(If you don’t have some time, scroll past this post. It’s long. I have to tell my whole story. Not parts. This is going to require your attention.)

I want y’all to know exactly what I’ve had to deal with over the last 30 years.

It just didn’t make sense.

And yet, this past year, 2023, has brought so much clarity. So many conversations. And look-a-here… some closure. Some.

Part 17.

“23, and Me.”

Before I begin I do want to say this: There is this notion that right now, in today’s climate, there seems to be an overwhelming energy and act of “spilling the tea”. People are exposing and discussing “family” business via the internet and other forms of media. Some of that exposure is causing the effect of bringing or tearing, down, many people; Including our leaders, celebrities, and of the like. It is and has been quite the mess. The secrets of our shadows and what has been kept “in our house” is being revealed, and somewhat to the detriment of reputations and respect. I get it. It’s unfortunate. And it’s definitely going to have some effects, in the short and long term.

But it has to be done. Period. We’ve hidden and held on to far too many things that are becoming the anchors of our delay. Our “business” that we are told to keep “in house” is keeping us in the house. The guilt, shame, embarrassment, hurt, pain, and fear of what goes on in our house, via “what happens in this house stays in this house” is preventing us from being any bit of the progressive, productive, or powerful that we should be, outside of the house. It’s keeping us from being or doing much of anything, healthy, in the house. There is no debate there; Our secrets and our silence is destroying us.

My Mother was murdered. Murdered by her former girlfriend, who was also the niece of her children’s father. That was messy. It was drama. It was 1994. Homosexuality was “taboo” as they say.

I discovered my Mother’s body in our home, as my siblings were asleep. It was devastating.

After my Mother’s funeral, 90% of the friends, family, and associates that we shared with her, disappeared. 90%! They were in our lives and then they were gone.

That had a supreme effect and impact on us. I’ll speak for me though: It destroyed me, well, significant parts of me. It destroyed my concept and ability to trust, feel, like, love, understand, enjoy, connect, respond, and respect, people. It ripped me from my sense of being, altered my identity, confused my mind, and severely hampered my psyche.

I don’t like to make excuses. I’ve tried to take responsibility for EVERYTHING. I always have. I blame myself for EVERYTHING. But the fact is that there is a reason that I’ve been who I have been. There is a reason that I ran, shutdown, fell-off, was inconsistent, lost my way. It was more than hurt, more than grief, more than trauma.

It was the paranoia, the silence, the questions, the audacity, the reality, the fear, the anxiety, the stress, the abandonment, the detachment, the having to, and trying to, figure out what happened and why everything after happened.

The person that murdered my Mom was able to get away with it because EVERYONE but me shut up. As important as my Mother was to her family, to our community, and to us… only one person was ever in contact with the authorities after her murder, me. Not one person ever called a detective, showed up at a precinct, gave information or evidence they had of what happened. Not one person. And so many people knew so much about what was going on.

No one fought for her. Outside of me. My siblings were 11 and 8, I was 15. When I say “me”, they are included in that “me”. Because I fought for us. This has always been for and about us. But outside of that us, my Mothers children, not one person EVER fought with or for us.

I recently spoke to some of the people that were working with the Dixmoor Police in 1994. One of the comments made was that it was such a surprise that no one ever came and asked for an update, status, or the progress of my Moms case. I was also told that yes they had conversations with me, but I was underage and there without an adult most times. “We listened, but there wasn’t much written down. Because you were a child.” is exactly what I was told the other day.

The trauma that I am overcoming is extensive. What some people see as courage, is the culmination of 30 years of confusion, constraint, and complications. All the while I’ve been the only one saying what I’ve been saying, doing anything, and protecting EVERYONE involved. How did I do that? By making excuses and justifying EVERYONE’S behavior and actions, or inaction. What else could I do but find fault and blame with myself and conclude that whatever this was, it had something to do with me? That or a much larger conspiracy/controversy that I was unaware or incapable in finding the meaning of.

Thats kinda how trauma affects a child. Children don’t process all of the facts and factors. Children simplify it. A child will imagine themselves as the reason for bad happening because they don’t have the wherewithal or ability to acknowledge what all contributes to tragedy.

I’ve done a lot of this (over the past 30 years) from the perspective and viewpoint of my 15-year-old self, my inner child. That is mainly who has been doing this. “See” is my defense mechanism, to protect “Corn”.

