Part 19.

About 14 years ago I started recording my dad whenever we have conversations. He’s never known that I do it. I don’t make it obvious.

I started the recordings for 2 reasons: 1. He’s getting older and me understanding there may come a day that I don’t have him in my life. My dad is important to me. Regardless of our issues and the road we’ve traveled to get to this point, this man means the world to me. Who he is and who I have witnessed him be, to and for me, deserves an acknowledgment and attention that I do not believe that I can ever provide to him. My dad is not my biological father. He is my dad. He has been here. My entire life. He has biological children, older and younger than me, but he will tell you that I’ve been with him longer than “all of ‘em”. I was the first child that lived with him. He’s reminded me of this my entire life, I believe it’s been one of the ways that he tries to show or communicate his love for me. He’s not the greatest communicator in that regard.

That is reason number 2. I started the recordings to hopefully catch moments of my dad communicating or discussing his feelings. Specifically his feelings, thoughts, and his stories about my Mom. He didn’t talk about her. Maybe the beginning of a story or a memory every so often, but the pain and devastation of her loss has always constipated his ability to let words flow from his mouth. Especially with me. It’s extremely difficult for him to talk about my Mom, with me. I don’t fully understand why but I’ve come to appreciate what may be reasons for that. I wanted him to be able to tell me the things that he knows about her. I wanted to hear stories about her. I hoped that I would catch some of those stories on video.

March 24, 2022 was the first time that he and I had a conversation about my Mother’s murder, since it happened, in 1994. I recorded that conversation. The reason I was able to have that conversation was because a few days prior my dad asked if I could take him to the doctor. When I asked him what was wrong he told me that he’d been having some vision problems and needed to have his eyes checked out. As he spoke I was looking at his face. I had the most profound “aha moment”. I knew then that I was going to force a conversation and what my basis would be. So, on our way to the doctor I did.

I told my dad that while he was talking about his eyes, I noticed something in them. Fear. I recognized fear in his face. The fear of losing his sight. The fear and realness of mortality. The fear of not being able to be the big and strong man that I’d always known him to be. In that moment I recognized that fear had been driving most of the him that I’d knew. That was a startling revelation. I’d always viewed my dad as this hard, cold, sturdy, and exact, man. Not afraid of anything. To the contrary, I’d always seen him as offensive and unrelenting in the shadow that he cast over what was his: His power. His authority. His rule. His way.
His way was what I believed played the biggest part in the complications of he and I. My dad and I are totally different men on so many levels. I believe that I’ve modeled certain behaviors after and from my exposure to him. Other things about me are direct and opposite of the things that I found most troubling to deal with. I took that moment to vent quite a bit of my frustrations with him. Especially the frustrations that I’ve had regarding his silence about my Mom.

It was an amazing conversation. I learned a lot of things that morning. It was refreshing to hear his point of view and to hear him talk about her.

I’m not sure of how all of this plays out, my life. But…

Part 19.
“The Surprise of Unsaid things.”

So, you’ve all been following this story, I hope.

Quick recap:

November 15, 2023, I received a message that the woman (Hazel) that murdered my Mother is dying of cancer. That news affected me differently than I had expected news of her demise to affect me. Hearing that she was dying forced me to admit that my idea and longing for “justice” would not come to pass as I had expected it to. And I’d been expecting it too. “Justice” was going to help and heal and fix and redeem and recover and explain. I’d been expecting justice to do that for almost 30 years. It’s been almost 30 years of silence and struggle and sh*t.

A few days later I posted my feelings about it. I shared some thoughts and words. That post was followed by another post by another post. Then I started getting some phone calls. Phone calls from individuals in our past that have been absent these entire 30 years. News of Hazel’s impending death prompted other people to talk. Conversations about what this person knew and what this person thought, started pouring in. Crazy. I’ve been screaming all of the things that I’ve been screaming for all of this time! And now, as I’m starting to “lose my voice”, from the sense that this had taken so severe of a toll on me, and I was trying to move on from it, BOOM! Back in my face.
But I kept writing. Likes, Comments, and Shares wouldn’t indicate such, but apparently my posts had some reach and effect. More people called. I started getting apologies. That was interesting. Because I didn’t realize that I needed them. I didn’t realize the significance of, or how significant it would be, being apologized to. But it’s been remarkable. Those apologies and conversations prompted more writing and more conversations. On Thanksgiving day I had another conversation with my Dad. The second time he and I have talked about my Mom in the last almost 30 years.

