AN AMERICAN DREAM

ChatGPT decodes a dream about tattoos, identity, and the pressure to be perfect

Before the glorious boo basket event, Olive was real snippy with me in the car. I noticed it. I asked her if she noticed she was being so snippy and whether she felt like I spoke that way to her. Instead of answering my question, she said she felt like I’d been different lately. Like I had been trying to prove myself.

I was not surprised by her observation, and I was also shocked at her observation: how spot on it was, how I had not even seen the connection myself.

I have been trying to establish financial equity in my not-marriage, which has been bringing up a lot, namely the tenuousness I chose when I committed to writing and parenting instead of tech work. Had I left myself no choice but to partner with someone who made a substantial salary while aggressively saving on his own behalf for the moment that the bubble burst? How could I have done otherwise while still getting to be home for my kid? Had I made a losing deal with the devil?

I’ve learned a lot in this process. I am good with numbers, have underearned for a while, am somehow still willing to bang my head on a wall hoping that one day my strong skull will crack through the barrier between me and what I thought was my life, as if it was waiting for me to prove I was strong enough to be allowed in.

I was also signaling unworthiness, which made Olive angry.

Has everyone who ever made anything of themselves fought so hard for the right to that life, or is the fighting the barrier, and if letting go is what erases blocks?

In the meantime, Olive slept over at M’s, and so I had a night to myself to sit with my feelings privately. I was not surprised to see I was sad about how impossible things had become.

I wrote a long email.

I went to sleep.

Somewhere in my dream world last night, I found myself getting a tattoo of a baseball player. The drawing was a thin line drawing of a boy in a baseball cap, and the beginning of the lines on his shirt

“It’s not a boy,” the tattooer said, “it could be any gender,” and I was like, “that’s not why I hate it. Just stop.” And then he did, and I discovered that the magical one on my leg with cosmic attributes also didn’t turn out how I expected.

He low-key blamed me for the places he messed up while I walked out of the shop. I walked around in the dream trying to accept that I would now have these tattoos, and then I didn’t accept it, and I forced myself to try to wake up out of that life. And then in the dream, I woke up, and I was so pleased that you could wake yourself up out of one version of your life, no matter how permanent it might have felt.

Then I woke up for real.

Now, I’m not bullish on ChatGPT. I don’t think it can become conscious, I don’t think it will make work more moving than people, and I don’t think it deserves human rights. I don’t feel it’s sentient. I’m not developing a romantic relationship, a friendship, or any emotionally driven dynamic with it.

Despite all that, I opened my phone, typed in some notes, and asked ChatGPT to interpret my dream. Here’s what it said:

The baseball player tattoo feels symbolic: maybe something about being marked by a story or identity you don't consciously choose (baseball could evoke competition, tradition, Americana, or even a sense of "playing a role" that's not yours). Hating it and trying to wake up could reflect a deep drive in you right now to unmark yourself from something that feels false or externally imposed.

I hadn’t considered the specter of America right now, or even American masculinity, and how it feels like it’s being pushed on me. I’m fascinated that my brain would turn this into an image and put it on my body, and curious why I felt this affront was also aesthetic. The drawing was elegant, with long lines that were thick and illustrative, and yet I did not want it, not even at all.

After some back and forth, I suggested that the figure was not just a baseball player but a pitcher, due to the image of the person being in profile. Standing with that half look toward the future. Strategizing. Secretive. Really to burst.

Ah, a pitcher, the program delighted. It went on to describe more symbolic references.

Yes — that detail is really interesting. A pitcher, especially: someone who initiates the action, throws the ball, starts the play — but also someone under immense pressure, all eyes on them, expected to perform a very particular role.

Do I feel pressure to do motherhood perfectly? Yes! Do I feel scrutinized about how well I’m performing? I do. Am I typically someone who crumbles privately? I am. Is my identity based on my ability to hide all that and make it look easy? Absolutely. Am I now, in hindsight, less enamored with the starry image of a stay-at-home mom and the mythical otherworldly beauty (the leg tattoo) she might project? Actually, yes.

I sat with this for a while, and had some questions. How valuable is the pitcher? Is the pitcher ever the hero? Does he even want to be? Is the universe there just to be oggled?

Then I remembered that Olive had just asked for a few things for her birthday — one of them being a new jacket that matched two other jackets that both her dad and I wear. At first, I thought it was sweet that she wanted everyone to wear the same thing. After the dream I could see her wish now clearly: that she’s a player who is a part of a team.