The Community

by N. Jamiyla Chisholm

I realized my dreams were wistful imaginations, ghosts from a life I was barely remembering anymore

Various shades of brown skin combining into a painter’s palette of inky tones.

what was hers was his and what was his was still his.

Carrying a piece wasn’t synonymous with seeking peace.

Why were little girls so different from little boys? Why were women not able to pray next to men?

Instead, they think if they hadn’t been there, this wouldn’t have happened. If they hadn’t made eye contact, they might not have been noticed. If they hadn’t been Black or Muslim or a woman or gay, they would be safe.

“The police are the last people we call for help,” Grandma would say to my cousins and me. I grew up on hip-hop, a culture that made chart-topping records about crooked cops and police brutality.

We were a destructive duo brimming with ego, emotions, and years of anger.

I increasingly felt like an outsider and spoke with rage.

Because they felt so emasculated and dejected by society that the only way to freedom was to voluntarily isolate. I