On December 14, 2013, my
home burned down. I had insurance with Citizens, but under the guise of public
interest, the demagogues in Tallahassee allowed for policies like mine to be
sold to companies that were, in some cases, only three months old. My policy
was sold to Heritage, who then denied my claim. Heritage claimed through a
series of motions for summary judgment, that, as a matter of law, I was not
entitled to be covered or to have a jury trial. Their reason was that the
application submitted to Citizens on my behalf by Edgar Perez Insurance agency,
three years before the fire, didn’t indicate that I farmed the property where
the house is located. The courts agreed with them. The first judge, Thomas
Rebull, dismissed all the other issues we raised. He narrowed the issue of the
case to the question of agency. Is Citizens/Heritage bound by what the agent
knew? If the agent who sold me the policy knew everything, does that mean
Citizen/Heritage knew too—essentially---is the agent working for
Citizens/Heritage who paid his commission or me and you?
This is where you and I
got screwed by the demagogues in Tallahassee. Insurance companies have lobbied
and profited from what is called the open agency law. This means if the insurance
agent who sold you your car insurance, home insurance, or any other type of
insurance causes you not to get covered, then you have no remedy against your
insurance company. Most insurance companies in Florida don’t have designated,
captured line agents. The agents get paid a commission, but they don’t work for
the company. Isn’t that special?
For over two years, I
have been fighting an emotionally and financially debilitating lawsuit. While
we had no turkey, stuffing, or other niceties for Thanksgiving, the three
judges of the appellate court provided us a one-word platter of poison.
“Affirmed.” Two days after Thanksgiving, I found out that the judges of the
appellate court agreed with Judge Thomas Rebull. They provided no other
explanation.
This word got me thinking about how an
institution can hold your whole life in its hands. How powerful to just say one
word and eviscerate, bury, or condemn someone for generations. The word “affirmed”
brought to mind another word that marked my heritage: “sold”. Ironically,
Heritage, which is owned by white people is true to its heritage. I would make
a good bet that the people of Heritage’s heritage dabbled too in “sold”. Now,
they are reaping the benefits of “affirmed.”
After our house burned down, I began to have
this recurring nightmare. As a fiction writer, I chucked it up to my imagination.
Recently, the meaning of this dream became clear to me. It was as if I had my
own Joseph sitting in the jail cell of my mind, decoding the meaning.
The dream starts like
this:
It’s early morning and I
am surrounded by smoke. People are running. Someone grabs my hand; it's my
husband. He is bare-chested and in loin-cloth. I still don't understand
where I am or who I am in this dream-place. We reach a clearing and I see that
the huts, in what I feel is our village, are engulfed in flames. Our children are
hugging us around the waist. I'm wondering why we are all half naked. Suddenly,
I'm hit over the head. When I wake up, a white, rotund man is putting shackles
around my throat. I pull back and he slaps me. Another taller white man says to
the one fastening the shackles around me, "David, we need them intact.
Don't ruffle them up too much."
I am dragged outside
where my shackles are linked to those of my husband and children. My husband is
in front, followed by our seven year old son, our seventeen year old daughter,
and then, our four year old. Hands bound, shackles around our neck, we walk for
long time.
During the first year
after my house burned down, this is where the dream always ended. Then, when we
started going to court, the dream became longer. We were
in our shackles, walking. My husband is looking back at me. His gaze holding me
up, giving me strength. We reach the coast where there is a boat. We are
examined and then corralled into the bottom of the boat. Soon there is an
unbearable rocking. Instead of breathing, I’m vomiting. I'm covered in my own and
that of countless others. I want to die. I tell my husband we must jump off the
ship when we get a chance. He reminds me that the ocean is full of sharks.
Soon, I feel like I have stopped breathing, could this be death? I am happy for
death, but our chains are yanked and we are dragged above. The light is
blinding and for a few minutes I can't see. Tears at being momentarily blinded
and tears of happiness to be able to see the sun again flow down my cheeks.
When I open my eyes, I see all the white people on the boat are moving about
frantically, unloading us. We are taken to a holding cell. Later, David
returns and he is accompanied by other people. They divide all of us in chains
and give us numbers. The man holding our chains says, "Come on, David,
don't give me a family. It's the hardest." Through his rotted by black
teeth David answers, "You're their advocate. Get them ready."
The advocate washes us,
puts oil all over us. I'm relieved not to be on the boat, but I am scared. The
shackles are heavy when he puts them back on.
This is where I
would awake, panting and feeling the impression of the chains on my skin. I
scanned the darkness of the 10x40 trailer where I now live. There is no running water and no electricity
to run a fan to shift the hot air around. I would get up to go to my first job,
remembering to pack enough clothes
because if it’s Wednesday or Thursday, there won’t be enough time to make it home, so I’ll be
sleeping in my car and taking a shower at the gym in between jobs. I am, indeed, in chains.
Recently, I see the end
of the nightmare. My husband, my children, and I, in chains, are brought outside of
the holding cell. Four men come up to inspect us. They have bodies of men,
but faces of vultures. This scared me. I take-in a sharp breath and stumble
back, causing a chain reaction. One of the men has bull horns at the top of his
vulture head. Suddenly, the vulture-men are flapping their wings to usher in a
white woman who is in a lovely dress. Her golden parasol matches the ribbons on
her dress. David and my advocate snicker, quietly, "head-mistress." I
don't get the joke. The vulture with the red horns talks fast. I only hear
"Sold". Then, the other three vultures dance, gyrating around
headmistress. When all the singing and dancing is done, all they say in unison
is, "Affirmed." Suddenly, the
shackles are sealed and seared to our bodies. Then, I wake up. Terrified.
