I awoke the other morning from a troubled dream and discovered that I had been turned into Saddam Hussein.
I looked in the mirror, considering the possibility that I was still dreaming. I touched my scowling middle-aged face. I stroked my moustache. My room certainly looked realistic. This seemed real.
My brain had not turned into Saddam's. My personality was my own. But my body belonged to a chubby middle-aged Iraqi. If I was not Saddam, I was one of his body doubles, or perhaps the guy who gets the bomb dropped on him in \Hot Shots.""
""What a day to be turned into Saddam Hussein,"" I said aloud. I had a paper due in my first class, and I was hungry. Laying in bed all day hoping to change back would not be an option.
I got out of bed and changed into my least Saddam-ish clothes-jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. I put on a pair of aviator sunglasses and a Brewers hat. I hated the way I looked. I wondered why I had to turn into, of all people, Saddam Hussein.
My body communicated a hunger for falafel or the blood of Turks, but I decided that pretzels would raise less suspicion. At a nearby convenience store, I grabbed a bag of pretzels and approached the counter.
The clerk ran the pretzels over the sensor. ""That'll be $3.06,"" he said. As the price passed his lips, the shock of recognition came into his eye. ""Holy shit!"" he yelled. ""You look just like Sad...""
Before he could finish, I bounded out onto State Street. I got a few feet down the sidewalk before I ran headlong into a police officer and fell at his feet. I tried to explain.
""You see, I'm not Saddam Hussein, I woke up this morning and I just looked like him. I'm Irish. I hate Saddam. Support our troops! Screw France! Please, I'm a journalism major. I'm just trying to get to class,"" I pleaded. The officer had stopped listening the moment I hit the ground.
""I just collared Saddam Hus-sein!"" he yelled with glee. He had spoken too soon. I got up, stomped on his toe and took off running.
I ran as fast as my middle-aged Iraqi legs would carry me down the middle of State Street, picking up additional pursuers as I ran. By the time I got to Library Mall, I was pursued by several police officers, some Chipotle employees, a group of ROTC guys and a passing gang of fraternity pledges, among others.
At Library Mall, I climbed a tree, with my pursuers grabbing at my pantlegs.
I knew, as I climbed higher, that I was doomed. I understood why they wanted to kill me. I just wished I could have articulated that I was not Saddam, but that the burden of his persona had landed on my shoulders by an accident I didn't ask for.
Before I reached the top, a branch bent and broke. I fell past my pursuers, who were perched as a group in the tree. As I fell I screamed, ""I'm not Saddam. I didn't do anything wrong.""
I woke up, for real this time, murmuring that phrase. I checked the mirror. I was me again. I got up and walked to class.
My conscience was no more or less clear than it had been in my dream, but being me was a lot easier than carrying the weight of someone else's wrongs.
dlhinkel@students.wisc.edu.
