The Brick Was Never a Weapon.

The Brick Was Never a Weapon

A New Orleans Dream About What We Refuse to Drop.

By Kāteb Shunnar

Part One

I was standing somewhere without a name. One of those dream places that feels familiar but does not belong to any address you have ever lived. The air was still. Not peaceful. Just waiting. In my hand was a brick. Solid. Heavy. The kind that fits too comfortably in the palm. The kind people throw when anger dresses itself up as righteousness and swears it knows what it is doing.

Then I heard the voice. Calm. No thunder. No drama. Just truth without decoration.

The brick in your hand is not to throw, but to drop so that it may shatter.

That sentence landed harder than the brick ever could. Because throwing feels powerful. Dropping looks foolish. Anybody can throw when they are mad. It takes courage to release what you think gives you leverage.

Throwing feels active. Dropping looks like losing to people who do not understand surrender.

The Creator was not asking me to hurl my pain at anyone. The Creator was asking me to loosen my grip.

My mother was there. My sister too. Family always shows up when the lesson has layers. We were supposed to go somewhere. Somewhere important. Somewhere assigned. But I was not ready. My sister took my mother and said she would come back for me. And I stayed behind.

I walked instead. Because that is what I do when I feel behind. I move instead of sit. I pace instead of pray. I convince myself motion equals progress.

Then I went downstairs and realized my house was not a house. It was a massive building. Guards. Front desk. Order. Status. The kind of place where access matters. The kind of place where somebody decides who belongs.

As I was leaving, a homeless man walked up. A guard stopped him. Just like real life. Just like systems that smile while saying no. The man looked at me and asked, can I be your guest please sir, I need to get in.

I said no. I have no guest. And I walked away.

That moment exposed me.

That man was every prayer I postponed. Every apology I delayed. Every time compassion knocked and I checked my schedule instead of my spirit.

My grandmother used to tell a story about a man who carried stones in his pockets everywhere he went. Each stone had a name. Betrayal. Abandonment. Disrespect. Over time he started walking crooked. One day he fell into the river. Folks said the river drowned him. The elders said no. He drowned himself by refusing to let go.

Dreams are mercy. They show us who we are before the damage becomes permanent.

The brick was never my weapon.

It was my confession.

When the Door Asked a Question

After the Brick Shattered and the Guards Looked at Me

When the door asked a question, it did not speak. It just waited. Quiet like a screen door on an Uptown morning. January 24 2026 did not end when I woke up. The dream followed me into the kitchen, into my coffee, into how I breathed. The brick was gone. My hands were empty. And that is when the real conversation started.

Empty hands are uncomfortable. They cannot bluff. They cannot threaten. They have to choose.

Most of us stay armed even when we say we are healed. Armed with comebacks. Armed with memory. Armed with old hurt wearing a new suit.

Dropping the brick did not make me holy overnight. I still had opinions. Still had irritation. Still had that New Orleans side eye loaded and ready. But something shifted. I realized how tired I was from guarding myself all the time.

The building from the dream replayed again. And it hit me. That building was my faith. Structured. Organized. Respectable. But hard to enter. I had turned belief into a gated property instead of a wide front porch.

We say we want The Creator to use us. What we really mean is we want to be used conveniently. On schedule. Without interruption.

That homeless man was not asking for charity. He was asking for shelter. And the guard answered for me.

That no followed me everywhere.

New Orleans understands doors. This city knows thresholds. It knows how grief dances. How music spills. How compassion has to be practiced out loud.

My mother leaving in the dream was not abandonment. It was trust. Love moves. Grace invites. But it does not freeze.

Dropping the brick was not about forgetting memory. It was about refusing to let memory bully compassion. Shattering it meant it could not be rebuilt later.

Sometimes we think The Creator is testing behavior. Often The Creator is examining mercy.

The voice did not say hold on just in case. It said drop it. Because anger is heavy. And you cannot climb carrying weight.

This dream did not shame me. It corrected me. Correction is kindness.

The brick shattered so my hands could learn a new posture.

Open.

Part Two.

When the Door Asked a Question

After the Brick Shattered and the Guards Looked at Me

When the door asked a question, it did not clear its throat or raise its voice. It just stood there quiet. Patient. Like a screen door on a still Uptown morning when the air is thick and the cicadas are arguing with each other.

January 24 2026 did not end when I woke up. That dream followed me right out the bed, slid its chair back, and sat at my kitchen table like it had something to say and plenty time to say it.

The brick was gone. My hands were empty. And that is when the real conversation started.

I laughed when I woke up. Not a joyful laugh. More like that little chuckle you let out when you know you just got read without a single word being raised.

The kind of laugh that says yeah alright. You caught me slipping. I rubbed my face and stared at the wall like it owed me an explanation. Same room. Same quiet. Same world. But inside me something had shifted furniture.

Dreams are not bedtime entertainment. They are audits. They show up unannounced with a flashlight and start checking corners you hoped nobody would notice.