I’ll get to that another day.

Let’s get to this though…

Below is a letter that I wrote to my aunt. My aunt who we grew up knowing and who, after my Mom’s murder, never saw my siblings again. I saw her a few years later (1998), when I moved in with her and my grandmother.

After I left her house in October of 1998, I saw her 3 times over the last 25 years. 3 times.

I reached out to find her a little over a year ago (18 months to be exact) through some family members. She contacted me on June 17, 2022. I was excited to hear from her, it had been so long. And again, she is my aunt.

During our conversation I asked her what did I do to her to make her leave our lives? (Because I have always blamed myself for whatever the everything that has happened has been.) Her response was: “You chose to go and live with the family of the person that murdered my sister”.

That was devastating to hear. It was needed though. Because I’d never known that people felt like that. Especially my aunt. Not just her though, quite a few people have said the same thing over the last year and a half.

That hurts. Because if any of the ALL of the people that never came by, would have, they would have seen how hurt my Dad was. How he shutdown. How the fact that no one ever came to see us, really threw him into a dark place. He needed support. It’s crazy when the only person there to support you is in dire need of support themselves.

My Dad didn’t kill my Mom. But he’s held himself hostage and responsible in his own way. This has been a difficult 30 years for him as well. But, that’s no excuse. He made mistakes. Mistakes that we paid for. He’s been getting all of what you’re seeing me give to everyone else, in person. And finally after 30 years, he’s been opening up.

After all those years of silence, his message to me of late has been to let all of it out. He’s encouraging me to speak. He says that he understands my point of view and why I have to “blast the ass” as he sees it. He’s apologized for not doing more. We’ve had 4 discussions about my Mom since Thanksgiving. That’s 5 total in the past 30 years. The first was March 22, 2022.

Yes. You read that right. The first time that my Dad and I talked about my Mom, since her murder, was 28 years later. Because he was never able to have those conversations. His pain and his hurt left him paralyzed from the tongue out. In regard to her. Especially if the person on the other side of the conversation about her, was me.

Been that way with most people. NO ONE WAS WILLING TO TALK ABOUT HER.

You think they don’t talk about Bruno…?

No one wanted to talk about Michelle.

But, back to my aunt…

So, after she says what she said on the phone, we spoke some more and then we got off. In the moment I was torn. Torn between feelings of excitement for having spoken to her after all of those years, and the feelings of astonishment that the reason for her abandoning us (me) was because we “went and lived with the family of the person that murdered her sister”.

I can’t unpack that statement right now.

A day or so after our conversation I sent my aunt some pictures of my family. My 18 year old biological Son that she has never met, and pics of my Wife, and my stepson’s. I sent her a text message as well. Because although I was hurt by what she’d said as far as her reasoning, I was still vulnerable and open to reconnection, or connection. This is my Mother’s sister. I missed her. Just like I missed so many of the people that left.

Then, a week later, June 24, 2022, she sent me another message.

I’ve included screenshots of this all.

Why?

It took me more than a year from her June 24, 2022 message to respond. 18 months. If I would have responded any moment sooner, it would have been filled with rage, anger, disgust, and delivered with a considerable amount of retaliation. So I waited. I waited until the right words and a better delivery was possible. I also waited to see if she would make any effort to contact me or my siblings over the 18 month period. Because she owed us that. As our aunt, as my Mother’s sister, as our family, she absolutely owed us her presence, that connection, and some answers.

But nothing.

So I sat down on December 24, 2023, and wrote her a letter. An 8-page letter. I wrote and sent it to her on December 25, 2023.

—-

Aunty Nee,

It has taken me all of this time to find the peace and patience that is required to write what I am about to write.

Firstly, I forgive you. Whether you seek my forgiveness, or stand firm in whatever your truth is, I am resolute in the fact that I do forgive you.

What do I forgive you for? Being human. And doing what humans are capable of. Humans are capable of the most ridiculous of feats, of every depth and dimension; Good and Bad. (Relative to perception, of course.)

I hate that humans are able to assuage the malignancy of their character by clinging to the hypothesis of their belief systems. That humans can find respite in their religion- as a matter of inconsequential unaccountability- is such an unfortunate reality and irresponsible fact of life. Nonetheless it is an all too commonplace and convenience.

Doesn’t make it right though.

