Tag Archives: You

Time to move on. Part 25.

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Part 25.

(Today, February 1, 2024, my Mother would have been 70 years old. I want to celebrate. Because I haven’t been able to, for 30 years. I’d love to do something special for her today, in her memory, to honor her. I finally feel like I can. Even with what I’m about to say. This is the first February 1st that I’ve had any sense of peace. I feel good. Again, even with what I’m about to say. Happy Birthday Ma.)

—-

A few days ago I got a call from someone offering their words of encouragement and to let me know the inspiration that I’ve been this entire time. So many people have called or sent messages since Hazel’s death. The consensus is hope that this now allows for my family and I to move past, at least this part. Hazel has been a constant thorn in our collective sides for a very long time. She is, was, the proverbial elephant in the room. And somehow she was also the room. She had been the most spoken-about-not-spoken-about-spoken-about topic of our, and a great deal of other people’s, lives. She was definitely my bogeyman. She’d become the embodiment of all things that I can equate to wrong about the world. She was my biggest issue with the world.

With all the silence that there has been in our lives, who Hazel was to us has been extremely loud. And the phone call turned loud. Because I got a bit frustrated. During the conversation I ventured off into a rant about how crazy this entire experience has been for us, my siblings and I, specifically. At one point I started listing off some people that it really disappointed me to have to endure their absence. Because of the connection they had to my Mom, speaking of her friends. They were in and part of our lives. These people meant a lot to my Mom! They were friends by definition and title, but they were family to us. Because that is how she introduced and how she implemented them into our routines, regimens, and responsibilities, as family.

At my mention of one name in particular, the person gasped. I caught it immediately, that there was something my reference of that name triggered. So I asked what that was about.

I was told that they didn’t want to upset or anger me by discussing this particular friend. I’d discussed an interest in speaking with the people from our past, many times before. When I said that very thing, on this phone call, It was suggested that maybe I shouldn’t reach out to this individual. So as not to upset or anger myself. I was so confused.

So confused.

My Mother had a support system.
(She thought she had a support system.) She’d created and communicated the belief and thought, in us, her children, that the support system that she surrounded us with, had her back. We were to respect and regard and remember them. Those people were instrumental in our lives. They were important to our lives. They were not invisible.

While she was here.

In another recent conversation, I was talking to someone from our past and I made this comment:

“… Because everyone disappeared, we didn’t notice anyone in particular not being there. EVERYONE left. All of the friends, family, and community, never showed up, after my Mom was gone.”

I said that in response to someone else bringing up the revelation that one of my Mother’s friends, one of her good friends, had been nefariously involved in this. Like I have said, I knew that we were going to get some more information due to Hazel’s death. Just how much people were scared and afraid of her, intimidated by her, and terrified, is crazy. Why or how it was common knowledge- among certain individuals- that this other friend had a connection to the events of March 26, 1994 and supposedly a relationship with Hazel that was outside of what we thought, is probably going to be a mystery to me. The friend this person mentioned was the same friend the other person mentioned. And these 2 people don’t know one another.

So, then I called someone else, to ask about that friend. Someone I know that knew all the parties involved. I was told the exact same thing. This person said to me that their belief is that this friend I was asking about had been involved, and at the very least, aware of what happened that night.

Here’s the wild part about that… I only asked about the friend. My exact words were, “Hey, when was the last time you saw or heard from _?”

The response I got, “Ooooh, not since they did that to Michelle. I’m not sure of how she got involved with Hazel, but somehow she found herself messing with Hazel. Something went down.”

To that I said, “Why am I just hearing any of this now? Why didn’t anyone say this to us? To the police?”

The response, “People were afraid. They were hurt. (Long pause) That gay stuff played a big part. (Longer pause) Corn, there’s no good reason for why it happened like that. It was so much talk about what went down. Gossip and mess. Hazel was mad at Michelle and she was gone hurt her. Too many of us knew that, to have been quiet. Ain’t no excuse. Y’all were babies. No one knew what to do.”

This might seem like a sad story. Well, it is a sad story. I’m not sad though. I haven’t been sad for awhile.

Whatever I had been all of this time, doesn’t matter. I know what it’s time to be. I know who it’s time to be.

It is time to move past the part of this that triggered me into being idle. It is time to give myself permission to move past that part. It is time to forgive myself for not knowing what to do and that being the reason that I did a lot of the “wrong” things. It is time to accept that I made human decisions as a result of human trauma that was the byproduct of a human tragedy. It is time to acknowledge that I did everything I could to bring Hazel to justice.

I fought for my Mom. I know that she is proud of me. For so long I felt like she was disappointed. Disappointed that I’d not been able to acquire justice. Disappointed that I was unable to be the son and big brother that she wanted me to be. Disappointed that I’d suffered silently and allowed all of this to hold me back from doing all of the things that she said that I would. It is time for me to let go of the guilt and shame that I’ve felt, because of that disappointment.
Then there was my disappointment.
I was disappointed in Hazel. I was disappointed in our friends and family. I was disappointed in my Mother’s friends and family. I’m really disappointed in my Mother’s friends and family. I was disappointed in the church. Eventually all of that disappointment morphed into self deprecation. The silence and the trauma and the controversy of it all began a routine of entertaining thoughts that this was all some grand conspiracy. I was disappointed in myself for being a victim of that conspiracy.

Dammit. This post was supposed to be about the things that I’ve learned.
Next one, I promise. Got to let this out as it comes.

And it’s coming. It’s all coming. Some things are coming back too.

Anyway.

I have to get to living.

I do that by continuing to speak up, speak out, and to speak about all of this. Not for the reasons that I had been when I was trying to get Hazel to come forward, but for the purposes of being an example and being the free that comes with moving forward.

Happy Heavenly Birthday Mom.

©️2024 Cornelious “See” Flowers

Time to move on. Part 22.

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Part 22.

I applaud anyone that is able to focus, manage, maintain, progress, produce, push, and persevere through unspeakable tragedy. People that are able to set aside or “move on” past trauma that is significant and present in their lives, amaze me. Individuals that have the strength, wherewithal, fortitude, audacity, courage, and energy to “get over” something that has the power and influence to subdue them, have my admiration and respect.

Because I was able to do none of that.

Part 22.
Pew Pew Pew

Yesterday I received some calls and a couple messages about my Mother’s murder. I expected that. That people were going to feel comfortable saying what they’ve known and kept secret. I knew the moment Hazel was dead I’d start hearing things.

