Dream About Starbucks Failures And Emotional Connection

I kept trying to order at a Starbucks drive-thru. Their ordering machine was new and malfunctioning. I was sitting in a toy car in the line, hoping not to be judged. I spoke at the same time as the worker. They messed up my order. Trixie Mattel, the drag queen, appeared out of drag, and we tried to work with the faulty machine, stressed workers in long line. It was sunny outside, and the atmosphere was light-hearted, even though things were going wrong. There was a manager woman, a white lady who was middle-aged, who was trying to explain everything and keep everyone calm, but the machines weren't working and I was annoyed, but still having fun with it all. Finally, I got my food, but they forgot my drink. The manager went to go get it after I pestered her childishly, basically tantrumed a little about it. I almost sat with Trixie on the ground to eat our food. We sort of tripped on our way down to the gravel and it was so uncomfortable to think of sitting there that I laughed. At another point I briefly saw my own face in a Walmart makeup aisle mirror and I looked quite pale. My expression was neutral. I thought in that moment it would be okay if my skin was warm neutral tone rather than just warm. I'm in that time of year where my skin is a lot lighter and sometimes I feel less comfortable in my identity as a person of color when my skin is lighter. Eventually, I walk away from the drive-through and go to a big grassy field that's kind of sunken and I can see lots of big trees, green and yellow grass, and mountains in the distance. This area has lots of people in it. My friend Conrad is with me. There's black girls sitting, wearing 1940s dresses. There's the back of black women's heads and their worn, plain, beautiful, dark faces. I hear their humming and try not to cry. Are you surprised there's black people here? I ask Conrad. He maybe agrees. I almost say there's a Walmart nearby like that would explain it but I choose not to say that. I hear the humming more and more women are still and sitting and standing in the shade and wind beneath the trees as their leaves rustle. The women's sighs turn into hums and church singing, and I start crying. Conrad embraces me from behind, though I never see him. The music swells and gathers and swells, and I hear a 1940s singer and glimpse her briefly. She's a light-skinned woman with a swirl of styled gray hair and a young face and white gloves, and there's this sense of her performing on TV. She climbs to the song's ending, and the only lyrics outside of humming I remember are “and blue, and blue, and blue, and blue.” The notes were only F#-C#, a perfect fifth, and so beautiful and piercingly light I sobbed when I sang them to myself upon waking.