Anyway…

I used to always tell people how uncomfortable I felt around you after my Mom was killed. Especially when I moved to Georgia and came to live with you. There was always this palpable energy that you directed towards me. You may not have even been conscious of it. But it was obvious. I remember a conversation that you and I had about my writing. You were so dismissive and oppressively unkind.

When I was arrested with John, and I was trying to convince you that I hadn’t done anything wrong, you were again dismissive and you absolutely disregarded what I was telling you. I stayed in jail for a few days because I didn’t want to call you. I felt like you would only see what I was dealing with, as proof to justify your assumptions about me. I relented and called you because the officers in the jail kept telling me that I needed to get out of there and attempt to fight my case from the outside. I was adamant with them that I was innocent. They were adamant with me that it didn’t matter while I was locked up. So I called you. I remember Angel answering that phone. I remember you getting on the phone. You called Uncle Bubba and he sent the money for you to get me out. I remember when you and I were in Lyle Porter’s office (He was my public defender) and I was telling you that I didn’t do anything. You told me to listen to what the public defender was telling me. I was telling both of y’all that I hadn’t done anything, I was a passenger in my bosses car. I remember Lyle telling me “… don’t go in front of the judge with that bullshit”. I left there so angry and hurt. Years later, a television network did an extensive background check on me and my record was pulled. An attorney from Discovery, Ernie Avila, called me to tell me that according to my record, it stated that I was charged with, and had confessed to (via acceptance of the agreement), being with someone that the police suspected may have committed a crime. That’s what my actual record says! I wanted to send you a copy of it. Because for a long time I felt like you already didn’t like me and that whole incident only further added to whatever issues you had with me.

For years I troubled my mind with trying to figure out what I had done to you. What it was about me that you didn’t like. Everyone had disappeared after my Mom was murdered. The last person I ever suspected would abandon us was you. Rock used to say the same thing, “… if this would have happened to her, Michelle would have never not been there for her niece and nephews”. Every fiber in my being feels the same way. The crazy thing is that I spent years feeling that whatever your reason was, it was because of me.

June 16, 2022…

“You chose to go and live with the family of the person that murdered my sister”.

That’s what you said.

I’d been trying to figure out, for 28 years, why people walked away from us. I’d never considered that.

“… With today’s eyes I can admit it was the wrong decision.”

You said that as well.

That part is probably the statement that grabbed hold of the impulse that I restrained myself from applying. Because that statement sounded like it may have preceded an action step of attempting to reintroduce yourself into our lives. Or at least I hoped. But it’s been more than 18 months since we had that conversation. I thought, or whatever I thought… never mind.

My Mother was murdered in 1994. I was 15. You were then, the age I am now. I say that to announce that I have lived enough life to acknowledge that after 45 years of living I can make the assumption and assertion that there is a sense of compassion and understanding adjoined to living that would guarantee I’d at least give a damn about my nieces and nephews. What level to which I could go as far as what my support resembles, that’s unknown. But they would know that I cared and that I was available.

You gave us no such thing.

For years I made excuses for you. I justified your actions via the limitations of your belief system. I attributed your faith and practice of being a Jehovahs Witness as to why you had issues with me, and to why you completely separated from your sisters children.

You and I once had a conversation about religion. You didn’t like where I stood in my faith. At one point, years later, Kyle and I were having some conversations. He stopped calling after awhile. He was deep in his religious journey around that time. He tried to convince me. He didn’t like where I stood in my faith. I haven’t talked to him since. That’s probably been 15 years ago.

I don’t subscribe to any religion. I refuse to allow blanket theology or theocracy to be the barrier between myself and the greatest of all Gods’ creation, humans. That’s what you did. That’s what so many other people have done. Their religion has granted them asylum from being accountable for their actions, or inactions. I know who God is.

And it ain’t no God in that.

But again, I forgive you.

Not that it matters, but you were my favorite Aunt! I looked up to you. I don’t even know why I was so enamored with you. But I was. Maybe it was because my Mom loved you and talked about you a certain way, and I just reverberated her sentiments. Whatever the case, I thought you were so cool.

And then, it was awkward. Like I mentioned, you may not have even recognized that you projected a certain energy, but you did. It was flagrant, offensive. So much so that I talked about it. I wrote about it. I obsessed about it. Because your abandonment and alienation of us struck a particular chord. It had an effect. A resounding effect. It had an impact. It caused a conflict. It had consequences.

