prepared for them. I was not a proper dance mom. I hardly feel like a proper mom most of the time.

Abacus had a dream of going to UPenn. My parents told him our family didn't have the money for that and he needed to be realistic. He started looking at trade schools.

I had a dream of being a writer. But I buried it deep inside. I wanted to keep it safe from a critic's harsh words. I wanted my dream to live in secret. I suppose it still does.

I am angry about everyone's lost dreams. Not just me and my kids. But everyone in the world. Everyone who was told they couldn't do something and believed it. I am especially angry about my kids' father, who followed his dream of being a musician for half his adult life. Having not realized it after pouring his heart into it (and having it broken time and again), he injected his reality into the hearts of our children. Yet, his mother was unwaveringly supportive of his dreams ALL his life. I just wonder, if my kids or I had someone who believed in them the way he had his mother, would their dreams still be alive? I do know one thing, if not for his following his dream, he never would have met me, and our children would not exist.

Perhaps I shouldn't be angry at him though. Perhaps the person I am most mad at is myself. I didn't allow my dream to live. And I also allowed my kids' dreams to be killed. I know that it's never too late, and new dreams are just as beautiful as old dreams. But when something so beautiful and innocent as a child's dream is broken by circumstance or "reality", there's something that tears inside of me. Maybe that something is the wall around my dream.

My grandmother had music in her soul. She dreamed of singing jazz or blues in a New York City club; she settled for the shower and my wedding. In the early years, before her dream was dead and buried beneath shots of whiskey and bitterness, club owners would allow her to sit on a hard bench outside their offices and wait all day for a chance to audition that never materialized, while pretty, more acceptable girls, some with a voice, some not, came and left. Her mother belittled her, demanding she get a real job; insisting no one wanted to hear some ugly fat black girl from Harlem sing nothing no how. So, she let a man make her feel pretty and loved and special while helping to kill her dream.

My dad had music in his soul and a brain in his head. He dreamed of playing the saxophone like John Coltrane or Charlie Parker. Or even better. The grandmother who raised him told him to forget the fairytales and get a job. His mother beat the dream out of him daily for eighteen years, blaming her own failure to achieve the fame she sought on his birth. He buried his dream beneath beer and gin, but managed to live a productive life, if not a fulfilling one, working for the same company until he died of a broken soul at 47.

My mother had music in her soul and a brain in her head. She studied opera with an esteemed Austrian voice instructor who had more faith in my mother than she could summon for herself. No one wants to listen to a black opera singer she told herself. This after having attended so many job interviews with her more acceptable classmates post high school graduation, and being turned away despite her straight A grade point average from a private Catholic school. After so much, “no, you cannot apply” and “no, you’ll just not do,” she internalized the lesson for herself and did what she could to have a fulfilling life – she got married (and divorced), had a child and traveled to almost every continent. But she only sang in the privacy of her home with her not-so-appreciative child as the audience.

I have music in my soul. I studied ballet. I participated in musical theater from elementary school through college. I was a straight A student throughout my education. I spoke at my college graduation. But I never had a dream. I saw what dreaming had done to those I loved. Not worth the heartache, my very young self decided. I only wanted what was clearly attainable; what I was good at, what society would not begrudge me. I wanted to be invisible, make no waves. I didn’t want to be a doctor or lawyer that people would resent and never seek. I decided that being a teacher was a safe choice; and, most importantly for me, a mother and a wife.

Now, I push my son and my husband – my students, friends and acquaintances – to dream and to pursue those dreams. I am the cheerleader; the enthusiastic voice at your back saying: Dream! You can do this! That is my purpose: to encourage those around me to be who they dream to be. I fan the flames the dream killers try to extinguish.

her mother warned her about a lot of things

looking left and right before crossing the street

don't reveal personal information to strangers

cut off toxic people in your life

bigoted people

and dream killers

she thought they were supernatural beings

ghost-like, creeping into your room at night

swallowing my whimsical dreams with darkness

but they weren't

they were every day people

the art teacher who showed her sketches that looked like photographs

that girl who told her that her ideas sucked

the boy in swim team, who outswam everyone

even her own parents

who told her that she couldn't make a living off art.

and herself

who listened to their dark whispers into her ear

and became her own dream killer.

one of the most tragic things about life-

is a child's dreams being broken

She sensed a chill

within the winds

long before

the winter

as barren vines

made evident

the end

was dwelling

near her.

