I dreamed about Malcolm X and his wife, Betty. I'm not sure if I was Malcolm or Betty or another person or just an observer. Betty was sitting on the couch, crying. Malcolm was pacing around the room, frustrated. Someone had been sending them pies in the mail, and lots of them. Five, ten, twenty pies in the mail each day. This, apparently, was meant as a threatening gesture, and of course they suspected the Nation of Islam. The pies were not booby-trapped or poisoned or even bad-tasting or ugly. It was just that there were too damn many of them, and they were coming every single day.
Betty was inconsolable. She wanted the pies to stop. Malcolm X couldn't do anything to stop them. It was very sad.