We paid for those consequences.

For a long time the way that I dealt with all of this was running. I ran. I ran because I would get to points along the way of my journey and get triggered by the silence and secrecy that had become such a way of life for everyone around us. No one would talk about my Mom. I had so many questions. I had so much information. But no one wanted to talk. That created a terribly unhealthy thought process. That thought process created a mindset which led to action/inaction which led to terrible habits which led to assumptions and accusations.

You have no idea how big of a part you and your absence played in that.

I missed you. I wanted you in our life. I needed you in our life.

You have to know that I am not writing one word of this to make you feel bad or guilty or to hurt you. I just can no longer hold onto what I’ve held onto for all of these years. I don’t know if that has been hope or the hurt. Whatever it is, I’ve had a firm grip on an idea of something that I have to disengage from.

This message requires no response. There is no need for any further dialogue. I want you to continue your happiness, your life, your everything. I promise. I am going to start mine.

I read your last message again today. You opened it by thanking me for reaching out to you. The next sentence was you saying that you were sorry for not being here when I needed you. And then you pontificated your ideas and inserted your opinion based on your reading of my experience, online.

It was difficult reading your message. Because you chose to be everything but our aunt in it. You mentioned grandma in it too. Saying that:

“… Nobody loved your mother more than your grandmother! And her willingness to respect and to honor my sister’s service as long as it did not conflict with her Bible trained conscience was evidence of that. “Each of us will render an account for himself to God.” (Romans14:12) Because the Bible says, “Do all things for God’s glory.” (1Co 10:31) Our first obligation is to please God!…”

I loved my grandmother. It was my love for my grandmother that allowed me to fold on what should have not been a compromise. My mother wasn’t a witness. My grandmother knew how my mother felt about that. My grandmother played on my conscience by telling me that if I went forth with having the service at the church then she couldn’t be there. Or you. Or my cousins. She asked me if I thought that my mother would be happy without you guys being there. I told her that my mother would never want a funeral in the Kingdom Hall, if that is what she was asking me to do. She told me that we could find a place that everyone could attend. That is where they came up with Whispering Woods funeral home. Rock asked me if I was sure that was what I wanted to do. He was paying for her service and he wanted us to be happy with it. I told him that y’all had to be there. Crazy thing is that if I would have known how things were to ultimately turn out, her funeral would have been at the church. Grandma didn’t even want mention of my Mother’s church involvement in her obituary. We left that stuff out to appease her. That was so disrespectful to my Mom. Because no matter what my grandmas “bible trained conscience” was, her child had made a choice to serve God and had done so in an incredible capacity. It was wrong the way she handled that. It was. It was wrong that I was forced/led/manipulated into having to go against what I knew my Mother would have wanted, in order to please people whose love for my Mother was very conditional.

Grandma and I talked about that years later. I know she meant well. In the sense that she was dealing with her own faith and conscience and issues and trauma. Plus, she was hurt. As was everyone else when my Mom was killed. I was aware of how hurt she was. And I forgave her for the way she handled it. She didn’t say or do everything right in that moment. She found a way to still be my grandma though.

—-

Can I tell you a story?

For as long as I could remember, my Mother always told me to be thankful for my grandmother. She said it all the time to me, my entire life. She always reminded me of the challenges that my grandmother had faced throughout the years. She talked about grandma‘s illnesses and hospital visit/stays and how incredibly strong grandma was. The diabetes, dialysis, the 16 pound tumor that had to be removed. She always told me to appreciate that my grandma was there and available to me.

I heard her. I don’t know just how much I understood it in my earlier years, what she was saying, but I heard her.

April 5, 1998

I walked in the door a little after 8pm. Grandma was sitting on her bed, watching tv. When I walked in she asked me if I had any change. I knew why she wanted it. Quarters specifically. For the vending machine at dialysis. Earlier that day I had been given a few dollars in change and it was still in my pocket. Usually I’d say “No” to her request, because I knew to be careful with giving her change to buy sweets from vending machines. But I had a bunch of change in my pocket and immediately I walked over to her and emptied my pockets onto the tray she had in front of her. She smiled and started fingering through the coins to see just how many quarters were there. I walked over and sat on the couch. I didn’t turn the living room light on. I sat there for a second and then I laid down. I fell asleep.