The first thing I heard was a suggestion as to who the other person was. We’ve long known that someone assisted her back then. Someone was involved and their participation was key in allowing Hazel to “get away” for all of this time. It bugged me that I didn’t know who it was. They just weren’t as important as Hazel. I couldn’t consume myself with trying to figure out who they were, I was too busy trying to bring Hazel to justice. But I’d known, and the police had always let us know that someone else was key to all of it. This had all seemed like some grand conspiracy, with the un-identity of that person adding layers and depth to the controversy of everything.

The complexity of the whole ordeal, the proximity and intricacy’s of our relation to one another, the silence and the secrecy of everything, all poured accelerant into this fire of frustration. It’s been a mess. It messed me up. Not one moment since March 28, 1994 had I not been obsessed with trying to figure it all out, solve it, get closure, and acquire justice. While bearing witness to the silence, the cooperation against my outspokenness, and the overall resistance we received from our “family” and the community, to acknowledge, account, and accept, the truth.

Mind you, I did all of this knowing what I knew. Knowing what I had experienced and been a witness to. While also being told by police and authorities and almost everyone else that knew anything about any of this, that this was an open and shut case.

It opened my eyes and heart to how ugly and cruel this world can be. It shut my eyes to hope and to happiness and to peace, for almost 30 years.

Now, here we are.

Yesterday- after that previous night of amazing and long sought after sleep and rest- was a day unlike any that I have ever had. Even with getting the calls that I’ve gotten with all the “I didn’t want to say anything before’s” and the messages. Even with seeing condolences and collages scroll on my timeline of Hazel. Yesterday, I had nothing on my mind. All day. “It” is gone. What is “it”? The persistent and what I thought would be perpetual, anxiety. My constant angst and worry about Hazel. My never ending struggle to try and take my mind off of her. The persistent questions and concern that I suffered myself through, trying to rationalize all of this. I’d done that for every minute of every day, since the morning I found my Mom’s body.

You might be new here. To my page, or to the truth of what happened. But, in addition to what I’ve been able to get clarity and closure on as it relates to Hazel, over the past couple of years I’ve also been able to get clarity/closure/answers from the congregation of people that had abandoned and left our lives when all of this happened. Hazel hadn’t just taken my Mother from us. Her actions somehow resulted in a domino effect of everything being taken away. Family, friends, the foundation of our lives, everything disappeared. Everyone disappeared.

My siblings were babies when this happened, 11 and 8. I was a baby, really, at 15. But my Mother had been prepping and preparing me to handle the unfathomable. We didn’t know that though. No one wanted to know anything like that. Yet, that’s exactly what she’d done. She’d forced a maturity and responsibility from me that was able to process the events and effect of her absence differently than EVERYONE else. She informed and included me in certain details about what was going on between her and Hazel. She didn’t tell me everything, but she told me enough to allow me insight into their issues. I used to think that she was punishing me by forcing me to stay home with just her and Hazel some weekends, while my siblings went over my dad’s house. It wasn’t a punishment. After awhile, and in hindsight, I realize that when my Mother kept me around, they couldn’t fight as much. I believe because they had been concealing their relationship from us, when they fought they had to restrain certain language from being said. There was a deafening silence when those days occurred. But I believe it, my being there, was a protection. It would only go so far if I was around.

That’s why the last words that my Mother ever said to me had rung so loudly in my head for all those years:

“Corey, don’t you want to stay home with me this weekend?”

A few weeks ago I was told by my dad, the details of the last conversation he and my Mother had before she was murdered. Wednesday, March 23, 1994. I remember him coming over to the house. I remember him coming into my room and talking to me. I remember my Mother grabbing him by the hand and taking him into her bedroom and them having a conversation. I had never known exactly what they talked about. He’d never been strong, or vulnerable, enough, to allow himself to talk about any of this. Instead he’d shutdown. His nickname is “Rock”, and he’s lived up to that name in more ways than one. Especially in the way he’d just been in that one place, hardened, and without sound, for all of these years.

My Mother told him in their last conversation that she was ready to be with him, forever. She had accepted and acknowledged her feelings, and his, as well as what we all wanted. They had been together off and on, for more than 20 years at that point. They wanted to be together. We wanted them together. All of that aligned with what her long term goals and desires were. They made plans to start the process of our future together.

I believe that’s what the dinner that Hazel and my Mother had was about. Saturday, March 26, 1994, 3 days after that conversation with my dad, my Mom and Hazel went out to eat. I believe that dinner was for the purpose of my Mother telling Hazel that their breakup was permanent, and that she was getting back with Rock.

I can only imagine the hurt and frustration that caused Hazel. She loved my Mom. My Mom loved her. As a child I thought it was a different kind of love, but I’m mature, honest, and transparent enough to understand that they were in a relationship for all of those years. My Mother decided not to continue with that lifestyle. Hazel didn’t feel the same way.

My Mother was murdered minutes after eating. She had broccoli florets in her system, according to her autopsy. Broccoli dissolves rather quickly in your stomach acids. Because the broccoli was in her system, in its full state, the medical examiner gave a timeline of when the death occurred. There was a ride from the restaurant back to the house. She had to have been killed within minutes of entering the house. Hazel told police that she dropped my Mom off and left her. To prove her point she said that she called my Mother from a pay phone across town. That puzzled everyone. It didn’t make sense: Why would you be with her and then make a call from a pay phone, across town, back to her. Hazel said that she called her to tell her that she had enjoyed the evening, the dinner, and to thank her for going out with her.

Because the police did pull the records from the pay phone and there was a call made to the house, that part of the story was able to allow Hazel and her attorney to argue that as an alibi until police could prove otherwise.

No one bought the story though. What the police and the investigators suggested to us was that Hazel had someone make that call and that she was the one that answered the phone inside of our home. Because based on the contents of my Mothers stomach, and factoring in the ride from the restaurant, my Mother could not have been alive at the time of the phone call.

The state’s attorney sat me down as a 15-year-old and told me all of that. His exact words:

“Hazel Ezell murdered your Mother. We know that she did it. We have strong evidence, albeit circumstantial, that proves our facts of the case. The problem is that all of our evidence is circumstantial and I cannot risk putting this case in front of a jury and not getting a guilty verdict, allowing a murderer to go free. We are going to get a confession, the murder weapon, or we will find the person that helped her. Then we are going to put her away.”

Imagine hearing that. Knowing what I know. And having to live everyday with nothing happening.

Meanwhile, over the years, some of Hazel’s close family and friends have reached out or run into me and said things like, “… when are they going to get her for what she did to your Mom?”.

In 2016, one of her close family members stopped me outside of a family event that I attended and asked for an update of our case. I told him, “… There is no statue of limitations on murder. The case is still open. We’re still waiting for the person that killed my Mom to be caught.”

This was his response:

“Yea, Hazel. Hazel murdered Michelle. She should not have done that.”

