Part 18.

I have a client who I’ve been cutting for years. Never known his name. That’s odd for me. I’m usually very personable and conversational with my clients. It is rare that I don’t know someone’s name.

This client doesn’t talk much. Over all these years, we’ve had very minimal communication. Just, what he wants done with his hair and the pleasantries of going and coming. That’s it.
A few weeks ago I was inspired to ask him some questions about his life and where he was, regarding faith. He obliged me and we discussed some things. I took note of that conversation and part of me felt responsible for the fact that we’d never spoken before. I told myself that I had allowed the silence to be our routine. Dude seems to be a good guy. Our conversation provided insight and information that would tend to confirm that he is.

He came in yesterday and unlike anytime before, he initiated a conversation with me. Before he even sat in my chair. He stood directly in front of me and asked me how my New Years went. I was shocked. Buddy does not talk. Very few words when he’s in the shop.

I answered that my year is good. I think I might have said that… “… I have a lot going on.”

He nods his head in agreement. But I’m looking in his face. His face is saying that he needs to talk. His face is filled with emotion. I can see that he needs me to talk. Or listen.

“How was your New Years?”, I asked.

Floodgates. Open.

I won’t discuss what we talked about, specifically, because that’s a private matter. The point of me bringing any of this up is something that he said about 40 minutes in.

Oh yeah, he talked yesterday!

We talked about a lot of stuff. Most profound was the details of his conversations with God. He spoke about asking God to give him clarity and for God to bring forth some things that he needed in the now of his life. God had delivered, in a way that was undeniably God. And rather quickly.
That part of the conversation stood out because I’ve been struggling as of late with doubt and discouragement. To hear someone speak of an immediate God, answering an urgent prayer, is what I need to hear right now. For encouragement and empowerment purposes.

That part of the conversation was layered into the fabric of what he’s going through right now. It was more of a commentary and support that is helping him deal and cope as he navigates the waters life has troubled before him, as of late.

Then he said, “… I’ve been perceived as mean or quiet, for a very long time. It is because I can’t get out of my head and I’m constantly trying to get past the feelings of being hurt and betrayed, by someone that I was not supposed to question. I have an attitude, an energy of disruption and I’m frustrated. I don’t want that to come out, so I’m quiet. To prevent it from doing so. Because I’m holding in all of this anger towards someone that I haven’t confronted and I’m afraid that if I don’t force myself quiet, I’m going to erupt on someone that has nothing to do with any of this.”

That explains my last 29 years, 9 months, and 9 days.

Part 18.
Biscuits. Boxing. And my Booty.

Right now I’m sitting in the car, in the driveway, physically. Mentally, emotionally, and spiritually though? I’m not here. I’ve not been “here” in a very long time.

I’m in so many different places. I feel like I’m in whatever bed that Hazel is dying in right now. My body has writhed with pain throughout the day. I feel like I’m experiencing some of her suffering. That probably sounds weird. Trust me, it cannot sound any weirder to you than it feels to me. I’m also in the living rooms of all of the family members and friends that I want to hear say that they are sorry for all the things they didn’t do for us, for me. I’m there. I’m also in the minds of people that I care for, and that I know care for me. I’m trying to convince them that it’s okay to believe and bet on me. Because I’m worth it. Even though I’ve taken a very long way to get to where I’m going to end up, the juice is worth the squeeze. I’m in their minds trying to convince them of that. I’m also trying to bend hearts and ears to have compassion and understanding for me. Because I need a new start. I messed up a lot of things trying to deal with what I’ve been dealing with all of this time. Now I need some help. Parts of me are trying to influence the angels of heaven and earth to cooperate in shifting some things towards my favor. I need a turnaround. Mentally. Emotionally. Psychologically. Economically. Financially.

I’m all over the place.

Being all over the place is kinda my routine. I’m sorta used to it. So much so that I am all too familiar with some of the “places” that I can and which places I can’t function better in.

I really have a problem with having to function in the dark. There’s been a lot of that over this time.

This has been psychological warfare. Between Hazel and I. A battle in the darkness though. F*cked up part about that is that she’s occupied far too much space in my mind over all of these years. Because I knew her. I knew her before she proved herself to be exactly what I knew she was.

As a child, I refused to allow Hazel into my life. I never liked her. I made that obvious. My actions and energy made it known. I would not give her the opportunity to have any residence within my heart. She wasn’t right. I knew she wasn’t right. I was right about that.

My Mother, had no patience or tolerance for what I felt though. Especially as it related to anything Hazel. She literally and physically beat me to trust Hazel. That was the only thing that she could attempt to do. Because I did not like that lady. I didn’t want to listen to her. I chose not to regard or respect her, her authority, or her presence.

“Batter.”

Hazel had this biscuit recipe. Homemade biscuits, from scratch. They were amazing. To this day, I do not believe that I’ve had a better biscuit. Part of me feels like I feel that way because the biscuits have too prominent of a place in my memory. They have that because I’ve wanted to hate everything about her since the morning I found my Mothers body. The fact that there are things that I can appreciate or acknowledge have challenged the acidity of my hatred. And for some freaking biscuits! She didn’t make them often. But when she did, it was a welcomed event. She usually prepared them when we had liver, rice, and gravy. The thought, today, that I once ate liver, disgusts me. But yes, we used to eat liver. Part of what I refer to as the “poor people’s palate”. I can still taste the liver too. Thick and chewy, yuck. But them damn biscuits. I damn near recall her recipe. I remember her process. I remember her attempting to show us how to make them once or twice.
She might have been trying to use those moments to connect/bond. Unsuccessful. Those biscuits were incredible! We ain’t have them everyday though.

“Use Your Hands.”

