In 1975, I was pregnant for the first time, and the world seemed different. This dream epitomizes my new connection to the world.
*
Every once in a while, and then more and more frequently, I would inadvertently turn my eyes to the scene before me. My mind, still rooted in the events and details of my life, would register—at first faintly, and then with a shocking realization, and ultimately with fear and indignation—the occurrence I am about to relate:
In front of me, across what seemed to be a narrow street, was a building about four stories high. Through the windows of its four stories, workmen were climbing in and out. From the center window of the top floor, a succession of men climbed one at a time to the window directly below it. No ropes or ladders were available to them, and in hoisting themselves down, they hung by their arms, maneuvering their legs onto the ledge below as rapidly as possible so as not to lose the strength of their clinging hands. Sometimes a man’s feet would slip, and he would be suspended for a few seconds clutching the ledge above him. With each one it was different, and each time it was different for each one.
Below, starkly black against the sunlit pavement, lay a cushioned pad, to be used as a buffer in case of accident. With each man’s climbing attempt, I absorbed the shock of his potential death until the dread and trembling in my body would make me turn my eyes away. By not looking I began to forget, whereupon the details of my life would soon pull me back to my inner world.
But again my eyes would fall by chance upon the scene before me, and the fearful spectacle would involve me once again. Each time I became involved I would begin to make more connections. I was aware of changes. More men were present now, and soon the building was a beehive of rapid and organized movement. The possibility of death was just as strong as before, but the sheer number of people involved blurred the individual’s fate.
A sense of injustice began to grow in me and turned rapidly into a rage of indignation. Where were the ladders and aids that these men should have?! My private life would draw me away less completely. I now took with me this new concern. My eyes no longer fell by chance upon this disturbing drama but purposely sought it out.
When the workday was over, they came down—a rugged, robust-looking group, tanned with open shirt collars and athletic graceful bodies. There were even a few women among them. Some skipped off into the freedom of their remaining day, the rest walked in loosely-knit groups, some quiet, others chatting. It was a workgroup like any other except for their athletic, gymnast-like appearance. They were a group, I was told, chosen for their superior physical abilities. I could never match them, I thought.
I stood in the street as they walked by me and away. The building was empty, and there had been no deaths today. Tomorrow it would begin all over again. Nothing would have changed for them, but I would never be the same again. I had now become an involved witness.
© 2025, Joan Da Silva. The text, images, and audio and video clips on this website are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.