I woke up a little after midnight and looked over into her room. She was sitting up and rocking back and forth. She had her hands in front of her and I could see that the arthritis was bothering her. She was quiet, but I could see that she was in pain. She was strong. She was tough.

I slid off of the couch and got on my knees and started to pray:

“God, thank you for my grandmother. Thank you for keeping her with me all of this time. I get what my Momma was saying. I appreciate her. God, I don’t want her to hurt anymore. I’ll be okay.”

I slid back onto the couch and went back to sleep.

A few hours later I woke up to the noise she was making as she was getting ready to walk out. The lights from the transport van were in the room as she opened the door. I lifted my head to see over the arm of the couch and I saw as she walked out. I laid back down and went back to sleep. The next thing I knew was Angel nudging me awake. It was about 7am I believe. She was getting ready for school. She said that I needed to get up because the hospital had called and grandma had suffered a medical emergency. I needed to get up and be ready when you came down so that we could go to the hospital to check on her.

The ride to the hospital was status quo. I was accustomed to grandma being sick and the emergencies. There wasn’t even much urgency because of that.

We got to the hospital and they put us in that room where we were told to wait for someone to come and talk to us. The lady came in and asked us questions. She sounded like every other doctor or nurse that did that. At that time I started to accept that this was just like every other time. When she walked out she said that a doctor would be in to give us an update soon.

Then the doctor came in. He asked who you were to her. Then asked if I was your son, after you said that I was her grandson. Then he said that grandma had been riding in the van and that she laid her head down, like she had fallen asleep. He said they realized when they got to the place they saw that she was unresponsive. They rushed her to the hospital. He said something to the effect of she had gone into cardiac arrest and when they got her they tried to resuscitate her and he ended that by saying they failed to revive her.

I didn’t take that well. I remember wanting to run. I recall walking through the hospital just trying to get away. I remember pushing something over, a trash can or something.

Then I made it outside.

I remember crying. I remember the emotion that was taking over me. I remember standing at that curb and the prevailing thought being that I had failed. My childhood dream had been to take care of my grandma and Mom. I promised to buy them mansions and their dream cars. In that moment I realized that was no longer a possibility. It hurt. Then the doctor started talking to me. You’d said a few things to him. He told me that he admired my strength. Then he kept talking. And I started laughing. He had the most puzzled look on his face.

I said, “… All of my life my Mother told me to be thankful for my grandmother. Last night I got on my knees and told God that I was thankful for her and that I didn’t want her to hurt anymore. She’s not in pain anymore.”

Then my tears dried up.

I have not cried since.

Why did I tell that story?

I don’t know if you remember the first time I visited you guys in Georgia. I was in college and I came to see grandma. I left there and went back to Illinois and told Rock that I was going to leave school and move to Georgia to be near grandma. I told him that she was ill and that if something happened to her while I was away, the world was going to have a problem out of me. He didn’t like what I was saying but he understood what I meant and how important she was to me.

I am grateful that I was there. I am grateful that before she passed, I’d known what my Mother meant by telling me to be thankful for her. I am grateful that I prayed that prayer that night. I am grateful that I saw her walk out of that door that morning.

I am grateful that you allowed me to live with you for the time that you did.

—-

Soon after grandma died was when I got into the legal trouble. I really felt I was a burden for you. I felt like you were tolerating me. Your home was not a comfortable place for me to be. John had betrayed me. His betrayal hurt. But feeling like you didn’t like me was a pain that was all too unbearable. He offered me a place to stay and I took it. As crazy as it was for me to have anything to do with him, I felt more acknowledged and accepted working for and living with him than I did being alienated and ignored by you. I used to ask God how it could be that you could treat me that way.

I went a bunch of years questioning so many things about you.

I came up with answers. I made up answers. But I got no answers.

Your last message was an answer. I’m grateful for it.

And that phone conversation was an answer.

“You chose to go and live with the family of the person that murdered my sister”.

That was an answer I really needed.

I thank you for giving me that.

One last thing…

The presence of God has been and always is in and on my life. Without question. That presence is what has kept me all of this time. That presence is what has protected me. God has shown favor, mercy, and a considerable amount of grace towards me through God’s presence.

I could go on for days detailing just how present God has been.

But I’ve said enough here.

Thank you for your time.

Corn.

©️2023 Cornelious “See” Flowers