Dream 1
I stood by "my door" in "my bedroom." I looked through the peephole. A roommate, a black man with long dreads and a mean look, walked toward my door. At first he seemed unaware of me. Then he looked straight at me. I thought, Fine. If he knows I'm looking at him, let him know. I'm tired of ihm thinking he's got everybody scared.
The man walked straight toward me as if there were no door. Then there wa no door. He had been changing into a woman as he approached me, even though "she" was still a "man." "She" looked at me with an ugly face. "She" was somewhat dark, round, with thin, eyes, a white tank top, and a palish blue, denim skirt.
"She" asked me, "Why are you staring at me? You got something to say?"
I told "her," "Yes. You always make all this noise when everybody else is going to bed. It's rude and mean and you need to stop."
We now stood before a doorway outside like at a suburban house with a front yard. She told me, "I've been proud of you for making it this long through all the noise. It's a type of lesson for you. are you complaining about your lessons?"
I didn't feel defensive or threatened. But I did try to justify myself.
Somehow both the woman and I got sidetracked and had a conversation about something outside.
Dream 2
I was on my bed. I heard my landlord in the hallway outside. The landlord was getting ready to leave.
I sat up, jumped off the foot of my bed, and opened my door. My room and the hallway both had an opulent wood and gold glow in the morning sunlight. The hallway was enormous, with plush, green carpet and thick wood walls. The ceilings were high. A stairway went down to another visible level and then back up, like this.
My landlord was on the lower level, but I could see him. A few people, all black, hung around the hall, telling the landlord there were no problems and he could go home.
I yelled at the landlord, "P! P! I have a complaint! Everything's not okay!"
Everybody looked at me, angry. I ran down the steps. It occurred to me this guy's name was PR XXXXX. I couldn't remember his last name. It struck me I might not be able to contact him if I didn't have his last name.
I yelled at him, "The man in this room" (I pointed to a room on the lower level) "makes noise all night long. I'm tired of nobody doing anything about it."
I knew that I was putting myself in danger for what I was doing. But I had to do it.
The landlord said, "He's just a poor Hispanic." (Or Mexican?) "You can't just get mad at him after one incident."
I took the landlord's statement to heart. But I couldn't figure out why I did so. First of all, the man was big and black. He wasn't a poor Hispanic. He wasn't a poor anything. And he had done mean things to me ever since I'd gotten here.
It was night. I was in bed. Suddenly my door was bashed in. Two short Mexican men burst in. I jumped to the foot of my bed, which was now tall.
The second Mexican man pulled a shaving razor
on me, yelling, "You got my friend in trouble! He's just a Mexican" (?) "who can barely speak English!"
The men weren't trying to get sympathy. This was all just another part of their big joke. But when the second man shoved his razor at me I grabbed the man's wrist and then the razor. I pulled the razor out of the man's hand. But when I tried to slash the man I was somehow ineffectual.
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