Although Hazel is dying and there was not much movement on my Moms case over all of these years, I also reached back out to the Dixmoor Police. Just to cover bases and see if there was anything that I might be able to get from them. There was. I also contacted the states attorneys office. Not much there either, but I was given some information that shed some light on things.

More writing. All the conversations and the writing had me putting some long missing pieces of this story together. In order to do that, I needed my dad to talk, to open up. So I called him, paid him a visit, reached out. And after almost 29 years of complete silence as it pertains to all things my Mom, my dad has been talking to me.

LISTEN TO ME:

The space I am in right now made no sense to me. I feel like God has stripped EVERYTHING I had or thought I should have, in order to get me to a point where the only thing I could do was deal with this. Because in this moment, that’s the only thing that I seem to have been able to maintain, manage, or make sense of. But that’s what I’m doing. Letting out all of the feelings, thoughts, emotions, and words that I’ve been having to carry on my own for all this time. Having conversations with people that avoided having conversations for all of this time. Getting details and information that I’d begged for.

A couple weeks ago I spoke to a good friend who said this, “… I know that you’re healing right now. I am excited about that. I am proud of how you are doing it. It is needed and necessary. I only have one ask: When you’re done dealing with your heart, that you put your business hat on. Because your story is a business. Your talent and gift is going to “recover all” for you. Your story is going to help so many people. It is going to change lives. It is already doing as much.”

A few days ago I spoke to someone else, that said this, “… See, so many people are watching what you’re doing. You have no idea just how big all of this is.”

Okay. So, let me be very transparent right here…

If you know me, or follow my work, I’ve been writing my entire life. Writing and speaking are my greatest joys. That’s my dream, my hope, my habit, my call, my purpose, my passion. It’s the thing that I’d do regardless. It’s the thing that I do, regardless.

It’s the thing that my Mother recognized that I could do. As a child, she identified my gift and she tried her best to feed it. She wanted to foster an environment and atmosphere that supported it. My Mother believed in me. She encouraged and challenged me. She affirmed and acknowledged me. She told me that my gift was going to change the world. She told me that who I was as a person would be an important part of the world one day. As a child, I was pushed by my Mom, to explore the fullness of my gift. I didn’t see it that way, then. I didn’t recognize that my desire and love for words and learning, was a gift or talent. It was what I did. It wasn’t much thought pressed into it. It’s who I am. It’s who I know myself to be.

My Mother saw that. She saw that as the biggest factor in her realizing that my “gift” was real. Because it wasn’t something I tried or attempted, it was more than what I did. It really was who I was.
She honored that. She protected it. She nourished it. She supported it. And she bragged about it.

The first poem that I ever wrote, “Imagine That.” was an assignment for a 5th grade teacher, Miss Dwyer. The poem was submitted along with others into the PTA Reflections Contest. My poem was then selected for a larger contest and ceremony that was held and where the poems were judged and awarded prizes and other recognition. I didn’t win that contest but my poem was awarded an honorable mention and it was included in a group of poems that traveled the country in an exhibit.
My Mother was so excited about that. She made such a big deal about it. The fact that I didn’t win wasn’t important. She was more impressed by the fact that it was the first poem that I’d ever written. And I’d written it the night before I had to turn it in.

She admonished my procrastination. But she empowered my potential. “What if you would have actually put some thought into it? What if you would have worked on it? Imagine that!”, she said.

There are people who will tell you that my Mom shared with them that her baby was going to be a famous writer one day. She believed that. She said it. I’m sure she prayed that it would happen.

She was my advocate. She was my inspiration. She was my cheerleader. She was my motivation. She was my commanding officer, lol.

And then she was dead.

And when she was dead, not one of the people that she probably expected and that she surely trusted to, stepped in to be what I needed. From the perspective of someone that knew us, her, me, and knew that I needed to keep writing. I needed to know that I should keep writing. I needed to know that I had support and love. For my writing.