I turned and walked away.

I had someone with me. She heard him say it. She looked at me and I just shook my head. She said that if she would not have been with me she wouldn’t have believed that happened. I told her to imagine that always happening, yet nothing happening.

I heard that some people in the family have been suggesting a different version of our story. That’s funny.

It really is.

It’s hilarious that anyone could tell the jokes that they tell about any of this. But that’s what makes it funny, the joke of it. They ain’t EVER said what they say about me or about any of this, to me. Hazel didn’t say whatever she told any of them, to me. And I gave her 30 years of time to do that. But I’ve said what I say and have always said, to EVERYONE. Publicly and privately. Without fail. I’ve ALWAYS stood on this. While they’ve come up with some wild versions of these events. Amongst themselves. While at the same time, some of those same “family” and friends HAVE “sided” with the truth, with what we know to be true, and with us.

But, I get it, I guess. They had to stand by their family.

Whatever.

“Pew Pew Pew”

I read an article about the song “Pew Pew Pew” by Auntie Hammy, recently. The author that wrote it, Joseph L. Hollen, has a very interesting take on the meaning of the song. Here’s an excerpt:

“…One of the central themes explored in “Pew Pew Pew” is the idea of embracing and unleashing one’s inner strength. The lyrics encourage listeners to tap into their own power and overcome obstacles that may come their way. Auntie Hammy’s infectious energy and vibrant delivery further emphasize this message, inspiring individuals to step into their own power and face challenges head-on.”

(From “The Meaning Behind The Song: Pew Pew Pew by Auntie Hammy” by Joseph L. Hollen)

It was the part, “… to step into their own power and face challenges head-on.” that resonated with me.

It is time for me to do exactly that.

“Pew Pew Pew”

©️2023 Cornelious “See” Flowers

Time to move on. Part 21.

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Part 21.

Last night I went to bed, for the first time in almost 30 years, knowing that Hazel Ezell was no longer on this earth. I went to bed knowing that when I woke up this morning I was not going to wake up still full of the want and desire for her to be charged, arrested, and convicted for murdering my Mother. I went to bed not sick from obsessing over wanting “justice”.
I went to bed knowing that the bogeyman was no longer possibly lurking around every corner that I turn. I went to bed knowing that there was absolutely no chance of me running into her the next day.

Last night I went to bed knowing that no matter the fact that she seemed to have escaped justice and been able to evade prosecution, she was no longer going to be a living reminder of how messed up this world can be.

My wife woke me up 3 times last night. From a deep and peaceful sleep. A hard sleep. A sleep that I don’t recall me ever being able to have. She woke me up because she says I was snoring louder than I have ever snored before!
Every time she woke me up, I went right back to that peaceful sleep. Her waking me up didn’t interrupt my sleep not one bit. I was able to instantly turn over and continue calling every hog on the farm, lol!

I haven’t slept like that since I was a child. I haven’t had any rest since I was a child. I haven’t been able to rest, since I was a child.

Part 21.
Un-arRESTed Development.

Hazel had people that supported her. She had friends and family that loved and cared for her. She had people that have great stories and memories with her. Hell, I have a couple of funny stories with her. I have a deep and intricate history with her. I have memories, and pictures, of times with her.

She was family. I can’t get away from that.

Hazel has people that thought the world of her. A lot of those people didn’t and don’t know the evil that she’d done. They don’t know our history and experience with her. They didn’t know all of the drama, chaos, and trouble she caused. Sh¡t my Mother covered up when we were kids, and forbade me to tell. Stuff that people should have known, and had they known, it would have or at least could have changed the trajectory and outcome of all of this.

There are people, many people that I know and love, care for, and consider friends and family, that are grieving her death. There are pictures on my timeline of Hazel. Pictures with words of care and concern and consideration and compassion.

Some of those words coming from people that I consider family. That my Mother considered family. That are blood related to my blood family.

Then, there are a great deal of people that do know exactly what she had done. They chose to support her still. They chose to be her family and friend regardless. Some of them have tried to be both family to her and to my siblings and I. A lot of them have not. They’ve been unable to maintain whatever level of diplomacy or dysfunction, necessary to be in the middle.

For almost 30 years, I considered all of that. I had to. I had to be the “adult” in this room. I’ve been the one responsible for trying to keep peace while seeking justice, fighting for my Mom, and not losing my sh¡t. I was the one that knew details that only my Mother, Hazel, and I knew. My Mother no longer here to tell, and Hazel not telling. I was the only one that was present for their fights and had been in that house when things went bad. I was the one that knew the details and parts of this story, other than Hazel, that the world didn’t know.

After my Mom’s murder I was the only one that talked to the police. I was who the police, the medical examiner, the States Attorney, and anyone else talked to. Because the world went silent after my Mom was killed. Everyone shutdown, ran away, left. Even my dad. Even my Mom’s siblings. EVERYONE.

And I was just a kid.

A kid that chose to not be silent. I’ve continued to tell our story. The same story. For 30 years.

The luxury that Hazel benefited from was that I was a child back then and without the support that we needed, she was able to shift the narrative and blame. She was able to lie and mislead and distract. She did that. And a damn good job of it. She also benefited from my bleeding heart. My understanding and compassion for her children. My consideration of our family. I didn’t want anyone- outside of Hazel- to pay for what she had done. At the same time, I’d always understood what she’d done and I felt I had a pretty good idea of why she did it.

So I reached out to and for Hazel. For years. I privately and discreetly sent her messages and invitations to come and talk to me. (Check some of my previous posts. I’ve taken pictures and screenshots of my dms and messages to her.) I’d asked for mutual parties that knew us to facilitate a meeting. In 2013 I wrote an open letter and gave some details that only she and I knew, to let her know that I had information and I’d been informed of things that would be detrimental to a case against her if it had ever been presented to a jury or a judge. Hazel averted that and avoided me. She did the latter at all costs. There are people that will attest and affirm to just how strategic and desperate her attempts to avoid me were.

—-
Let me pause for a second and say something to ANYONE that has something they want to say to me about what I’m saying (Specifically the people that picked her “side”): I made that easy for y’all to do. I got out of the way. Because this wasn’t ever about me versus any of you. This was about me & Hazel. It was about what Hazel did to my Mother. It was about truth and fact and what our experience was. Not about your feelings. Not about your delusions. Not about your opinions. I made it easier for y’all to choose her because anyone that it required a choice for, I have no use for. I didn’t need to convince any of y’all. I don’t try to. Also, I forgave her. Because I was able to do that, KNOWING what she did, I can accept and understand any of y’all being able to. But not one of you has a leg to stand on if your position is outside of the truth. And again, as I’ve ALWAYS stated, and had proof of, your feelings can’t face my facts.
—-

Last night I slept.
I woke up this morning, different.

