Dreams, Dead and Deferred: A letter to myself

I like prose, drama, and poetry in that order, more so if the definition of drama includes its enactment, as well as film. Poetry seems to have returned in a big way with social media, but remains the least accessible form of literature, especially to a philistine like me. English class taught me to rattle off poetic devices and contrast sonnet 18 with sonnet 130, yet can’t appreciate poetry. In recognition of my deficiencies, I’ve asked my more cultured friends where to start with poetry, and they’ve pointed me to Rupi Kaur, Charles Bukowski, and Rumi. I’ve given them all an honest effort and honestly liked none of them.

What I do like, is the poetry of Langston Hughes. He was known for being one of the principal figures of the Harlem Renaissance in the 1920s, a renewal of African-American arts and culture. Hughes arrived in New York to study engineering at Columbia, but soon dropped out, continuing his literary career without any formal training, as most poets do. Through the process of consuming Asian American art, observing its growth, and hoping for its own renaissance, Hughes has become an inspiration for me. His poetry shares the stories of middle and working class African Americans in words and verses that resonate with me.

Hughes’ most well-known poem is simply titled “Dreams”. It’s below. Read it out loud.

Dreams

Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go

Life is a barren field

Frozen with snow.

The poem isn’t difficult to understanding, containing eight short lines encourage the reader to “hold fast onto dreams”, because life is bleak without them. Within the context of Hughes’ work, his dream isn’t any dream, but is also Martin Luther King Jr.’s dream. His dream is one of rights, dignity, and a future for African Americans. But it can also be loved as general encouragement for personal dreams, hopefully without diminishing the voice of the intended interpretation. This is the way I first encountered the poem, and I expect the way many people remember the poem when taught in high school English alongside “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”.

I revisit “Dreams” frequently. I think it’s a reminder of not only what’s important in life, but what life is about. There are big dreams and little dreams. Big dreams are dreams like Mahatma Gandhi’s, like Toussaint Louverture’s, like Sun Yat-sen’s. Big dreams can also be like Jane Goodall’s, like Emma Gonzalez’s, or like Malala Yousafzai’s. Small dreams can be a material possession representing financial achievement, or can be a challenging achievement in itself. Small dreams can be hearing your song played on the radio, climbing Mount Everest, or owning a little bookstore on the Left Bank. Dreams can be “el sueñito” from In the Heights, or Strickland’s pursuit of painting from The Moon and Sixpence. Life is about the pursuit of these dreams, big or small. Without them, life looks the same today as it did yesterday and as it will tomorrow.

Of course, talk of dreams and goal accomplishment speaks most strongly to the privileged unmarried youth, those without significant familial or financial obligation. Culture and media has told them from birth that they not only can do something great with their life, but they need to do something great with it. That’s how society progresses. But as they grow older, it grows harder to hold onto these dreams. They become content with that they have, and gradually, the goalposts move closer. They’re unwilling to trade the leisure and pleasure they’ve become accustomed to for what they had once wanted in life. They become aware of responsibilities and expectations, and no longer have the latitude to pursue their dreams. But they haven’t given up yet. Without them, life is a monotonous maintenance of lower-tier physical and mental needs.

Hughes has another poem, “Harlem”, which was published in a book of his poems. It’s below. Read it out loud.

Harlem

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up

like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore —

And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over —

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

The imagery in the eleven lines of “Harlem” is a lot more visually crude than the ones in “Dreams”. Perhaps, in the nearly thirty years between the two poems, Hughes realized that deferral is actually what happens to dreams, and it’s not only sad, but vile. Most dreams don’t die or go away, but are compromised. Many peacefully dry up, as one slowly accepts that their dreams are never coming true. Others decay and contaminate the thoughts of their owners with a thousand regrets. A few burst in the way of a midlife crisis, and result in reckless decision making that does little to quell the pain. No one ever truly decides to give up their dreams, but it cruelly sneaks up on them until it’s all over.

Perhaps this is all the naïveté of youth speaking. Perhaps holding onto dreams steadfast is idealistic and unrealistic. But remember when you were young? When you had dreams to travel the world, to change it, and to be known all across it? If that’s the cost of maturity, I don’t want it. Despite my increasingly firm assertions that I like my job, and the realization that I’m slowly entering my mid-twenties, I still cling onto my dreams. I hope to own property someday, but also a small apartment in Paris. I aspire to become better at writing, but also to publish a book. I want to have a nuanced Asian American culture, but also be a meaningful contributor to its development.

Without dreams, is my life a broken-winged bird? Most older people I know are happy. Perhaps in a large part it’s because I’m Canadian, and for many older Canadians, a successful immigration story was their dream. They look back, and they’ve achieved something. But I was born here, in a life of relative comfort and privilege. Have I done anything by merely continuing to exist? Will I be able to look back at my life and be happy with all that I’ve achieved?

Without dreams, is my life a barren field? I don’t think so. I’ll still have laughter and achievement, friends and family. But as I let my dreams slowly recede, moving from inevitability to impossibility, I do fear that they’ll fester and rot, contaminating my life. So I’ll hold fast onto these dreams that I have and give them their shot. For it’s one thing to have tried and failed, and another to have not tried at all. When they run their course, it’ll be with a bang, and not a whimper. I owe them that much.