The Community

by N. Jamiyla Chisholm

Just as my memories don’t always jibe with my parents’, theirs are just as selective. Throughout the years I have asked Ummi in various ways if she knew about the tension between the Ums and me, and she always gave a different response. Once she said she didn’t know what I was talking about; she’d never heard about abuse. Another time she said there were rumors some of the children were being beaten by their Ums, which is why she kept a close eye on me. Then one day she said she heard about my beatings specifically, heard I talked too much and asked too many questions about seeing her and it infuriated the Ums, but she hadn’t heard that I was ever thrown outside. Finally, she admitted she knew I was put out as punishment but that it wasn’t long; it was meant to tease a smidgen of fear into me. She also said we left because of the abuse, that she learned the Ums discarded me like a trash bag, but I eventually discovered that was only a piece of it. My father, on the other hand, seemed oblivious. He once said he thought I didn’t speak because I was angry with him; Ummi would’ve told him if something was wrong. He tried to assure me. “We would’ve been out of there so fast and I would’ve turned that place upside down had I known you were being beaten.” Maybe he would’ve. Or maybe Ummi did tell him, and years of guilt obliterated the memory.