There had to be an end to this. In order for me to be and do what God has purposed for me to be and do. In order for me to do what I have planned and the potential to be and do. In order for me to be able to use my power to do what I know I can be and do. I’ve done all that I could, operating from this space. The 15-year-old me that had been trying to do this, this entire time, had done enough. I’ve done well. Did all that I could. That part of me could do no more. So, it had to end. There had to be an end. I needed clarity. I needed closure. I needed to be free. Free of the shadow. Free of the silence. Free of the uncertainty.

I didn’t realize that until I woke up from that wonderful sleep. Rested.

©️2023 Cornelious “See” Flowers

Time to move on. Part 15.5.

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Part 15.5

“Take a Seat”

Imagine coming to a concert and the first 25 rows had seats that displayed a “reserved” sign with a name attached…

But you purchased tickets and you were at the door first and admission was supposed to be first come first seated.

And this is a concert you really wanted to be at.

That’s been my life. I’d put a “reserved” sign on so many seats that occupied my mind, heart, and soul. Seats that I had assigned for people that I felt belonged there. That I wanted there. That I needed there. Seats with signs that read Aunt, Uncle, Cousin, Friend, Sister, Brother, etc.,

And none of those seats were ever occupied by any of those people. And the people that have shown up into my life, that wanted to fulfill those roles, serve in those capacities, have had to take a back seat to all of these empty seats.

People that WANT to occupy those spaces. People that want to love me. People that want to care for me. People that want to be part of my life. People that support me, and want to support me. They’ve had to, from afar, remain “in line” while I fantasized and fought steadfast for the ghost in those empty seats.

Over the past few weeks I’ve written and said words that I’ve long held onto. Words that stood as a replacement for all of those people that never showed up. I’d been waiting for those seats to be filled. I really had imagined a day that “justice” would make it happen. “Justice” was supposed to be the usher that led those people back into my life.

Soon, that idea of justice will be dead. With it will be the hope and longing that I possessed for what I imagined would happen subsequent to “justice”.

The doors, the aisles, the spaces, are open.

I’ve ripped the names from those empty seats. Those spaces are no longer reserved for all those people that never showed up. I won’t make another excuse or find another reason to acquit those people from what they did, said, or didn’t do, or didn’t say. I’m really (finally) free of the guilt and shame that I’d held onto for all of these years.

(This is not a sad post.)

2023 has been a year! I don’t even know how to explain just how much of a year it has been, but it’s been a year.

Before it goes, I’m leaving some stuff with it. I’m moving on. I’m moving forward.

I deserve to move on.
I deserve to move forward.
I deserve more.

Today I pressed “send” on some messages that I’ve been wanting to send for a very long time. To specific people that I’d held spaces for. Although I hadn’t been posting lately, I’ve been writing. I’ve been having a lot of conversations. I’ve been finding out A LOT of stuff! You’ll hear about all of it soon enough. But the messages that I sent out weren’t for public consumption, necessarily. Although I may post those too, depending on how the final moments of 2023 play out.

More importantly though, the reason that I’d written the personal letters and messages to certain people is becauseI realized that I don’t deserve the pain nor the poverty that came with my feeling of worthlessness or unworthiness due to what “people” had done.

I’ve suffered long enough.
I’d suffocated for long enough.

It is time to breathe.

It feels good to breathe.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!

©️2023 Cornelious “See” Flowers

Time to move on. Part 15.

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Part 15.

“That part. I was 15.”

Over the past few weeks I’ve gotten numerous phone calls, text messages, inbox messages, and comments on posts that are apologies. Apologies from numerous people, all saying the same thing: “You are correct in what you’re saying, I am sorry for my/our part in that”. Some of those apologies have accompanied wild theories and assumptions about what people had guessed, gossiped, or gathered about what happened to my Mom. It’s been crazy to hear some of that stuff. Crazier to hear that adults, grown-ass people, chose to do and say so many things when she was killed, except the one thing that should have been obvious to do and say something about: Check on, see about, and comfort, her children.

“They treated y’all like y’all were poison.”

My Dad said that to me a little over a year ago in our first conversation about my Mom, since she was murdered. The crazy thing is that he said that and it is absolutely true. What he didn’t realize is that he too treated me and my Mother’s memory like it was poison, as well. He’d avoided, averted, and abandoned her memory- with me- for all that time. To date, we have had 4 discussions about my Mother’s murder and events, or details, surrounding it. 3 of those discussions have come in the past few weeks. The first one was March 22, 2022.

When I say that I’ve been the only one FIGHTING, digging, and pursuing this, as far as the investigation part; I’ve literally been the only one, for the past 29+ years!

None of my Mother’s family, friends, coworkers, church-family, or anything, EVER, participated in any effort to aid and assist in getting her killer brought to justice.

And the majority of those people knew/know who did it. A lot of them have said this to me over the past few weeks. They’ve added elements and details that I didn’t know all of this time. They’ve supplied what would have been excellent corroborating information that would have assisted the authorities in establishing motive and reason that, along with all of the “circumstantial” evidence the police DID HAVE, should have been a substantial case to present to a jury. Things that I’ve been able to confirm through sources and resources that are available. But, the fact of the matter is that SO MANY PEOPLE KNEW. And no one said anything. Ever.

Can you imagine what that has been for me? The sense of betrayal. The confusion. The hurt. The guilt. The frustration. The anger. The freaking silence!?!

Do you see how it has been difficult for me to trust ANY human? Any authority? Any family? Any friend?

Do you know what this had been for me? Mentally. Emotionally. Psychologically.

Because, I knew. I always knew. I screamed what I knew for so long.

When people say to me, things like: “I don’t know how you didn’t go crazy” or “There is no way that I could be so calm about this” or “I would be dead or in jail by now if I were you”… I don’t have much by the way of a response. Because I don’t know why I didn’t go crazy. I don’t know what stopped me from getting my own vengeance all of these years. I don’t know why I never fell into the deeps of depression and started using drugs, alcohol, or got into a life of crime. I don’t know why I chose to attack myself with guilt, hurt, and pain, instead of projecting that stuff to the person that did this to us.

I do know this: I have never spent one moment, since the morning I discovered my Mother’s body, wondering who murdered her. I’ve always known. Not a guess, or assumption, or a feeling. Just the truth and what I knew.

—-

Imagine what a “Yo Momma” joke has been for me.

(I just put that there because the tv is on and someone just said a “Yo Momma” joke. I remember, as a kid, getting ready to stab someone because they made a joke about my Mom.)