Instead, I was told that writing was a “hobby” and would not lead to anything. Instead of respect and support, I got resistance and stonewalled. Specifically from a couple of the most important people in my life. My aunt, and my dad, most notably.

I posted an exchange between my aunt and I last week. Not going to exert any energy on her here. This post is about my dad.

My dad has never seen me perform. My dad never accepted any invitation I gave him to support my writing. Instead, my dad told me that writing was not going to do anything for me. He ignored my requests and desire for his support. He was adamant that if I chose that path, I’d fail. There were so many times that I felt like he was willing to see me struggle and even lose, so that his point would be proven.

But I had to keep writing. I don’t know how not to. I’m not well when I try not to. I have to.

And so, I have. While I was struggling. Through my depression. In my darkest moments. No matter where I was.

And I asked him to come and see me.

When I invited him to open-mics, nope. When I transitioned to music, nope. When I did theatre, nope. When I wrote my first book, nope. When I did the reality show, nope. When I wrote my second book, nope. When I spoke at a school, nope. When I spoke at a church, nope.

And that had an effect.

The effect was that I’ve questioned whether I was good at it. I’ve doubted myself. I’ve resisted opportunities and progress because subconsciously there was his voice in the back of my mind, saying that my “hobby” was not going to take me anywhere. I’ve run from the good and the people that have acknowledged my talent/gift. My dad’s influence on me was more powerful. I desired his acceptance. I desired his approval. I desired his attendance. I felt like I needed it. And because I didn’t get any of that, I discounted and dismissed everyone else’s.

His silence and his refusal to be there for me has been such a pivotal piece in the “why I haven’t” section of my story.

I made excuses for him though. I’ve told myself that the reason he didn’t support me was because it was hard to see me and not be reminded of my Mom. I told myself that his formula of get an education-get a job-spend your life providing for your family- was all that he knew and it was difficult to understand my route. I’ve told myself all kinds of things. Even told myself that he didn’t like me. That he didn’t support me because he didn’t have to. Especially since I wasn’t his anyway. I’d seen him support my siblings. In their careers and life choices. With their mates and moves.

The mind will do some stuff, if left to mind on its own.

On the flip side, one thing that my dad has always acknowledged about me, is my cutting hair. I’ve been his barber. He’s referred people to me. I believe that is one of the reasons that I wouldn’t put the clippers down. Even when I knew that God had opened up other opportunities and pathways for me to go. When God had instructed me to get from behind the chair. I’ve stayed there because psychologically I processed that my dad’s approval in some area of my life was necessary for my survival. I wanted it. I needed his attention and again, his attendance. His acceptance.

He’s show up for a Corn haircut. He’d call Corn to come and cut his hair.

A no-show for anything See the Poet.

I’d perceived all of this as not being accepted. Especially by the person and the people that I wanted acceptance from. When you are denied that, to the degree that I experienced, that I was, you think the wrong thoughts. You think the wrong way. Trauma is your teacher, the lessons inform you wrong.

The mind is majestic! Even if manipulatively so.

Yesterday.

So, here we are. I’m dealing with everything that is going on and after all of this time, my dad is talking to me. Yesterday was our 7th conversation about my Mom in 29+ years. 6 of those since Thanksgiving. 5 of them in the last 2 weeks. He’s really talking! Talking to me about this.
His talking to me has restored a considerable amount of faith and hope and confidence in myself. His answering questions about my Mom and communicating his feelings, and sharing details, his anger, his grief… has all been cathartic. It’s been useful. It’s been powerful!

I feel like I’m rambling now. But I’m beyond amazed at what God is doing. In this season.

Last night, in the middle of a conversation, check what my Dad says…

(S/N-Today, I feel invincible. I feel as whole as I’ve ever felt. These words that he said are life changing. If you can hear it, I almost lost it. I could barely get out the “I appreciate you saying that”. And when he apologized! For all of the therapy that I never had, what I’ve been experiencing these past few weeks is the best healing ever. I’m not even taking my time and putting these words together properly, I’m just writing. Trying to get these thoughts out as they come.)

©️2023 Cornelious “See” Flowers