I dreamed my dad was a Mexican composer who only came to see us in California every few years. When he was visiting, I was supposed to be really happy, but I hated him. I spoke to him only in English, and he spoke to me only in Spanish, but I wasn’t really listening anyway. He waved a bell in the air and almost hit my mom in the head. I yelled, “DON’T HURT MY MOM!” and ran to another room, where an audience was assembling for a performance. I was supposed to watch and saved two seats for friends though I felt disgusted with everything and just wanted him to leave again.