Dream, memory, or stab of conscience?

I’ve never been plagued by nightmares of nudity in public places.
Maybe it’s because I’ve been waiting for the day for nudity to be socially acceptable so that I can be done with clothing forever.

I haven’t been haunted by dreams about lack of preparation, either.

I was born ready.

One of the most disturbing reoccurring dreams I’ve ever had involved cussing out my students.

If you knew me in my teaching days, you know that I almost never raised my volume or spoke sharply to the students. I was more apt to weep publicly when reading aloud Where the Red Fern Grows than to ever display anger, frustration, or even mild irritation.

The dream was always the same, and it began so innocuously that at first it was tough to tell it was a dream—in fact, when I’d recall it later in the day, there was always a panicky moment while I struggled to classify: was this a dream or a suppressed memory?

It was a normal school day and normal class time, with everyone present and/or accounted for.

An assignment had not been completed—not by one or two students, but by everyone—yet nobody seemed to care.

I tried to express my disappointment and received 28 blank stares.

I tried to appeal to their honor, but I still could not detect a pulse.
Becoming more and more frustrated, more desperate for a response, I raised my voice.

Nothing.

Starting to lose my composure, I sought reaction through shock-value and said something ugly.

Their expressions remained passive.
And that is when I snapped.

I said the most spiteful things I could muster. When I ran out of traditional expletives, I invented my own, each one more venomous than the one before.

Things that would make your grandma blush.

Things that would make your teenage hoodlum brother blush.

The students still did not respond, for each one was securely fastened to their own blissful denial, and here is when I knew it was not reality, because I could read their thoughts:

‘My sweet, sensitive teacher would never lose her cool and say ugly things to us; I must be dreaming…’