Brittle leaves,

like teardrops,

f

e

l

l

upon a golden sea

one

by

one,

in silence,

quelled

&

barren

stood the

t

r

e

e

s.

atop

the cemetery knoll,

with autumn

at its crest,

the day lost warmth,

the evening fell,

with frost

on bird and nest.

fear consumed

her final breath,

the ashes

fell like

*

* * n * *

* s * * o *

* * w * *

*

~

EaRtH

m i r r o r e d

d e r o r r i m

H E R

~

as

she laid ’ rest

the dreams

she’ll never

know.

This ones to the kids who’s teachers said “they’d never make it”, who put their dreams down before they could even try to take them. Who tried to stomp their flames out when they were the ones supposed to create them.

This ones to for the kids who’s parents told them to “get a safe job” and tried to steer them in their footsteps just so they could grow up and hate their lives and what they’d become, so they can get up in the morning feeling more numb.

This ones for kids who got bullied on the playground, who were called all the worst names elementary kids could think of those days, just to go home and have their parents complain about their grades

This ones to all the kids who grew up feeling worthless, who tried to change themselves so others will think their worth it.

This ones for everyone who tried to achieve their dream but ended up listening to the world saying “no”

You are not worthless

You will make it I swear

Just hold on to Hope

The Dream Killers don’t win in this story I swear.

Often every parent asks their children what they want to be when they grew up.

I was asked the same question when I was a kid.

I remember telling them “I want to be in the music industry” I don’t care what I will do I just want my future to be filled with music.

Then they looked at me as if I was dreaming of a rubbish dream. “Musicians are worthless” they told me.

I still got involve with music. In Elementary I was part of the choir and the band. My music teacher was my idol then. Then my mom commented, “She must be dumb when she was young she can’t teach other subject except music” then other parents agreed. It broke my heart.

Latee on during the Highschool days I stopped. Stopped playing the instruments, stopped singing. Then I stopped living and became a robot. I followed my parents desire now I am just breathing not living.

I am a breathing thing, not a living human.

I earn money to have a living but never to live.

I WONDER what my life would be like if I pursued my dream. Perhaps I would not be writing this piece if I did follow my dream.

Anyone who is an ACON knows what it means: Adult Children of Narcissists. I have made it to adulthood, but still feel like a child. I was made to feel that way, on purpose, by my dream-killer. My mom.

I’ll never know if I made it into the prestigious university I applied to. The one far away from her. My mom checked the mail religiously during that time. The only letter I got congratulated my acceptance into the university 20 minutes away from home. I guess never receiving news from the other university is all the answer I need. If I was rejected, she would have let me know with a quickness. First dream, DOA: Dead on Arrival.

I’ll never know if I made it into the prestigious job I applied for, since like the last time, my mom intercepted the mail before I ever saw it. (The job corresponded by mail to make sure you knew where and when to show up.) The job that would have sent me to every corner of the world, that would have paid handsomely, that would have pushed all my skills to the limit – not an option for an ACON like me. Second dream, torn up and thrown in the trash.

All because my mom couldn’t stand people leaving her – she was the one that did the leaving. She couldn’t stand anyone doing better than her. She doesn’t need friends or a lover – she needs people under her thumb. She needs to insert herself into every facet of your life to make sure hers is better. So now I struggle through dead-end jobs, looking back at a life unlived. As long as you’re happy, right, mom?

But this story doesn’t need to have a sad ending. I make moves without her knowledge. I’ve had little successes, all without her input. My dream isn’t dead yet. But it’s time to kill her control, her dominance. For my dream to live, hers has to die. I’m the dream-killer now.

They are not the ones

the ones who tell you,

“Yes, you can!”

You believe in dreams.