I kept looking at my hands. Empty hands feel strange when you are used to gripping something. They do not know what to do at first. They hover. They twitch. They reach for imaginary weight. That unsettled me more than the brick ever did. Because an empty hand cannot posture. An empty hand cannot threaten. An empty hand has to decide whether it will receive or reach or stay clenched out of habit.

Most of us stay armed even when we swear we are healed. Armed with sharp comebacks. Armed with old receipts. Armed with stories we keep folded in our back pocket just in case somebody tries to get too close. We call it wisdom. Sometimes it is just pain that learned better grammar.

Dropping the brick did not make me float out the bed glowing. Let us be honest. I still had opinions. Still had irritation. Still had that New Orleans side eye ready to slide out on cue like a brass band trumpet when foolishness walks in uninvited. But something did change. I noticed how exhausted I was from guarding myself all the time. That kind of tired does not get fixed with sleep. That is soul fatigue.

That building from the dream would not leave me alone. Guards posted. Front desk shining like it took pride in denial. Everything neat. Everything controlled. And while the coffee was still brewing, it hit me slow and sharp. That building was not just my life. It was my faith. Structured. Polished. Orderly. Respectable. But stiff. Hard to enter. Harder to interrupt.

I had turned belief into a gated property instead of a wide front porch.

We say we want The Creator to use us. But what we really mean most days is use me conveniently. Use me in ways that do not embarrass me. Use me when I am in the mood. Use me as long as it does not cost reputation or comfort or control. We want sacred moments that fit neatly between errands and do not mess up our schedule.

That man in the dream was not asking for spare change. He was asking for access. For shelter. For a place to breathe without being watched. And the guard stopped him. And I let the guard answer for me.

I said no.

That no stuck to me like New Orleans humidity. You cannot see it, but you feel it everywhere. In your clothes. In your patience. In your tone.

This city understands doors. New Orleans knows thresholds. Knows who gets let in and who gets turned away. We live in a place where church doors swing open and music spills out into the street whether folks approve or not. Where bars and sanctuaries share sidewalks. Where grief dances in second lines and nobody tells sorrow to calm down.

This city understands compassion because it has had to practice it loudly and often.

Somewhere along the way, I forgot that.

I thought about my mother in the dream. How she left ahead of me. Not because she did not care. But because she trusted the journey enough to keep moving. Love does that sometimes. Love does not always wait until you feel prepared. Love moves forward believing you will find your way.

That realization pinched a little.

My sister said she would come back for me. That was grace. Not abandonment. A promise without pressure. Trust without control.

But instead of following, I wandered. Because pride loves movement. Pride tells you being busy means being productive. New Orleans got plenty folks walking fast with nowhere to be. I have been one of them, strutting like I had somewhere important to go when really I was just avoiding stillness.

My grandmother’s voice showed up in my head like it always does when I need straightening. She used to say there is a difference between carrying weight and carrying wisdom. Weight bends your back. Wisdom straightens your spine. Some of us swear our pain matured us when really it just made us rigid.

Dropping the brick was not about erasing memory. It was about refusing to let memory bully my compassion. Shattering it meant I could not quietly glue it back together later when I felt justified. Broken things lose their authority.

I started noticing my internal guards. Fear standing tall in uniform. Fear checking credentials. Fear saying not today. Not them. Not again. Fear smiling politely while denying entry like it was just doing its job.

Sometimes we think The Creator is grading behavior. Checking boxes. Handing out scores. Most days The Creator is examining mercy. Watching who we let in when nobody is applauding.

New Orleans knows storms do not care who you know. Water does not respect titles. When it rises, everybody is just somebody trying to stay afloat. That is why this city knows how to share plates, share space, share stories. That is why it knows how to make room even when resources feel thin.

That man at the door was not just a man. He was interruption. He was inconvenience. He was the lesson I wanted to postpone. And the guard was fear of being disappointed again. Fear of being seen too clearly. Fear of letting somebody close enough to rearrange what I had worked so hard to keep orderly.

Order feels safe. Compassion feels risky.

The voice in the dream did not say hold on just in case you need it later. It said drop it. Now. Let it break. Because anger is heavy. Resentment is heavy. Bitterness has weight. And you cannot climb while carrying extra baggage.

Part Two is this understanding. Access is sacred. Who we let in shapes who we become. Sometimes the very people we deny are carrying the message meant to soften us.

I cannot redo the dream. But I can live differently awake.

I can loosen my grip. I can question my guards. I can choose presence over protection. I can remember that the same compassion that keeps the door cracked open for me is the compassion I am meant to extend.

New Orleans says pull up a chair. There is always room. Somebody will make a way. The pot stretches when affection gets involved.

This dream did not scold me. It corrected me. And correction is a gift. It means I am still teachable. Still reachable. Still on the road.

The brick shattered so my hands could learn a new posture.

Open.

If you felt exposed reading this, good. Light needs cracks. If you felt understood, even better. That means the door is already moving.

Do not throw your brick. Do not aim your hurt. Drop it. Let it break. Let it stop talking back to you.And when someone knocks asking to get in, pause. Listen. Then decide who you really want to be.

Author’s Closing Words

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Written by

Kāteb Shunnar

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