Winner

Dave Kalema has a great story to tell — several, in fact. You can read all about his big break 31 years in the making here, but for the rest of it we’re publishing his cinematic journey in full. He calls it “The Dreamscape.”

“When I learned of the news that this story would be published in IndieWire, I was emotional,” he said. “There’s something about having ‘Dreamscape’ published that allows me to feel like I’m carrying forward a sense of, I call it in a way, I’m a reckless dreamer. I don’t deny the dream in me.”

Neither do we. Here’s “The Dreamscape.”

Don’t open that email. Not yet. Once you do, the timer starts. One outcome leads you back to New York for the third time in nine years. Paychecks will finally come. Netflix awaits. The other side of the coin is tragic. There’s no more extensions on the apartment you got with that under the table, handshake deal. You’ll have 24 hours to figure out where you’re going to live. Your heart is racing. Your hands are shaking. I know you didn’t sleep for the last two weeks, but you were a finalist. No news was good news. Please put the phone down. Did you realize you stopped breathing? It took you 31 years and 229 days to get here. If this is finally your moment, you need to savor it because there’s no going back.

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When you grow up as the middle child of Fred and Barbara Kalema, the closest you’ll ever get to creative expression is a Panasonic camcorder you won’t be allowed to touch. It’s 1998 and these cameras are flying off the shelves of RadioShack. One day when you’re in the first grade, you’ll come home from school and see one on your kitchen table. It’ll be perched on top of the box it came in like it’s been waiting for you. When you sit down you’ll be eye level with its Panasonic insignia like it’s introducing itself personally. You know it’s expensive because dad’s footsteps get increasingly louder as he runs down the stairs from his bedroom. “Hey, don’t touch that!” In his thick Ugandan accent he yells this before welcoming you home.

You’ll nickname it “The Toy” because you’re tired of dad saying “this isn’t a toy”. Over the next few months you’ll see him buy every accessory under the sun. The travel bag. The shoulder strap. Extra VHS-C tapes. After the school year lets out, you’ll board a plane to spend your third summer in Uganda. Mom is starting to show because she’s due in six months, but it’s dad who has The Toy strapped to his body like a newborn.

Everyday he’ll get up before 7:00 AM and go to The Site, the plot of land he bought next to his mother’s house. The Site’s two acres comprise Uganda’s trademark red soil and sit on top of Buziga, one of the highest points in Kampala. You’ll quickly learn that dad bought The Toy to film the construction of his retirement home there. 21 years after leaving during the Idi Amin regime, dad will finally have the education, career, and means to build a house he can call his own. This new home will prove to his 17 siblings that he successfully cashed in his ticket with Uncle Sam for a better life. With each brick laid at The Site, The Toy will document dad’s decades-long dream.

At night dad will turn the lens on you. You’ll wear your hat backwards, perform impromptu skits with Frederick, your older brother, and make the family laugh. When The Toy is pointed at you, it’s like dad is Andy while you and Frederick become Woody and Buzz Lightyear. You’ll go to infinity and beyond every night because The Toy will create a safe place for your self-expression to fly. Even when the power goes out like it will most nights, Auntie Beatrice will light up the living room with a kerosene lamp to keep the production rolling. If Uganda had anything like America’s Funniest Home Videos, you definitely would have been on it.

When dad falls asleep on the flight back to Washington, D.C., you’ll remove The Toy from the bag beneath his feet. You’ll stick the camera in passengers’ faces with the restless curiosity of a five year old. Why is your baby crying ma’am? It didn’t like Uganda? Sir, who is the woman sleeping on your shoulder? Who’s your favorite character in Toy Story? You’ll press all the buttons you’ve seen dad press for months because you no longer have to wait for him to play. The Toy is in your hands now. You’re free.

