I woke up not breathing, he said. Thought I was in a deep sleep, but there was no air. Felt like I was drowning, he continued. Drowning without water, he paused. Just sat up quickly and tried to breathe. But there was nothing. Just thoughts racing in my head about the dream I had.

Dream? she asked. What dream?

This pickup truck was taking me to the border. I was sitting in the back with all these Mexicans. We were going to stampede the wall.

Stampede the wall?

Yes, he nodded. They refused to cross the Rio Grande. They didn’t want to get wet. Said they had too much dignity. They wanted to cross into America like white people, he told her.

What happened?

We loaded guns and got ready to face the border patrol. The truck was going faster and faster. As fast as an old Ford can go.

Were you Mexican in this dream?

No. I was just myself. As you see me today. American. 

Did you storm the wall?

That’s when I woke up. Gasping for air. Like I was drowning. Dying. My body left behind with a bunch of Mexicans. And for some reason, I felt at home.

With the Mexicans?

Yes. As if we were brothers.

Were you running from anything? 

No. Just going to the border. Just going to Texas with guns blazing like Santa Ana. 

Are you OK?

No.