The other day my Dad acknowledged, to me, for the first time, my Mother’s sexuality. He’s never said it out loud, to me. Even after I discovered- some years after her murder- that her and that lady had been in a relationship and I brought that to his attention, he never spoke on it.

There was a storyline that I’d been presented with, some years ago. That storyline had been given to me by my Mom and somewhat corroborated by my Dad. But not with much insight or detail. It was a vague story about how us coming to live in Dixmoor and that lady and her children joining us, came to be.

I was a child, then. Naive. Unwilling to see things outside of the scope and respective idea promoted to me, with this matter. I believed what I was told. I’ve repeated and referenced that storyline, in the presence of both my Mom and Dad. Without interruption or objection from either of them. Of course she’s been gone for almost 30 years now, and he’d been silent about it this whole time. So that story was the story. Even after I’d accepted and acknowledged their relationship. After I’d spoken up about my acknowledgement and acceptance of what our truth was. I’ve not pretended that what happened in that house did not happen. Even against a conglomerate of people that have refused to vocalize my Mother’s truth.

When my Dad said what he said recently, and acknowledged, out loud, that what I’d always been led to believe as something that somehow must’ve “happened” in some weird abnormal way, was actually something that was going on and that he was aware of…

WAIT, WHAT!

Now I understand his hurt and pain and frustration, better. Now I recognize his embarrassment, his shame, his insecurity, better.

And his denial.

The denial.

To this day, most of my Mother’s friends and family that I have been able to talk to about our life, are still in complete denial about the fact that she and that lady were in a relationship. These people are adamant and assured that my Mother was never, would not ever, and was never going to be “gay”.

Insert that little white boy meme here:
“A bullsh!t”.

Then there are the people like the ones that I’ve been receiving calls from over the past couple of weeks that have held that part of the story to themselves. Some people have said that it was in an effort to not besmirch or defame my Mother’s name and character. But supposedly, this was the prevailing theory of why the murder was committed. It was this ugly love triangle that included my Mom, my Dad, and that lady. There were these whispers and gossip. People were saying what it was, but not saying what it was.

I’ve been told 4 times over the past 8 days that the reason people didn’t want to speak to me about this, even after all of these years, was because of how toxic, messy, and entangled with drama this situation was.

It was also 1994. Homosexuality carried with it certain stigmas and a taboo that cast a hand over many a mouths. Mum was the word when it came to that subject. It was more than difficult to discuss. And this situation was so messy. I can appreciate that now. The 15 year old me didn’t see any of this as “mess”though. This was my Mom. It was her murder. It was hurtful, painful, and stressful.

There was no place for all this “mess”.

(Cont’d…)