Sable Monroe

When my grandmother came to America, my mother was in full motion.

She was working full-time and going to college full-time.

She was determined to rebuild herself. Back in Jamaica, she had status. She was an accountant. And she wanted that same life again in America.

I understand that now.

But what that also meant was:

she wasn’t home much.

That left me, my brother, and my grandmother in the house.

With him.

My grandmother didn’t really know what was happening.

All she knew about my life came from the letters I wrote her.

And in those letters, I never told her the truth.

Then she saw it for herself.

It wasn’t just yelling.

It got physical.

And one of the times it happened, my grandmother was there.

Water was thrown in her face.

My grandmother.

The one person I felt safe with.
The one person who made me feel loved and protected.

And in that moment…

she wasn’t protected either.

That broke something in me.

I’ll never forget her face.

She was frightened.

And then she looked at me and said:

“In all the letters you wrote to me… you couldn’t tell me this was happening?”

I didn’t have an answer.

I just felt horrible.

But the truth is, I wasn’t trying to lie to her.

I was trying to protect her.

From worry.
From helplessness.
From knowing there was nothing she could do from Jamaica.

And maybe I was protecting myself too.

Because once you say something out loud, it becomes real in a different way.

So I wrote letters about safe things.

School.
Small moments.
Normal life.

Not the truth.

Looking back now, I understand her question.

But I also understand the girl I was.

Sometimes children don’t speak about what’s happening to them.

Not because they don’t trust you.

But because they don’t yet have the words…

or the safety…

to tell the truth.