The American Dream


It’s the year 2012; I’m 15 going on 16. The presidential election has come to pass, and Obama is selected once again. I have no issues with this. He’s probably the best chance America has at redeeming itself. This election has made me think of the struggles we’ve faced through our American history. I can see men and women homeless on the streets, their children begging for food. I can see a boy in my mind, cloaked in the humid air of April and shrouded in the darkness. If I think hard enough, I can almost hear the clinking of his pick axe against hard rock, one, two, clink, one, two, clink…….
Year 1933

The humid air envelopes me with a sheer layer of sweat. It’s been a long day, a hard day. One, two, clink, my arms ache from lifting and swinging this pick axe down again and again. It’s necessary; Old Mac is too old to do this himself, and money’s been tight for several years. I have no roof over my head, so Old Mac takes care of my Mackie. Mackie is my last brother. The war took my two older brothers, Jacob and Jamie. Pops died shortly after my ma died. One, two clink one, two clink. Mom died in childbirth. Mackie was her last baby.

“Dawson! Dawson!” Mackie’s young voice yells out into the night.
“Old Mac wants you inside! He says, Good laddies don’ play in this weather.” That’s my Mackie, as sharp as a knife that one. It’s been a hard for the lad. He’s only four, and sometimes he calls me his da. I don’ want the boy to forget who his ma and da were, but in some sense. He’s my laddie. I was 14 when Mackie was born, named him myself. Pops died a year later, so I’ve taken care of the boy. We were rail runners before Old Mac took us in. I’ll always be grateful for what he has done for us.

It was warm in the small farm house, as Mackie took to his bed. Old Mac sat at the table with the same granite look on his face when I trudged in for supper. He was quiet and sipping at his stew all night. The bowl still sits before him full, and its condiments cooled. I take to my seat again.
“What’s troubling your night Mac?” I try not to let my concern for him seep into my voice.
“Dawson, you’ve been a man for a long time now, so you’re ready to hear this. We are going to lose the farm.” I slouch back in my chair in stunned silence. The world as I’ve known it has been cut from under my feet. Mackie, my Mackie doesn’t belong on the road, and neither does Old Mac.

“What are we going to do?” My voice is dry, and seems to be caught in my throat. Each word chaffs against my throat painfully. With Franklin D. Roosevelt as President now I had begun to hope for a better world.
“You know of the New Deal plan the President has come up with?” His voice is almost soothing, but I can hear the defeat in it.
“Yes?”
“I think you should join one of those camps.” I can almost feel the hope in his words. Old Macs great granddaddy got this land, and has worked it for years, as Old Mac has and will continue to. How can I leave my Mackie alone? I’m all the real family he’s got. Old Mac is too old to take him out and let him be the young boy he is. I can feel my heart sink into the pit of my stomach; I know I must do what’s best for my laddie.






“When do I leave?” My new found conviction for Mackie’s future strengthens my voice.
“Next Week.” Old Macs voice is filled with concern but I can also hear the relief in it.
Year 2001 New York, New York

The classroom sits the same as it always has. Painted white brick, and gray carpet. Four rows of desks, all lined up into neat little rows for the teacher to look over and occasionally catch the one sleeper. It’s empty and filled with a haunted silence. Debris has filled the air. My lungs burn, but I don’t mind sitting here. I’m exhausted; the fear has drained everything from me. Tears have put indentations temporally into my face.
Mere hours ago this classroom was filled with laughter and joy; everyone has gone home to their families to be comforted, and to feel safe again. I have no one. My last parent was in the twin towers. My mother passed away from cancer four years ago, and my dad worked in the towers mail room on one of the floors. They haven’t found a body, and I doubt they will. It’s the only reason why I haven’t gotten the call yet.






jShould I run and try to escape the inevitable? My heart sinks; there is no escape from this. This day will be imprinted on the world forever as the day the United States of America knew fear for the first time. A ray of light peeks its way through the window, casting a golden hue against the prison white wall. This light is like a promise that even in our darkest hour, there is always a light to guide the way. This day will also be remembered as the day America rose from its ashes with new found purpose and strength. My tears have made a small pool on my desk, each drop is filled with its own sorrow for the days to come, but also with the hope of the future I have yet to experience.

The air makes a small whisper and I know the teacher is there. Mrs. Cook an older woman whose face shows the trace of what a beauty she once was. Her black hair is streaked with gray. Weather tanned skin that crinkled with laughter is now etched with grief. I heard the call, she’s lost a son. Mrs. Cook clings to the door frame clutching a small handkerchief in her hand as if that might keep her sorrow away.
She clears the thickness in her throat with this grating cough.


“Emily.” I deliberately keep my face blank, I know the news already. They’ve found him.









“Emily.” She tries again. I blink once, maybe twice.



“Emily I think it’s time for you to come with me. My legs shake as I move from my desk in the second row. Left, Right, left. I see the uniformed police officer waiting in the hall.
“Emily, your father worked in the twin tower mailing room, correct?”



The officer’s voice is raw with all the tragedies he’s seen today.
“Yes.” It’s hard to talk past the lump in my throat.
“I have to come to let you know that your father won’t be coming home……” The world tilts, and I’m six years old in my father’s arms, his rough voice singing me my favorite lullaby. “The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout. Down came the rain and washed the spider out…” The world fades into darkness.
Year 2012 Present time

People from all paths of life have traveled to America for one reason- The American Dream. Some were promised gold and vast lands beyond their imagination. Others were promised freedom, both physical and religious. Have we lost our own American Dreams? Have we forgotten these times of tragedies? What is there to remember? We have baby’s having babies. Boys who sag their pant, so they can walk with this limping gait they call swag. Would our ancestors who fought so fiercely for the right to be free, give up if they knew the future belonged to rock music and poverty? I constantly wonder if our forefathers would be ashamed of how far we’ve fallen from grace.