Dream a little, I'll dream on!

Diary Entry: February 3, 2025 

Today was the long-awaited Illinois Dreams event — a celebration of bankruptcy so passionate, it almost felt like we were worshipping insolvency itself. America’s finest bankruptcy professionals descended upon the university in a noble effort to educate the youth, answer questions, and maybe, if you were truly blessed by the gods of financial ruin, offer you a job. Personally, I came armed with hope, a moderately ironed suit, and a keen sense of existential dread.

Being one of the moderators — thank you, Professor Pigou, for this honor and/or trap — I had the enviable task of organizing, facilitating, and standing in close physical proximity to people with actual power. We had prepared extensively via a thrilling email thread, and by “prepared,” I mean we didn’t rehearse anything but talked a lot about how well-prepared we were. Improvisation, after all, is the jazz of academia. I remember in the email chain — our little digital salon of curated curiosity — every question I proposed received what I’ll generously call “favourable edits.” Two of them were promptly axed for being too political, which is apparently a sin in the sacred space of private-sector worship. You see, this was not the time nor place to ask provocative things like how the judiciary might be improved. Heavens no. This was a celebration of the system exactly as it is — flawless, timeless, profit-friendly. The rest of my neutered questions were politely redistributed among the other moderators, in the name of “collaboration” and “shared meaning.” Very democratic. I, too, wanted a meaningful role — ideally one that didn’t involve playing the ghostwriter for everyone else’s stage time. You’ll understand my enthusiasm was tinged with nostalgia, coming as I do from the post-Soviet zone, where censorship at least had the decency to wear a uniform. I put on my grey suit, which screamed, “Hire me, but don’t expect me to smile too much,” and was ready for greatness.

Woke up at 8 a.m., which felt like punishment until my brain remembered I was supposed to be impressive today. That snapped me awake faster than any caffeine. The sky was blue, the wind was aggressive, and my giant red coat turned me into a fashionable radiator on the walk to campus. Sweat: nature’s way of saying, “You overdressed again.”

The university was still in its peaceful pre-event state, which is to say: mostly empty, eerily quiet, and vaguely judging. I had a class that morning, because nothing says “big career opportunity day” like a prelude of obligation. When I exited, I caught a glimpse of Professor Pigou himself — our fearless leader — who, in a twist no one saw coming, vanished into a different room entirely and was never seen again. A symbolic gesture, I assumed.

Then came the real action. The lobby had boxes of snacks, which — being a rational person — I treated as both sustenance and emotional support. I grabbed my emotional support chicken box and floated into the auditorium, where my co-speaker was already standing at the podium, radiating competence. Next to him was the woman who had organized this bit of the dream. People trickled in: students, professors, and the mysterious panelists, all of whom looked like they’d seen the inside of more courtrooms than I’d seen daylight this winter.

The panelists were a cinematic ensemble: two judges (a man and a woman), a law firm partner who definitely owns three cufflinks for every day of the week, and a young associate whose years of experience appeared to span multiple dimensions. I was torn between admiration and gentle confusion at how someone barely older than me could already have a war chest of stories. Maybe time moves faster in the private sector. Does she have over 400 litigations under her belt, like I do? Doubtful. Does she even have a belt? Hard to say. Maybe she transcended belts — floating through the legal profession held up entirely by confidence and judicial appointments. I caught her looking at me a couple of times. Maybe this was my moment — to say something bold, seize the spotlight, do whatever it is that powerful people do when they’re too famous to face consequences. But alas, I wasn’t that famous. Just a mildly sweaty moderator in a grey suit, armed with a microphone and a vague sense of professional longing.

Despite my best efforts to absorb the wisdom being dispensed, my real focus was elsewhere — on my own impending moment. I was, after all, The Moderator. As fate would have it, seated next to me was a Very Important Judge. You know the kind — did something brave, got reversed, prompted a Supreme Court ruling, no big deal. She kept glancing at me like she could smell the nervous energy and hubris radiating from my pores. This was the famous Fulton case — the one where Chicago tried to patch up the state treasury by shaking down taxi drivers and delivery workers, presumably because shaking down hedge funds felt too ambitious. The judge — a sort of fairy-like woman with a disarmingly pleasant demeanor — did something rare and unfashionable: she ruled bravely. Naturally, this was immediately labeled activism, because apparently judges are meant to be sedentary creatures. But really, why shouldn’t they be active? Everyone else has a gym membership.

Then, the moment came. My co-speaker said my name. The world stopped. I stood up, buzzed with adrenaline and a peculiar feeling that I might forget how to speak English at any moment. I walked to the microphone like a man being asked to disarm a bomb using only charm.

I handed the mic to a girl who wanted to ask the final question of the event. She spoke. People nodded. The event ended. And just like that, my grand moment was over — quietly, cleanly, anticlimactically. I believe I did a decent job, though at this point, decency feels like a wildly ambitious goal.