They are not the ones.

The ones who cry,

“You can’t do it!”

You dream despite,

“Yes, I can.”

They are not the ones.

They share with you

dreams of their own.

It makes you want

some of your own.

They are not the ones,

the ones who show failures

before success.

You never stop

dreaming.

They are not the ones.

The ones who inspire,

you dream of being

being like them.

Some gave up,

Some stopped believing

Some scoffed at dreams

Some never dreamt,

and some who did

threw them back to the moon.

Some criticized

self and others.

Some got licked

Some gave up.

Some discouraged,

Some chose not to inspire.

You saw them,

believed in them,

and

when

you

joined

them,

you

became

your

personal

dream

killer.

hopefully i close my eyes to escape to my reality,

but it follows me and lacerates my dreams.

sickly blood flowing subconscious,

pinpricks in my dreams.

turned black and frightening with dead cold eyes,

the broken structure of my dreams.

There were few people on the bus. Leaving the flooded streets one by one, the car moved up and down the slope, sometimes at a slow pace.

Two guys sitting in the salon are attracting attention. One of them was wearing a long, very elegant body. The other was short-sleeved, his clothes simple, plain, and unkempt. They both have a luggage next to it.

"Where do you go?" Asked the long hand.

"Working abroad," answered the short man. "What about you?"

- Me too! - nodded hands. "What are you going to do?" For example, for me to study at a university. It did not look like ourselves. I couldn't sign in. Then I saw that there was a "chance" for those who had the money, so I called my dad and demanded money for the "contract". What a student it is!

"Well," said the little man, "I have been preparing for four years, but I couldn't. Every year I cannot go to school and go to work. I'm still working and earning money this year!

- Where do you live? For example, I was born in a city! Said the long hand.

"I'm from the village," said the little hand.

- As far as I did not know in the village, there is no peace in the city. Everyday yelling, shouting! At night I can see the lights on the stalba and my sleep is gone! Our house is very hot! I am disgusted with the smell of gas! The Internet is slow too! - a long hand drawn.

"Don't talk," agreed the short hand. Although he didn't quite understand what his partner was saying. - Even worse in the village! The lamp goes out in the morning and we forget about the smell of gas! The house is cold and wet! Let's go a mile to find the water! You can't even talk on the phone ...

- Great! Said the long hand. "We still have a lot of cars, and all of them are just a bunch! Convenience store, saloon, bar, butcher, training center! One bridge per month to be built ...

"That's fine!" Said the short hand. "On the contrary, there is no store, saloon, training center, hairdresser's, kitchen, or even worse in the village!" We can't even find a car, we can't even go to the center! One or two bridges linking the center are broken and the gravel is rolling! Let's go a long way and bypass the ditch!

"When we were in school," said a long hand, "they wanted to take us to the theater, to the cinema!" We would run out of classes and go to the club and internet cafes!

"We didn't have any lessons at all," he murmured, "they took our teacher somewhere." We were picking cotton!

"What are you going to do when you come back?" Asked the long hand again. - For example, I work for the best company in town! Then I work on myself and start my own business. I go to foreign countries and improve my skills. Then I'll marry a "strong" family girl and have a great wedding! What is the penalty? When the contract is paid, I will do ...

"And I," said the little man, "if I don't die, I'll send you home to work!" I have to do the same to raise a house without a roof, to treat my sick mother, to transfer my sisters, to pay my debts, and to pay for my living! When it comes to weddings, everyone is alike! If the bride asks for a "bridegroom greetings," she'll be ...

 "We've already arrived." Do you go to the airport? Asked the long hand.

"No, I go down at the train station," replied the short hand.

"Then I'm off!" Pleased to meet you! If you go your way, come to us, okay? - a long hand.

"I'm sorry," replied the little hand. "I'm afraid of the propiska!" Goodbye!

"Come back home safely!" - goodbye - long hand and got off the bus.

As they said goodbye to each other, the question arose in their hearts: "From what country is this young man?"

They did not find the answer to this question, and they were thinking. But the truth is that they were both children of the same country ...