A few days after coming home you’ll be playing Nintendo 64 in your bedroom. Dad will yell your name at the octave that lets you know you have less than ten seconds to make it down the stairs before he calls again. When you see him holding The Toy in one hand, you’ll freeze. “What did I tell you about this?” You won’t have the words to downplay your disobedience because the incriminating tunes of black and white static are bellowing out from the TV. In a few seconds you’ll learn that your British Airways in-flight masterpiece came at the expense of his ‘98 summer original that he filmed at The Site. In the deafening silence that connects you two, he’ll hand out his Toygate verdict: “You’re never allowed to touch this again!”

It’ll be twenty-one years before you put your hands on another camera.

As a first-generation Ugandan-American, your creativity will buckle under the false promises of assimilation. You’ll attend two different churches because your parents pray separately. White kids will touch your hair at school. Every other Saturday will be spent at the Luganda Academy your parents start with their friends. After school you’ll either be at Kumon lessons with the Desi kids, Tae-Kwon Do classes with the Koreans, or soccer practice playing on your neighbor’s team. Every summer, you’ll be the American cousin in Uganda because of your accent. Each room in this revolving door of cultural immersion will be its own sisyphean struggle for belonging. Only when you start playing basketball will you feel free from the pressures of having to fit in.

Every once in a while you’ll scratch a creative itch. You’ll color your 7th grade science reports until Mrs. Baxter tells the entire class she’s not a fan of your work. You’ll take music recording, ceramics, painting, and improv in high school. In college you’ll play basketball for one of the greatest coaches of all time. He’s a future Naismith Basketball Hall of Famer who you’ll win a National Championship with. Still, you’ll attend the improv shows and spoken word open mics wishing you could borrow a modicum of confidence from the kid who hijacked The Toy at 30,000 feet.

Then mom will blindside you: she is taking a job with the United Nations in Geneva, Switzerland. Even though the contract is only for a year, she’s betting on herself to get an extension because this is her dream job. She’s giving up the home she made in one country for the chance to reach the pinnacle of her career in another. She’ll double down on the fact that this UN job will allow you to finish school without shouldering more student loan debt. Her leap of faith will inspire you, but not enough to follow her. You’ll graduate Cum Laude to honor her sacrifice, then move to Atlanta on your own to start your career.

It’ll happen within the first ten days of your move. You’ll be walking home from work when a streetlight will spark the idea. You’ll run to CVS, buy the cheapest notebook you find, and sprint home before your vision evaporates over dinner plans. Two hours will feel like two minutes because words will come faster than you can write them. When you uber to Java Monkey in Decatur, Georgia a few nights later and sign up for the open mic, you’ll be called sixth and perform that original spoken word poem about a retired Black athlete who misses playing under the lights.

In a few days, mom will answer your phone call unaware that you’re still high from the standing ovation you got. You’ll be nervous because you saved the encore for her. She’s listening intently to your words, but her silence lasts too long. When you see the Whatsapp connection isn’t lagging, you’ll sober up and your voice will freeze instead. You’ve never known mom to be apathetic, so that chasm of silence will feel larger than the ocean separating you two.

You won’t perform again after that. You’ll go to work, play hoops at the rec, and continue writing at night. In a year you’ll move to New York City for a new job that will promote you early, fly you all over the world, and pay you enough to afford your own apartment by the time you’re 24. It’s the type of job immigrant parents call home about. The kind that will turn you into a living trophy to display on their mantle of expectations. That’s why nobody will believe you when you tell them you’re quitting after just three years. They won’t understand that you’ll never truly care about that company or its perks. They’ll fail to see that you’re no longer willing to pay the price of being the only Black person in that room. That job will only ever be a trojan horse to disguise the idea that started to flow from your pen night after night.

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People will use “blog”, “podcast”, and “side hustle” to describe what you’re doing even though you’ll never utter those words yourself. Dad will tell his friends you’ve transitioned to IT because he knows you’re using computers. Your aunties will say you never should have quit your job. Former colleagues will use predictably boring Silicon Valley jargon to question what you’re building. The reality is you’re making The Players Tribune for athletes that don’t go pro. You’re writing about life after sports in your mid-twenties and your media company will enjoy a tiny amount of success for someone with no media experience.