I’ve lost 2 physical fights in my life.
One when I was 12. One when I was 18.
The fight that happened when I was 18, I qualify as a loss because I didn’t remember it. I was blindsided and kneed in the head, from what I was told. (Sounds worst than it was.) I believe I loss consciousness. But other than the knot from being hit on the head, there were no marks or scars. There was no pain. And ultimately the reason for that fight was something that was probably unavoidable due to the circumstances and situation preceding it. I still count it as a loss though. I’ve won every other fight that I ever had. After that first one.

And of course, Hazel would be the hero in this story.

In junior high school, there was a kid that just did not like me. John. I don’t even know why this dude didn’t like me. I was a likable kid. I was out the way. Especially as it related to being a certain kind of kid. I wasn’t on none of the stuff that usually precipitated having issues with boys around the way. I was into girls. Physically, literally, into girls. I wasn’t gang banging, fighting, sports-obsessed. I was mannish. I wanted to freak, hunch, “do it”. I had no desire to be part of whatever roughhousing and raucous behavior little boys considered cool. I was having sex and trying to have sex. Why this kid had it out for me was beyond me. But he did.

“I’m beating your a** after school.”

I can remember that like he said it to me this morning. I still remember the angst and anxiety of how fast and slow the clock moved that day. I had no experience in fisticuffs. I wrote poetry. I liked WWF. That’s fake wrestling. I was no boxing fan. I hated karate movies. I hated violence. People fighting used to make me sick to my stomach. Why would this boy want to fight me? I was an easy win. What points was he going to get by fighting Corn? Is no one going to talk him out of this?

The walk home from school was rapid.

Made it there safely.

Got in the house. Get to live another d…

Ding-Dong.

Yes. You read that right. He rang the doorbell.

I answered the door and I walked onto the porch. He was not by himself. He was on the porch. 7-10 feet away was a small gathering of spectators that had come to witness the beating of my a**. I remember thinking that this must be his gang initiation. Because a couple of the boys in the crowd were in gangs at the time.

It was an awkward moment. Nothing happening for a second. Then someone from the crowd yelled out for John to punch me.

He punched me in the stomach. I hunched over.

Someone told him to keep going.

He started punching me on my back and side.

Hazel’s daughter yelled out, “Ma, they beating up Corn.”

I’m a few seconds Hazel was at the door and everyone but me ran off.

I was crying.

Not from the pain. I was crying because there was a crowd there. I remember feeling like I was going to have to fight all of them. For no reason. Because they didn’t like me.

Hazel ushered me into the house and checked me over to see to what degree I was affected. She told me to stop crying. The tears at that point were more about the fact that I was the oldest of the kids in the house. I was embarrassed. I was supposed to be big and bad. Here I am getting beat up on our front porch. There was no pain from the fight. I actually had on a coat. It cushioned me from any real pain. The hits were to my ego, self-esteem, and pride.

Then Hazel pulled me in front of her and told me to put my hands up.

She made motions to simulate punches and she told me to block them. Then she put her hands up. She told me to swing on her, to penetrate her defenses.

I wanted to knock her sh*t off. I didn’t even really swing at her. The lesson lasted about 10 minutes.

Here’s the thing, every fight I ever had after that, I won because I was really swinging on her. And aside from the fight at 18, that lesson has not failed me.

Imagine that. The person that taught me how to kick a** that one time, has been kicking my a** this whole time.

She’s been kicking my butt figuratively for almost 30 years.

Let me tell you about how she physically got in my a** though.

“Feels like a finger.”

So, in like 1989, I got this really bad stomach virus. I was like 11 years old, maybe about to be 12.

I ended up getting sick and having to go to the doctor for treatment.

For some reason, whatever it was that I had, required medication that had to be administered rectally. A suppository.

I made a post a couple days ago about my bootyhole being virgin and marked safe from the Illuminati. That post was not just for sh¡ts and giggles. Y’all got to know just how freaking serious I am about my butthole.

I had a colonic 3 years ago. I acted a fool in this woman’s office. I embarrassed all men who have successfully had that procedure. The lady who was performing mine was trying so hard not to get rabid and angry with me. But I couldn’t help it. The thought, idea, feeling, or reality of something going inside of me via my butthole is thee absolute most uncomfortable and unpleasant thing that I can partake in. It’s terrible. I complicated the mess out of that procedure on that day. Sure did. There’s just no way for me to participate in something going into my butt.

And in 1989, I had to have this medication, a suppository, inserted inside of me, once a day for like 5 days.

My Mother could not handle trying to administer it. I was not taking it easily.

The first couple of times they were able to restrain me and get it in there, I shot it back out.

Yea. It was that bad.

And here comes Hazel. She takes on the task. She enjoyed the sh¡t. It was embarrassing, uncomfortable, painful, and I’ve never forgotten it. But she got it done. The crazy thing is that it’s probably more of a funny story now than anything, but I can’t even laugh at it. I remember it and I see her face. I feel like she pressed harder than she was supposed to in order to make sure that it was in there.

It was a fight. She won every one of those rounds.

And the household made a jingle out of it. You know the song, “Doing the butt”… well, they used to tease me with “Stick up the butt”. I know, terrible.

What am I doing?

Why does any of this matter?

Because she’s about to be dead. And that’s not how I expected this to go.

She was supposed to get caught or confess and it was supposed to be a big dramatic LOUD story that vindicated, verified, and validated us.

I’ve been fighting this psychological battle with this woman for 30 years and it was supposed to end different than this.

I don’t find any solace in her suffering. What kind of payment is that?

I feel brainwashed.
I feel sorry.
I feel helpless.

Why would I have a taste for them biscuits? Why can’t I forget them?

Why is she responsible for me not losing fights, yet she is the one fight I feel that I continue to lose?

That suppository story is funny. I’m not supposed to have good memories with her.

She needs to go now.

©️2023 Cornelious “See” Flowers