—-

I was 15.

I’ve been replaying the details of this, constantly, for the last 29+ years. Unable to move forward. Incapable of moving on. Having an impossible time with trying to “get over it”.

Here’s the dumbfounding part: This 29+ years has never been about Hazel. I promise. Not because I forgave her. Not because I pity her, or feel sorry for her. Not because I have sympathy and empathy for her children. Not because I still consider them all “family”, because they are literally family to my family. And I was raised knowing all of them as family. She is guilty. She did it. I know she did it. That is why she has never said one word to me since this happened. That is why she has ignored my requests to meet. That is why she has ignored my messages. She can’t face me. I’m the biggest reminder of what she did. Because she knows I know what she did.

But this has been about none of that.

This 29+ years has been about EVERYONE else walking away, letting this go, leaving us alone. Literally ALONE.

Yesterday there was a group of people in a room with me. We were talking about life, about politics and rap music, and all kinds of other stuff when someone says, “See, you seem so much lighter”. I smiled, but before I could answer, someone else in the room says, “I’ve been reading your posts. I admire your courage. You’re helping me so much. I can only imagine the freedom you feel”, and I smiled some more.

When people hear me talk about this, they can’t believe it. It’s too crazy to believe. When they read about it, it’s still unfathomable. The scale and scope of the silence and secrecy is supreme. I’m a writer and I couldn’t have made up a story this crazy. But I lived it. I had to deal with it. I’ve been dealing with it.

Yet, now, I do feel lighter. I’ve gotten some clarity that I needed forever. Might not ever get “closure”, I’m not sure there is such a thing. But I really appreciate the clarity. After all of this time, all these years, the clarity that I’m receiving from the calls, the messages, the apologies… helpful. The Police department, for years, unreturned my calls, messages, or inquiries for information. In the past couple of weeks, I’ve gotten information that has been jaw-dropping. Even with the disappointment of certain realities, I’ve gotten some profound clarity. The States Attorneys office, same. Not much information, but some jaw-dropping revelations.

I’m grateful for all of it. Because 15-year-old me deserves a rest. And deserves the opportunity to connect with my 45-year-old self. So that we, I, can move forward.

I’ve (we’ve) carried this for far too long. Only God could explain the strength it took. The patience it took. The resolve. The willpower and faith.

Out of all of it will be something beautiful. I’m working on a way to help others through what my experience has been. This has been one hell of an experience! I’ve still got so much to say.

And I’m going to say it.

All of it.

©️2023 Cornelious “See” Flowers

Time to move on. Part 14.

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Two plus Too equals Four.
To plus 2 = For.

Part 14.

“A blood-y scene.”

I left the Chicago poetry scene years ago. And I’m a good poet. Not patting myself on the back or hyping myself up, but I’m really good with words. I love writing. I love helping, inspiring, motivating and entertaining others through my gift of poetry.

And again, I’m good, lol. I’m even a good guy. I’ve never betrayed anyone on the poetry scene. I’ve never argued or fought with anyone on the poetry scene. I only had sex with 2 women from “the scene” in my over 20+ years in and around it. Those are significant facts. Especially if you know the scene.
I’ve gotten amazing feedback, reviews, support, and commentary about my skill, ability, power, and presence whenever I’ve gotten on a stage, entered a room, or gave a speech. I’ve been offered tremendous opportunities and asked to do phenomenal things throughout my years performing in Chicago.

I’ve walked away, turned things down, or stopped myself from being part of any and all of it.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaand, again, I AM GOOD.

But one day, almost 20 years ago, I saw a picture on MySpace that made me give up the scene, made me feel a way about a lot of the people in it, and caused me to infer that the world was really against me.

I saw a picture with someone I knew hanging with someone else that I knew.

That’s a common thing, I know.

The thing was, the someone that I knew had known my story. About my Mother’s murder, about how messed up everything was, about how I’d been abandoned, outcast, and ignored. About the lack of justice. They knew a lot of that. Because we’d talked about it. And here they were in a picture that had the person that murdered my Mother in it.

Crazy thing is, a few years back I found out that the picture I’d seen was actually taken out of context. The one person I knew didn’t even know the killer. At that time. They were familiar with her family, and the picture was taken at an event where they all were.

I didn’t see that when I saw the picture. I saw someone that I wanted to be in my life, smiling, while in the presence of someone that had ruined my life. And upon further investigation I’d found out that quite a few people from the scene were VERY good friends with the woman that murdered my Mother and her daughter, and her nephew, and some of her cousins, and some of her friends.

Now understand this: I grew up with the woman that murdered my Mother. She’s like, my cousin. She is biologically my Dad’s niece. But he’s not my biological father. He is my siblings father. He is my Dad. His family is the family that I grew up with and around, but they are not my blood family. I grew up in a house with the woman that murdered my Mother being presented to me, and most people, as family, as our cousin. I didn’t know that she and my Mother were actually in a relationship. Because that wouldn’t have made sense to me, at that time. Because she’s family. Not my blood family, but blood family to my blood family. And blood family to everyone that I grew up with as family. And blood family to the man that I believed my Mom should be with, my Dad.

This sh*t is so exhausting to explain, every time.

This is the definition of complicated.

But, back to the scene…

After my Mother’s murder, I witnessed blood family pick sides. They chose their blood relative over me. People can say all kind of things about the mistakes that were made and the controversy regarding her and my Mother’s sexuality, or the failures of so many people, but I’m telling you what a 15 year old saw, heard, and experienced. Things I saw, heard, and have experienced for more than 29 years.

Ultimately, it really is “family over everything”. My “family” that was mine by supposed “bond” rather than blood, chose their blood relative when what happened, happened.

They not only shunned me and my siblings, but they visibly and vibrantly supported the person that had destroyed us. She murdered my Mother. And they KNOW IT. Some of them have told me they know it.

That is a story for another day.

When I saw that picture, I didn’t just see one person knowing someone else that I knew. I saw the conspiracy of my Mother’s murder having connections far beyond the “family” that I’d begun to run from by then. It was bigger. The world was conspiring against me. Smiling and laughing while doing it.

That picture painted a much larger one, for me. It became a collage. It got animated. It became a show, a movie, a series, a never ending saga. It became something like The Truman Show.

I started to see everyone as capable of choosing her over me. Her story over the truth. Whatever her lies were, over the lives we’d lived.

And I panicked. I shutdown. I stopped. I ran.

I abandoned something I love.

I walked away from something I liked doing, I wanted to do, and some people might say that I was born to do.

Because I saw other pictures. And those pictures wouldn’t leave my mind.

They became triggers.

Reminders.

Memories. And flashbacks.