Your campus ambassador program will launch at 12 schools across the country. You’ll reach 15,000 readers a month. Former athletes working at companies like Qualcomm, Spotify, Google, and The New York Times will submit their own stories. Then one day, Sarah, the Vice President of a sports media brand will tell you she’s unfortunately too busy to pen her story for you. Without hesitation, you’ll shoot your shot: Sarah, can I film your story instead? When you walk into the Best Buy at Union Square the next day to buy a Canon Rebel T6, you’ll hold that box as if you’re five years old and never heard dad’s footsteps coming down the stairs.

You’ll get so high from filming Sarah, that you’ll run and gun five more interviews in three weeks. The extent of your new video department is you, the T6, your iPhone, and a Tascom lavalier mic B&H oversold you because you’ll clearly know nothing about film equipment. When Sarah texts you to ask when her video is coming out, you’ll frantically message Meghan who you went to college with. Can you teach me how to edit videos? Lucky for you, she lives a few minutes from your Brooklyn apartment and is happy to start teaching you Premiere.

If shooting these videos unlocks a creative door, editing them will give you keys to the building. With that power you’ll aim higher. I’m going to be in Miami next week. Video interview? When Shane Battier accepts your ten word hail mary, you’ll be too naive to know that his 30 minute window isn’t enough time to do a shoot in an NBA arena. That’s all I need! That night you’ll buy the cheapest flight to South Beach and ask Joyzel, who you also went to college with, if she can bring her fancy Sony cameras. You successfully booked a 2x NBA Champion and want your video department to be more professional than Best Buy’s Geek Squad made you believe you were. Lucky for you, Joyzel is from Miami and will be happy to direct your shoot in her hometown.

I can talk about the preparation you did the night before. I could rehash the similarities between that production and the adrenaline that marked your college basketball games. I’ll just tell you what happens after Miami. You’ll fly back to New York, assemble a rough cut, and send it to Joyzel for feedback. Unfortunately, you’ll only hear crickets from her and self-doubt from yourself. When she finally emerges after three weeks, she’ll simply email you an updated version of your video. You’ll keep restarting it because her color grade, sound design, and graphics will put you in a trance. You’ve never made images move like that. After your fifth watch, you’ll start feeling something in your chest.

That sensation will be so overwhelming, you’ll have no choice but to take a walk. Two hours will go by like 30 seconds because your feet won’t stop moving toward whatever direction epiphanies lead. You’ll be standing on the corner of 6th Ave and W Houston St when that burning in your chest will give way to a vision. After that day, all you’ll want to do is feel that again and the only way you know how is to recapture the magic of Miami.

Unfortunately, COVID won’t care about your epiphany.

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In March of 2020, your fire to make videos will be extinguished by the pandemic’s uncertainty. You’ll binge watch all the Harry Potter movies on HBO Max. Quibi will come and go from your life quicker than Steph Curry’s jump shot. You’ll consume every Shantell Martin video on YouTube wondering if you’ll ever be as bold as the lines she draws. Instead of making videos, you’ll be glued to screens like babies who are given iPads by their parents to keep them quiet.

Your restlessness will meet its match on Sunday, April 19th when you sit down to watch the first two episodes of The Last Dance. Two hours will go by like ten seconds because those images will make sense in ways they couldn’t have before Miami. You’ve interviewed professional athletes, used two camera setups, and incorporated graphics into an edit. So when Eric B. and Rakim’s “I Ain’t No Joke” scores the montage of Michael Jordan’s rookie season, you’ll visualize that edit on a timeline in your head. Two jump cuts for MJ’s And-1. The fading crowd audio under Magic Johnson’s speechless. Obama’s admiration. The no look pass. MJ’s gold chains at All-Star weekend. His cradle. And those rainbow lens flares following MJ through the tunnel in Paris!? It’s poetry in motion. Of course the feeling in your chest will return.

