“Say her name.”

I’ve been saying all of this for 30 years.

I didn’t just start speaking out.
I didn’t just start speaking up.

I screamed everything that I am screaming now, back then.

None of this is new.

After a while though, I had to “keep going”, or try. I had to move on, or try. So I did. I picked up the broken pieces of my life and tried to carry on. I even tried to give EVERYONE the grace, mercy, and understanding that I didn’t get.

I respected everyone else’s life and privacy. I left. I ran away. I hid.

I’ve ruined things. When they say “hurt people hurt people” they are describing ME!

I need to get it out…

I don’t even know where to start…

I’d been waiting on justice to fix all of it. Now this lady is about to die. And here I am realizing that justice, that my hope for justice, is unrealistic. But that’s what I’d postponed so much of my life for! That’s what I’ve been holding out hope for. That’s what I’ve been silently waiting and wanting for.

I expected that one day Hazel would be arrested, or confess, and when she did, everyone was going to come back. All of our family and the community. All of the people that disappeared, that discarded, denied, and disappointed us, they were going to come back. They were going to apologize, they were going to acknowledge how big of a mistake they made. They were going to fix this. They were going to fix this.

She was going to fix this.

Not one day since March 28, 1994 have I not went to sleep and woke up hoping that was the day that this nightmare would be over.

I’ve offered Hazel so many opportunities to come and talk to me.
Even if the courts didn’t do their job. Even if the police didn’t do their job. Even if the community didn’t fulfill the desires and demands of the friendship/relationship they all had with my Mom, and us, and instead chose to still accept and allow Hazel to participate in their lives, freely.
While, I’ve asked her to meet with me. To give me some clarity. To give me some peace. Fvck justice, if I could just get an apology, an explanation, an anything other than the silence that I’ve gotten for almost 30 years.

Y’all don’t know what this has been like. Trauma is one thing. Trauma happens. Tragedies happen.

How does it happen that an ENTIRE community of people, that all don’t even talk to one another, know one another, or have connection to one another, all do the exact same thing when my Mother was killed. They all disappeared!

Now, check this bullsh¡t out:

You know what I’ve been told, over the last 2 1/2 years, after all of these years of trying to figure out what the fvck happened?

I’ve been told that the reason that MY FAMILY stopped talking to me, stopped connections with me… DRUMROLL… is because I chose to go and live with the family of the person that murdered my Mother.

You heard that right.

Nevermind the fact that my dad is not the one that murdered my Mom. Nevermind that my siblings that were all I had left in the world, were only 11 and 8 years old. And there was no way that I was going to separate us. Nevermind that we’d been living or staying with my Dad for our entire lives, in some capacity. Nevermind that my Dad had stepped up and always taken care of me, who was not his biological son, and accepted me into his family, so much so that his family was the only family that I had for a great period of time while growing up. Nevermind that common-fvcking-sense would have told you that these children need some sense of normalcy, so that would have been the best place for them.

Oh, and nevermind the fact that I was only 15! But the only adult in the room. The only person acting in the best interest of my family. The only person speaking up, speaking out, standing on the business at hand!

But yes, that is what I have been told. After all of these years of silence.

Here’s some truth:

The church that she loved, that she was such a big part of, that she believed in, that she had us in every other day of the week… abandoned us. The pastor, a few years later, told me that they had “dropped the ball” with us. He told me they put in measures and policies afterwards so that no family would ever suffer the way that our family suffered but that it was 1994 and homosexuality wasn’t something they knew how to deal with.
Around that time (of him and I having that conversation) I was putting out my first book, a collection of poetry. He offered to help me with some of my publishing costs. My publishing costs were going to be about $3800.00 He had the church secretary write me a check for $1500.00. I’m only mentioning that because if it’s ever said that he or they did anything for us, I want that to be known. Albeit, that was almost 10 years after her murder.

My Mother was, I believe, at one time, a Jehovahs Witness. My Grandma and my aunt, as well as cousins and quite a few people that we knew were Witnesses. It was part of our lives. My grandmother and my Mom had strong disagreements about her faith. My grandmother was a practicing Witness and would include me in her studies. I went to the Hall, I had study, I fellowshipped with them. My Mother did not appreciate my grandmother exposing me to that against her will and wishes. My Mother was a saved and baptized Christian by then and ran a home that was guided by the Christian beliefs and practices that she chose. They had a really big argument about 2 years before my Mom was murdered. The reason for the argument was my Mother had found out that whenever I was at my Grandmother’s house, I had been participating in Bible study and even going to the Hall. She was livid and told my grandma that if she continued to disregard her wishes and requests (of not taking me to those things) my Mother would not allow me to come over anymore. Her final statement on the matter, “I am a Christian. My children are Christians. If Corey chooses to be a Witness, that is a choice that he can make when he is an adult and capable of making that decision. Until then he will do as I do in my house. Do not disrespect me further on this matter.” I was there for that conversation. My grandmother agreed. My Mom still kept me away, for a couple of months, from visiting my grandma. The week I went back, we had study. I didn’t say anything to my Mom. I hated to hear or see them argue. I didn’t see anything wrong with what my grandma was doing. Even as a child I recognized that God was real. And people have their own way of reaching God. Who am I to judge how anyone does it? It wasn’t harmful to me. I didn’t think so, at least.

Breathe.