Then the people became part of the story.

My “friends” became monsters.

Part of the story.

Parts of the scandal.

Part of the scheme.

And in my hurt, traumatized, paranoid mind… a good reason for me to walk away.

©️2023 Cornelious “See” Flowers

Time to move on. Part 12.

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6 in one hand, half of a dozen in the other.

“Same Sh¡t”

Today I called the Dixmoor Police Station.

“We don’t have anything from that time period.”

I’ve heard that before. Years ago I was told the Dixmoor Police Department had lost ALL of their files. I don’t remember what the cause was, but there was nothing to give me. Today was the first time that someone actually returned a phone call, in years. I was pretty shocked at that. What usually happens is that a secretary with the village answers, transfers me, whoever answers takes a message, I never get a call back.

Been going that way for years.

Outside of Joe Falica, an officer that headed the case in 1994, no one has ever assisted us. Eventually he became Chief Falica and stayed in contact with me for years. He used to call me periodically and give me information about the primary suspect. He hated that there was nothing more that he could do.
I’m not privy to the details of his life and career as a police officer but the Chief had a lot to say about the controversy and corruption that went on in that department. He’d suggested that we find a way to get the story to the television show America’s Most Wanted. He felt that a bigger audience would put press on the State authorities to be more active in the case.

A few years after my Mom’s murder Chief Falica called me and said, “She’s done it again”. When I asked who and what he was talking about he said that there’d been a fire in a home and a person died. He told me that the details were suspicious enough that he was somehow contacted because investigators related to the case had called him since his name and work on our case came up while they were looking her up in the system. He said, “… and Cornelious, there’s a life insurance policy in this case too. I’ve already contacted the insurance company and let them know that she is a suspect in a previous homicide, and there’s a chance that she did this for the money.”

For anyone that knows anything about any of this, you know that I wouldn’t know any of that unless it came from exactly who it came from. But I want you to imagine what this has been for me, I was a child when this was happening. Chief Falica was the only person that reached out. And he was equally frustrated by the lack of cooperation from the people in our community, our family, and the authorities, that all seemed to not have any desire to press this.

He felt like my only option was to get this on tv. There weren’t all of the programs that we have today available back then and eventually I think he got older and then we lost contact. And this just wore hard on me. I tried to move on, let go, pretend that I could walk away from having to relive this everyday. Tried to act like I could just put this all in the back of my mind, and get my life back. But God wouldn’t stop bringing it all back so that I could face it. I tried to ignore that too.
Some years back I found out some things that I felt the Chief should know and I wanted to connect with him to get his help with reaching one of the cold case shows that now saturate the airways. I started searching for him. An officer at the Glenwood Police station was really helpful and told me how I might be able to find him. I did, but I was informed that he was ill. He died in 2020.

I want y’all to know how difficult this has all been for me. Yet, I want you to see how God KEEPS forcing me to deal with it. I tried to suppress it. I’ve tried to distract myself. I’ve tried to put the blame on my Mom, or myself, so that the anger, hurt, and disappointment that comes with seeing the person that DESTROYED your life, just deliciously living theirs!
None of that has worked.

And then I get the call that she’s dying. I’d think that a call with such information would be some sort of relief. But it wasn’t. And it made me realize that I was hurting more than I ever thought I was, all this time. It made me realize that I was waiting for “justice” all this time. I was waiting for justice to correct everything, to change everything back, to heal me.

Now, let me tell you what happened Sunday…

So, I’ve been going through it! For the past few years I’ve been telling people that my life “doesn’t make sense”. I’m too talented, too positive, too hardworking, too “good” to be going through the struggles and challenges that I’ve faced. Especially in the last 4-6 years.
It has been ROUGH.
I’ve tried to manipulate and maneuver my way through what was a clear decision from the Heavens for me to sit down. I mean, you would not believe how much I’ve gone through to try to maintain. While my spirit and the voice of God was instructing me to “let go”. I believe in God wholeheartedly. I know God. And I know that there is a perfect will of God, just as there is a permissive will of God.

Let’s talk for a second…

I’ve written 3 books. I have a t-shirt brand. I’m a dynamic writer and poet. I am a fantastic barber. I’ve been doing those things for more than 25+ years. Over the past 4 years I’ve managed a property preservation firm, been a supervisor and inspector for a housing authority, and involved in so many other business ventures.

And broke as hell.

Because God told me to do something that I didn’t do.

And God’s been squeezing and pressing and forcing me out of this “permissive” place so that I walk into this perfect place.

I put up a post the other day, “Part 7”. It was a repost of something I put up in 2014. I said that I wasn’t really concerned with you reading it, I wanted to discuss it. I planned to do a video to talk about it. Here’s what I wanted to talk about…

That post was something I wrote when I walked away from the hair industry. I quit cutting hair because God told me to. I was told that I had a job to do outside of the shop. I’ve been known that I was supposed to walk away. And I did. But when I did, I was faced with not being distracted by the overwhelming of everyone else’s sh¡t that you get to hear, see, and be part of as a barber. But I didn’t stay gone. Against what God told me to do, I went back to cutting hair not long after I quit.

I hope I don’t lose anyone. I probably should do a video. But I’m here now and I have to finish what I start.

As a barber, especially me, I don’t have to think about my life. Because I get to think about, talk about, and deal with so many other people’s. And I do that. WELL! I’m known for fixing EVERYONES issues, problems, and concerns. Nobody- as far as my clients, my coworkers- knew about any of what you’ve been reading the past few weeks.

Because I’ve tried to be for everyone else what I needed.

Whole time, I’ve needed me.

(Mind you, I just released a book, “You Need You” that is a manual for getting through. A book that I wrote and am not promoting, pushing, or profiting from. Because I’m holding onto what God has been told me to let go of!)

2 things before I talk about Sunday:

About 3 months ago I was on the phone with Dr.Torri Lovelivinglife Griffin. In the middle of the conversation she says, “See, you’ll never be able to cut enough heads to fund your lifestyle.”
She said that it was time for me to move on. That I’m holding onto to something that is not going to take care of me. It is time to go.

A few days ago Traci Rogers walks into the shop to say hi because she was in the area. She’s standing in the room and says, “See, you’re not supposed to be here. You’ve outgrown this place. But I’m not talking about this specific building or these people. It’s like, See, you have to know that it has nothing to do with your talent. Who you are in the hair business is known. But it’s time for you to go. What am I saying? I don’t know why I’m saying this.” I knew exactly what she was saying.

Now, Sunday.