Over the next few weeks, you’ll listen to Jason Hehir, the director of The Last Dance, on every podcast like a fiend who needs another hit of his story. When you hear him say where he went to college, that feeling in your chest will explode. You also went to a small liberal arts school in Western Massachusetts. You too were a college athlete. The school he attended just so happens to be the rival school you beat ten out of thirteen times on the court. How the hell did he transition to making films at the highest level?

In the silence of your Brooklyn apartment, you’ll say four words that you are certain match that feeling in your chest. I can do that. You won’t have a clue how to make films at the level of The Last Dance and you won’t know anyone who does. You won’t even be sure if COVID will give you a real shot to figure it out. Without a shadow of a doubt, what you will know then, is that you spent your whole life climbing a mountain just to see the clarity of your own dream.

I’m going to make movies.

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I wish I could tell you that everything falls into place after this, but almost half a decade will go by. You’ll move 13 times in that span, bouncing from cheap month-to-month sublets to make your money stretch before it houdinis. You’ll even give up on New York twice. Since breaking into film is tougher than the Bad Boy Pistons, you’ll surf a creative wave back to the stage for the first time in seven years. Telling stories will tide you over because it will be the first time that you’ll ever reveal the pervasive feeling of otherness that accompanied your Ugandan-American upbringing. You’ll watch movies and attend every filmmaking workshop during the day, but you’ll chase the highs of the stage at night.

In just a few years your storytelling will be featured on NPR and you’ll never lose any of The Moth’s GrandSlam storytelling competitions you compete in. When you return from your first road show, you’ll get a text. “Hey Dave, I think you should apply to this”. It’ll come from Francesca who just earned her first Editor credit on Netflix’s Stamped From the Beginning. As soon as you look at the website for Industry Standard’s nine month post-production residency, you’ll see that it’s supported by Netflix and know you’re a longshot. Since your odds will feel as slim as Kevin Durant, you’ll just practice what you’ve been doing on stage: telling a story only you can tell.

On the morning of Friday August 16th, 2024 you’ll finish your weekly 10-mile bike ride and come back to the apartment you have a day to move out of. It’s been 89 days since you submitted your application. You just sold all your camera gear to fund tomorrow’s move. You don’t know where you’ll be going. That’s when the email will finally arrive. When you lock eyes with that notification on your phone, your heart will race faster than it does when you’re cycling. Your hands will shake to the point where you’ll forget to breathe because your fate will hang precariously in the balance of what that email says.

When you finally calm down enough to open it, you won’t even get through the first line before dropping to your knees. On the floor of that apartment, you’ll cry tears of relief. You’re 31 and have no credits to your name, but Industry Standard will believe in your story enough to offer you one of their five limited spots. Even though you dreamt of making films, you never imagined that your opportunity would come with an Assistant Editor job at Library Films, mentorship from Industry Standard, and support from Netflix. When you pick yourself off the floor, you’ll call your younger brother, George, and the words will spill out like air released after a pressure valve bursts.

I did it. I’m going to be working on a Netflix project.

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The weight of this accomplishment won’t hit you until you see everything you own fit in the back of a rented Nissan Rogue. As you drive back to New York, you won’t stop thinking about the price of your dream, how simple your life had to become to chase it, and your parents. The look in mom’s eyes when she said she was uprooting her life again for the United Nations. The anger in dad’s voice when he learned you mishandled The Toy and erased footage of the home he was working toward since 1977. In ways you never could have before, you’ll see yourself in both of them––you left home to chase an uncertain path. Maybe mom and dad were never supposed to nurture your creativity just like their parents never drew them a blueprint on how to survive as immigrants. Like you, they had to be the first in their families to figure it out.

So yeah, as the middle child of Fred and Barbara Kalema, it will take you more than three decades to earn a real shot at a creative life. Now that you’re finally here, just remember that your dreams were never really yours alone.