I dreamed I was in a seminar, and the speakers kept making jokes about a man’s appearance. He’d answer a question, and they’d say things like, That’s a pretty good answer for a bald guy.

Finally, I’d had enough. Quit saying he’s bald, I said. That’s body shaming and has nothing to do with his answers.

They replied, Of course you’d say something like that, Barbie Doll.

I was like, Take your seminar and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.

The seminar was “The Care and Cultivation of Miniature Palm Trees in the Desert.” They gave each attendee a miniature palm tree. I’d already managed to kill mine. I’d only had it for an hour. I pulled it out of its pot by its dead canopy and threw it to the ground rootball first like I was some kind of wrestler who was about to leave the wrestling federation on principle but wanted to get one more slam in.

My friend Rethabile Masilo was there. He grabbed the dead palm tree and said he’d bury it for me.

You just go, he said. Take the fight to the streets. So I did.