Umo (Uncle)
by Amani Abukhater
He was round, doting, friendly, good with kids. At age six, everything is bubblegum and flowers, rose-colored. I recall the sweet memories of seeing his little red car parked down the street and of him slowly walking up the driveway. He came in through the back door with the strong trail of cologne, and I attacked him with hugs. He used to joke that he was ancient, so I drew him as a dinosaur. Having him over was a treat: money slipped into back pockets, little inside jokes, tickles and laughing, watching a movie and hearing his loud snores when he fell asleep.
***
He was round, doting, friendly, and yet, not the same. At age nine, I began to notice more. Him, leaving multiple times during a visit and coming back smelling different and gross. I waited for him to come play with me, only to be told he had to speak to my father (stern tones and deep sighs). Visits were shorter. I heard my mother’s new voice, not adult-like for my father and not motherly for me, something else slow yet impatient. I thought about why I didn’t have any cousins yet, even though I heard stories of him trying to date. I saw him getting bigger and bigger, even though eating healthy and exercising daily was something my mother talked about all the time to me. He wasn’t actually ancient, just three years younger than my father.
***
He was strange, backwards, unchanged. At age twelve, he started treating me as a friend rather than a niece, telling me about Saudi Arabian memories and personal experiences and occupational grievances and him, him, him. I knew he was a heavy smoker, but he never said anything and I was hushed by my parents if I tried to mention it. My actions changed to hesitant hugs and avoiding him during visits. My diaries have pages filled with hatred toward him and his old-fashioned ideals and his misogyny and his homophobia. Who was he to tell the world how to be when he hadn’t finished college, had no wife, no kids, no solid job?
***
He was depressing, frustrating, headache inducing. At age fifteen, I couldn’t stand to be around him for longer than an hour. His head was filled with conspiracy theories and idiocy. He noticed his influence on me was slipping and tried desperately to bribe me with money slipped into pockets and trips to the store for sweets. He complained to my father that I never asked him for life advice, even though I had more moral and logical sense than he did. I sat in the living room, listened to his monologue, and felt like he was set for failure from the beginning. He spoke of progression, wanting equal rights for women. But it was performative. He followed my father to the United States but never made it successful in the same way. Then, he was diagnosed with cancer.
***
He was thinner, weaker, still the same. When I was eighteen, he came to live with us, so my father could watch his health. Living at home with him quickly transformed the previous pity into throwing up every time I used the bathroom, wiping all of the light switches and doorknobs he touched, waiting days and days for him to shower and never hearing the water turn on. Every time I saw his truck pull up to the curb, I hid in my room. Umo told me over and over, “I still see you as a little kid, just like all those years ago.” He crossed boundaries and personal space because I was still a kid to him. I watched my father’s hair turn grey, watched Umo’s hair fall out, heard him go out to smoke despite the doctor’s warnings. Grief disappeared from my dictionary.
***
He was foolish, disrespectful, still the same. I had secret conversations with my mother about how my stony father was actually feeling frustrated and desperate. My father’s oldest sister was a two-time breast cancer survivor and a one-time breast cancer victim. She fought for her life, eating healthy and exercising daily, but it wasn’t enough. My dad attended her funeral alone in a different country. He couldn’t help comparing his two siblings: my strong-willed aunt and my weak-minded uncle. We saw Umo eating junk food, exercising only to walk to and from his car, smoking just as regularly as before he was diagnosed. My father felt the loss of his sister and the loss of any remorse for his brother. Umo dug himself into a hole and was not trying to get out.
***
He was going for a while, then gone all at once. The surgery passed and he was not able to get back onto his feet. His death was a long time coming and not a surprise. I could not bring myself to cry the way I did for my aunt. My father was left to clean up the mess Umo made of his life and his belongings. He tracked my uncle’s money across the Bay Area, he sifted through papers and papers, he threw out that last unused cigarette. My door was closed. I heard footsteps and a sheet of paper slid under the door. It was Umo as a dinosaur, the drawing from when I was six.
Amani Abukhater
3/2/2021
Amani Abukhater is a senior at UC San Diego, majoring in literature and writing. Umo (Uncle) was written in pieces as she sorted through expected and unexpected emotions. In addition to writing, she enjoys listening to music, drawing, and taking walks.
Cover photo by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay.