I’m going to skip the first part of the day. It’s a great story too, but I’m trying to get up and make some more phone calls and send some emails to see about this “justice”.
I really want to share this part:

I never answer the shop phone! It’s not for me. My clients have my number. I don’t even know the shop phone number, to be able to give it out.
I was just at the shop. Not cutting hair. Just walking around and asking God what am I supposed to be doing. I’m going through a tough time rehashing and retelling all of these stories, but I’m also feeling a sense of peace that I’ve never felt from getting all of the apologies and acknowledgment that I went almost 30 years without. But now I’m sensitive. I feel like the tears that have not come since 1998, are at the edge of my eyelids, any moment now, I’ll be crying this all out.
So I’m just there and walking around and talking to God.

Shop phone rings.

Something tells me to answer it.

I say no.

Something says ANSWER IT.

I say NO.

I’m saying NO and walking towards the phone. I’m saying NO while picking up the handset. I’m saying NO while clicking the talk button.

When I answer it and start my shop greeting I hear a barber already on the phone telling the caller that we are about to close. Before I could stop myself from hanging up the phone or not saying anything, I say, “You can come now, I will be here”. The caller says, “Thanks, I’m on my way!”.
I walk to the front and tell the barber that was on the phone that I had to wait for a client that I’d just told on my phone to come through, so I might as well take a client in between the wait.

About 20 minutes later, a young man walks in. I ask if he had called earlier and he says yes.

As he is walking towards me, I hear a voice that says “talk to him”. Now, you can confirm with him. He will tell you that during this entire conversation it looked like I was talking to an invisible friend. Because I was arguing with the spirit that was telling me to talk to this young man. I’m always talking and in that moment, I just wanted to hear God tell me what I was supposed to be doing, what God was doing, or when I would know either. I did not feel like talking about much else. So, as much as my clients get the therapist, confidant, consultant, motivating, inspirational, positive, engaging SEE, I wasn’t planning on being any of that Sunday. I just wanted to cut this young man’s hair, get my $40, and cut my next client.

The young man is in my chair and I ask him what did he want me to do with his hair. He tells me.

Spirit says “TALK TO HIM”.

I ask him if he is from the area. And what school he graduated from and when. He responds that he graduated in 2012. He looks a lot younger than his actual age. I didn’t expect him to say 2012.

“TALK TO HIM”

Now at this point, he will tell you that I looked like I was talking to the sky. I’m visibly talking to this voice that is demanding that I speak with this man.

“What do you do?”

He responds that he is an artist and an educator. I ask him what type of artist and he tells me. Then I ask, “What’s your name?”

Chai Tulani.

Before the spirit could even say anything to me, I respond to “Chai”.
What does Tulani mean? Because I assumed that “Chai” was spelled like the tea and I know that word means tea.

“Tulani means Peace”.

Now, you can ask Chai if this went like this. But I started laughing. I’m looking up at the ceiling and saying out loud, “Here you go, you and your sense of humor.”

Chai is looking at me confused. And I get it. I know it looked crazy.

Spirit says again, “Talk to him”.

At this point I’m taking this whole meeting to mean that God is telling me to be at peace. That’s funny to me because I’m so calm and so peaceful. And I was assuming that God was letting me know that I’m not as peaceful as I think I am. So now I’m in my head and arguing with God about it.

Spirit says, “TALK TO HIM”.

So I ask a couple more questions. Mind you, when he’s said his name I’d put it in my YouTube and looked him up. So while I’m talking to him and listening to this spirit and arguing with God, I’m listening to his music. Because the song I was listening to had a different voice, I show him my phone screen and ask him if it was him that I was listening to.

“Oh, you found me, and you’re listening already. Cool. Yes, that’s me.”

As I’m putting the phone back I notice that there is something that says Kenyan-American. So I ask him if he’s African and he says that he is. That his mom is from Kenya and his Dad is from the Gardens. I laugh and he says that he gets that type of reaction whenever he tells his origin story. I told him, “Oh, there is a whole bunch of God in the Gardens. As a matter of fact, one of my most amazing spiritual experiences over the past 15 years happened in the Concordia apartments.”
He says that he knows exactly where that is.

Then I say out loud… “Chai Tulani means peace”.

He turns and looks at me and says, “No. Chai is not my first name. Chai is my artist name. My real name is Sila.”

I said, “See-what?”.

He said, “Sila. It is most commonly, Silas. But my name is Sila Tulani. And my name means “justice brings back peace”.”

Now I look at him in complete bewilderment.

Spirit says “Ask him”.

I ask Chai, “When were you born?”

“1994.”

I finish his haircut and before he leaves I tell him that he and I will work together. I introduce myself, a lil bit, and he leaves.

Immediately I think to myself:

In 1994 my Mother was murdered. I found her body on March 28, 1994. (By now I’d seen online that Chai’s birthday is April 19, 1994) And somewhere in the world a baby was born, named Sila Nzioka Tulani which means “Justice brings back Peace”. That baby would grow up and become an artist and educator and on December 10, 2023 would need a haircut. He’d call a barbershop to see if they were open. I- not ever answering that phone- answer it reluctantly and tell him to come in after another barber tells him that we are closing. He comes in and the entire time that he is in my presence the Spirit of God is urging me to talk to him, to ask him questions. All to get the message for why God has been forcing me to do what God is forcing me to do.

Justice brings back Peace.

My God.

Time to move on. Part 11.

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The gay part.

(This was originally written and posted a week ago. I’m just adding it as a “part” to make it easier to find.)

—-

Wanna hear something EXTREMELY effed up?

My mother was a lesbian.
Bisexual at the least.

That is not the effed up part. (Before the LGBTQCIA comes after me).

The effed up part is that after all of these years I am finally putting the pieces together and recognizing the REAL reason that no one wanted to talk about this. The reason no one wanted to deal with it. The reason that everyone walked away. The reason the community, the church and church family, the friends, the coworkers, the biological family, the stepfamily, the Jehovahs Witness family, the extended family, all left, went silent, and/or disappeared.

Because my mother lived a double life. She was gay. And she hid that from a whole lot of people. She hid it from a whole lot of important and close people.

That amazingly wonderful, beautiful, independent, adventurous, personable, hardworking, God-fearing, churchgoing, family driven, inspiring, daughter, sister, aunt, niece, cousin, friend, mother… was gay. Too.

She was gay, too.

The other day, thanksgiving, actually, I went to my Dad’s house. I heard that my siblings were all there and no one had invited me. I was upset and hurt and I got pissed off at the fact that my family is so fractured, dysfunctional, and broken.

I blame myself for a lot of that. Because I have failed at being a good big brother to my siblings. In my eyes. I have made tremendous mistakes and I’ve not handled issues and problems effectively. I’ve run and avoided conflict. For a myriad of different reasons. I take full responsibility and hold myself accountable to that truth. I definitely blame me. I’ve always blamed me.