When my Mother was murdered, the responsibilities and the decisions/choices that had to do with a lot of things, fell on me. Rightfully so, as it regards to the things that she wanted. Because- and anyone that knew her and us can attest- my Mother raised me to be mature and responsible and she bestowed upon me a particular level of responsibility and charge as it related to matters of our lives. So, when she was killed, I was the point man for many decisions. Plus, the family was so all over the place and had so many moving parts. I was who everyone knew and had access to. So, I was who they came to.
It was obvious and natural to assume that my Mother would be funeralized at the church. The church that she was part of. The church she loved. The church she served in multiple capacities. We’d begun discussions with the church on how we were going to do the services. “We” was me and my Dad. Me, because I was who everyone expected to have a say. My dad was paying for it. He was who drove me too. I was 15. Not driving yet. My dad trusted me to do right by my Mom. His only issue was when I was picking out the casket and headstone. I felt she deserved to be buried in the pearl casket with gold trim. Her headstone should be the tallest in the cemetery. My dad encouraged me to consider that the casket was going in the ground, to be covered by dirt. There was no reason to spend the price of a car on such a thing. The headstone could not be the tallest, most expensive one in the cemetery. That cemetery doesn’t even allow headstones that protrude from the ground. He was right. We decided on something that I believe she would have been happy with us choosing.
Things were going as well as to be expected. Then I get summoned to my grandmothers. She called and asked that I come over and have a talk with her. My auntie Drenna took me to her. The meeting was about funeral plans and the creation of the obituary. There were a few people in the apartment when we got there. My grandmother had me come into her room for a private conversation. In that conversation my grandmother informed me that she was aware that I intended to have my Mothers funeral at the church. I told her yes. My grandmother told me that she wanted me to consider someplace else. I didn’t understand. She then explained and expressed to me that as a Witness she could not attend services in a “church”. Nor could my aunty or my cousins that were all Witnesses too. And her friends that were part of our lives, they couldn’t come and support. She told me that my Mother would not want a service that didn’t include her family. All of her family. I didn’t really understand the concept. The idea. The reasoning. But I understood my Mother. My Mother loved so many people. She loved everyone. She’d be disappointed if I didn’t allow everyone to be there. So I acquiesced. Ultimately we decided on a funeral home, Whispering Woods is the name of it, I believe.
One of the worst decisions I have ever made. Because my Mother deserved a service in that church. Not in that funeral home. There is no God in the thought process of what my grandmother influenced me to do. That is selfishness, it is ego, it is pride, it is mean. It was not a decision that any God worth my belief would ever instruct. And I believe that my decision to have the funeral at the funeral home instead of the church played a part in the way the church treated us after. I don’t know if they ever knew about this part. But guess what? They never came around to ask either. Even after I did what I was asked to do.

Before I go down this road of listing who all didn’t come around afterwards, let me say this:

To this day, not more than 5 people have been to the house to see about my Mother’s children. That is in total. Not all at a time. Not 5 people in what will soon be 30 years!

I mentioned the church and the Witnesses because it should be noted that faith and religion was a big part of our lives. And if I didn’t have a strong faith and belief in God, these religious humans could have ruined me.

Back to people…

My Mother worked hard. She worked hard to take care of us. She worked hard to provide for us. She worked hard to provide a house and place for us to stay. She worked hard for the things in our house.

Let me tell you about people…

People cleaned that house out! I was 15. I didn’t know how to handle a parent being murdered. I didn’t know how to manage the estate and belongings of a parent that was murdered. I didn’t have a clue on what to do. People took advantage of that. People asked for everything that was in that house. The drapes, couches, clothes, dishes, pictures, decor. Everything. No one ever said, “Hey, we should take some of her belongings and put them in storage for these children”.
So they took EVERYTHING. They asked for it and I gave it to them. I gave away everything that my Mother worked for. I don’t have anything that belonged to her. I have a set of encyclopedias that she purchased for me in 1989, I have a book she gave me to read, and I have my social security card. Those are things that my Mother touched and I still have. I gave away everything else. I’m so mad at myself for that.

My dad, was hurt and he thought it would be best for us to move on. He had a place for us to stay, he had furniture, he had things. I think he didn’t want reminders of my Mom. They hurt him too much. I’ve discussed this with him. We finally had a conversation about her last year. After 28+ years. He is just as much a part of this silence too. While everyone had this notion that I had chosen to go and live with the family of the person that murdered my Mom, they didn’t realize that I had to deal with living in a house that was occupied by people that I loved and cared about, who are also blood related to the person that murdered my Mom. And understand this, there was no talk about my Mom. Aside from my siblings and I discussing her, nothing. This was hard on everyone. And it showed. It showed in a very loud, obvious, SILENT way.

My dad shutdown. His way of dealing with all of this was to not deal with all of this. He was so hurt and angry and embarrassed. Maybe he blames himself. We wouldn’t know. His method was to let it go. His philosophy in life is to not deal with “negative” things. He and I had our 2nd conversation about my Mom just a few days ago. I told him just how much this has hurt me for all of these years. Especially HIS silence. Because HIS silence cut me different. He feels like he did the best that he could do. Because he didn’t know what to do. A year ago, in our first conversation about my Mom, he told me, “They treated y’all like y’all were poison. That church, her family, her friends. They should not have done that. She was too good to too many people for them to run out on y’all like that.” His response was to shutdown. In his mind, to protect us. Since the world wouldn’t care about us, he made his life only about us. He stopped everything. He’s been in that house with his door open. But silent. Almost standing watch. He didn’t know what to do. He did as much of that as he could.

On thanksgiving he acknowledged to me for the first time that my Mother had been in a relationship with Hazel. For the first time in almost 30 years! Over the past couple of weeks I have heard this same thing from people that refused to talk about this. The “gay” part is the part that seems to have been what made all of this so easy to shut up about. No one wanted to talk about that.

We’re about to talk about it…

(Cont’d…)

©️Cornelious “See” Flowers