The Community

by N. Jamiyla Chisholm

Freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed. —Martin Luther King Jr. You have to grow from the inside out. None can teach you, none can make you spiritual. There is no other teacher but your own soul. —Swami Vivekananda

Old habits are said to die hard, and the same is apparently true for traumas.

These traumas are irritatingly unhealed because they are cyclical, because this is not the first time that race has intersected with the systemic breakdown of families and the abuse of children.

His teachings seemed to change as much as his name and location, but antiwhite hate and Black nationalism were the threads he needled wherever he went.

After witnessing four years of a presidential administration that heightened racial tensions, created a policy to separate children from their parents, and banned Muslims from traveling to the country, all while amassing a cult following that led to hundreds of white men storming the US Capitol on January 6, 2021, under the guise of having been disenfranchised, I saw too many parallels to the world of York.

the need to find the good in something is universal, even when what is found has devastatingly harmful effects.

Her upbringing had imprinted her with an unwavering belief that family was everything and anti-Blackness was everywhere, which meant that family had to stay together no matter what happened. These are the puzzle pieces that got my mother to agree to the Community, the belief that she would be able to make something whole.

In 1966, the year Stokely Carmichael declared “Black power”—disillusioned by nonviolent practices and integration as ways to end racism, instead saying that Black folks should take up arms

Black love, white disdain, and cultural maintenance were messages drilled in our heads as we were told the only enemy we ever had to watch out for was the blue-eyed, dog-walking devil.

“Because I was missing precious time, I would sneak into your room when you were dozing and rock you to sleep, often,” Ummi said. “You may not remember, but I used to sit on the long spiral stairs in the Children’s House rocking you. You have no knowledge of this because while you remember some things, you don’t remember everything. My thinking was, if I couldn’t have you, I at least wanted you to fall asleep in my arms. I at least wanted my heart to be the last one you felt beating when you drifted off. I wanted my image in your dreams, not fear.”

Men always prayed in front of the women, and the women always prayed in front of the children, with the girls always praying behind the boys. I would wonder why we couldn’t pray together when we all kneeled the same way, asked for the same love in the same language. Why were little girls so different from little boys? Why were women not able to pray next to men?

I wondered if a Dwight York or a Jim Jones would have existed and amassed a following had the citizens of this country felt like citizens who could expect justice and respect.

Cultural vulnerability, when up against powerful arms of society that control all resources and ultimately livelihoods, have led many to seek their own forms of liberty in the people and places who appear to share their vision even when they don’t.

James Baldwin wrote about sentimentality’s disingenuousness in the 1949 essay “Everybody’s Protest Novel,” aptly comparing sentimentality to dishonesty. The way to steer clear of this dishonesty is to address the nation’s deep wounds of racism, patriarchy, and white supremacy rather than poking at them.

The Community was my parents’ way of echoing and indoctrinating this knowledge into my cells early, before I quickly learned from others and believed that my life didn’t matter. I understand my parents were molded by a world full of extremes and that they felt the way to surf it was to counterbalance with an extreme of their own. I believe to my core they thought the Community would save us.

“My lack of understanding shouldn’t get in the way of me experiencing love.”