A Black writer's paradise

I had a dream that Kiese Laymon, Ta-Nehisi Coates, and Damon Young were hosting a writers' retreat somewhere verdant. It was me, Young, Laymon, Coates, Kenny Smith (of the NBA), and some writers I can't remember right now but we were all Black and saw ourselves as men. One was named Joel, I think. We were in the big kitchen posted at our respective corners of the wraparound counter. I'd been assigned to make biscuits so I grabbed flour, measuring cups, baking soda, and buttermilk from the chrome fridge. I thought this crew would like something "down home." I remember not feeling American enough to hang with this crew of boys who knew American syntax so well it put me to shame. I was languishing in the heaviness of shame and the boys were cracking jokes. Someone named Omar made a comment about the NBA and my inner glow clicked on. This was my opening.

I looked at Laymon and Coates in sheer, nonplussed awe and told them it was like we were playing pickup with Jordan and Hakeem but didn't know which of them was which. The other men started laughing really hard, and they stood there shyly nodding, not sure how much to accept this compliment. Smith, who'd played with Hakeem, started crying at his part of the counter. He had his back turned but I could see his torso bobbing up and down. He said 'Please, please, please learn to accept your gifts.' His eyes were red when he looked up at us. Laymon and Young went to Smith and consoled him with hands on each of his shoulders. Kenny Smith wouldn't stop crying for us. He knew what we had in us and wished we knew it too. This was a dream I had last night.