The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [84]
“Chief, how come I always used to forget the names of my mothers-in-law?”
Sometimes we couldn’t stand him. Barnabas, who had known him for years, jabbed back:
“Bartholomew’s been married three times and lived with seven other women. He hasn’t had enough time to learn their names to begin with.”
Honeymouth looked at the audience and opened his hands, as if to say, “I never said I was a saint.” As hard as he tried, for better or worse, he just couldn’t be normal
“I didn’t choose you because of your failures or your successes,” the dreamseller told him, “but because of who you are, because of your heart.”
“I’m forgetful myself, Bartholomew,” the dreamseller continued. “Some people tell me, ‘Teacher, my memory’s lousy.’ And I tell them, ‘Don’t worry, mine’s even worse.’”
I was forgetful, too, but I never would allow my students the same courtesy. I was a tyrant when it came to correcting exams. I recalled Jonathan, a brilliant debater, who nevertheless couldn’t put the information down on paper. The other professors and I consistently gave him failing grades. Eventually, he failed out. We had called him irresponsible, but he might have been a misunderstood genius. We were the voice of the system. We tossed potential thinkers in the trash bin of education without a trace of remorse. Only now, after I learned to buy dreams of a free mind, did I realize I should have been evaluating my students’ minds. And that might have meant giving the highest grades to someone who gets all the answers wrong.
I felt helpless and heartbroken at seeing all my shortcomings laid bare. I had been unforgiving even with my son. John Marcus suffered from mild dyslexia and couldn’t keep up with his classmates. But I kept the pressure on, asking for more than he could give. If I’m being honest with myself, I wanted him to be an outstanding student in order to enhance my image as father and professor. Any message my son or my students would leave at my tomb wouldn’t be one of praises and longing.
Jurema seemed to understand what I was thinking. She touched my shoulder and said quietly:
“Alexander Graham Bell said that if we tread the path that others have taken, at best we’ll arrive at the places they’ve already been. If we don’t sell new ideas so that students take new paths, they may end up right where these businessmen and -women are today, with ravaged health and broken dreams.”
One by one, the businessmen left, carefully observing the mausoleums they passed. Some of them remembered that from the sixteenth to the nineteenth century an inhuman system had bought and sold black-skinned human beings as if they were animals, locked them in the holds of boats and shipped them off to a terrifying future. Left behind were their friends, their children, their spouses, their freedom.
Today, the system had created a new, erudite slave. It paid them high salaries and gave them health benefits. Their future promised an endless crush of stress, anxiety, dog-eat-dog competition and forced mental labor. Left behind were their children, their spouses, their friends, their dreams. As the dreamseller said, history loves to repeat itself.
A House Divided
THE DREAMSELLER’S LATEST CONFERENCES, ESPECIALLY THE one at Recoleta Cemetery, were all over the media. People noted that even the giants of industry had been seduced by this enigmatic wanderer. The same questions that kept me up nights flooded their minds.
Some said he was the greatest imposter of our time. Others said he was a thinker far ahead of his time. Some argued that he was destroying peace in our society, while others said he was its most ardent defender. Some called him an atheist. Others, a vessel of unfathomable spirituality. Some believed he came from another planet, while others said he was the most human of us all. Maybe it was a mix of all of those things—or none of them at all. Discussing the dreamseller’s identity was the topic du jour in bars, restaurants, coffee shops and even in schools. And the discussions were heated.
The more his