And on thanksgiving I decided that it was time to make a change. I was going to go to the party, pull everyone in the same room, apologize for not being a better person, lay myself at the mercy of their judgement, anger, criticism, ire, and whatever was to be said. Then I was going to declare that I was establishing a new relationship with my family and moving forward in a different way, in a different space, with a radically different energy.

I had it all planned out. I rehearsed my speech for the whole 25 minutes between the time I heard about the gathering, up until the moment I walked through the door. I was ready. It was about to go down.

When I walked in the door, I didn’t see everyone. I was like a mad bull. I scurried through the place to round them all up. But to my dismay and disappointment, everyone wasn’t there. I had just missed them.

I walked into my Dad’s room and he greeted me, “… and now I’m happy. My day is complete. I’ve laid eyes on all of you.”
That’s always been a big thing for him. The opportunity to see all of us in the same day. Or speak to all of us in the same day.

I’m usually the missing one. Not usually. I’m always the missing one. I know that, and it is something I am not very proud of. There is a reason for it though. Thinking about the reason made me madder.
But him saying that his day was made and complete by having the opportunity to lay eyes on all of us, tempered my mood. My fire wasn’t so hot anymore. Plus, I didn’t want to make the speech to only some of them. I wanted everyone there. And everyone wasn’t. Now here he goes saying something that is definitely dousing the flames.

I then asked my Dad why he hadn’t informed me of this latest development in the saga of our lives that no one told me about. I wanted to know why I hadn’t been made aware of this story that was making its rounds. About someone being very sick.

Now, I’m going to try and be gentle with how I place these next few words. Because it only makes sense if you were fully aware of the dynamics. The 29+ years of silence. The hurt, the pain, the questions, the problems.

Okay…

My Dad says that he had only just found out and that it was news that did not deserve the attention. He let out a couple of other feelings too.

He’s really saying that this whole situation still hurts, is still a problem, and he is still unwilling to talk about it.

But then…

He makes one of the wildest statements I have ever heard. In my life. (I won’t put it here).

To which I respond, “… Please tell me how what you endured trumps what I endured”.

My Dad then tells me a story. He concludes the story by saying, “… You didn’t know that, did you?”

That’s as much as I can say on here. Without pissing myself off and without making this situation more mess than message. But oh, I’m definitely going to repeat what he said one day.

Fast forward to conversations I had 3 days later with a couple of people. The conversations were as most of the ones I’ve been having over the last few days have been. People showing support and/or attempting to rationalize why they don’t all the way belong in the pile of “everyone” that I’ve declared to have abandoned us, deserted us, or distanced themselves from us.

The two latest conversations were with family members. Family members from my side. Family that are not related to my siblings. Family that are not connected to our situation the way that most of our family is. But in both conversations, the same thing came up after about 2 hours of talking:
“I heard they were in a relationship.”

You know what is effed up?

I didn’t know that my Mother was gay while she was living. She didn’t say she was gay. She didn’t act like she was gay. She didn’t present like she was gay.
There was never a conversation about what was going on in our house as her being gay.

And my little goofy, gullible, green-ass didn’t catch on. Because I looked at our situation the way that I think most people did. Everyone in that house, except for me and my mom were related.

That confusing you?

Okay, check this out:

My Mother and her 3 children. That lady and her 2 children. That lady is related to 2 of my Mothers children. I am not one of the two. That lady is the niece of those 2 children’s father. Their father is not my biological father but he is who I refer to as “Dad”. That lady’s children and 2 of my Mother’s children are 3rd cousins. That lady and my 2 siblings are 1st cousins. My Mother and I are not blood related to the lady and her 2 children but we are blood related to their uncle’s children.

Did you follow that?

The point is that we were “family”. That is how my Mother raised us. That is how the household was ran. As one big family.

Problem is: I was thinking that my Mother and that lady considered themselves cousins. I had no idea they were a couple. Freaking “kissing cousins”. That last part is not meant to be funny. But I have to laugh. This is so effed up.

All this freaking time, the big issue has been that they were gay.

“…And homosexuality in 1994 was not something we talked about.”
That was a statement made by a pastor some years back when I reached out to find out why the church never showed support for my Mother’s children.

About 4 years after my Mother’s murder I learned that my Mother and that lady had been in a relationship. I found this out when I was told by someone that they were told by a member of the lady’s family that the reason I was blaming the lady for my Mother’s murder was because I was just mad that I had found out that my Mom was gay.

News flash, I didn’t know until right then. And that’s when pieces started coming together.

Now today- 29 years, 7 months, and 28 days after her murder I’ve been given a much clearer picture of this entire ordeal.

Crazy thing is, I had forgiven the lady not long after all of this happened. I was able to forgive her because I had watched my Mother be (or what I perceived her being) a Mother to her. She took care of that lady. She provided for that lady and her children. She loved and cared for that lady and her children. She created a family environment in that house. My Mother physically whooped my ass in an attempt to get me to respect, acknowledge, and trust that lady. Because I just never liked her.

You know how they say “kids know”. I don’t know what I’d always known, but I’d known it. And it was obvious. My Mother did not like that.

So we made it work. My Mother made it work. She wasn’t going to have it any other way.

So, it worked.

But maybe that’s why I didn’t recognize or receive the memo. I was too busy not liking her to see how much my Mom did.

I’d been busy counting the arguments, the fights, the disruptions, the disconnect. Counting them because my Mom kept me around for them. She would send my sister and brother to my Dad’s when there was a big problem. But she kept me there.

That’s why I know the things that I know. That’s why I have the clarity that I have. That is why I’ve been able to call her out and know that she knows that I’m speaking only truth, fact, and what really happened.

Story time…

What really happened is that lady hated on her uncle (my Dad) and got in my Mom’s head. (Obviously my Mom was a willing participant). She told my Mom a bunch of stuff about my Dad, that she absolutely did know and my Mother knew that she was credible. My Mother left him for her. A friend of my Moms was moving out of a house and it was being put up for rent. My Mother got the house. We moved in October 5, 1985, all of us, together, and it was what it was for 8 years.
That lady, over those eight years, had exhibited some issues and presented some problems that my Mother did not want as part of our lives and they would fight about those things. The final straw was the lady getting caught up in a lie in August of ‘93. My Mother had enough and put her and her children out. My Mother got back with my Dad, that lady’s uncle. That lady couldn’t take that. She told my Mother she wouldn’t get away with that. She threatened her. She’d done all kinds of stuff. And ultimately she did the unthinkable.

I can tell this story because I was there. I saw all of that. I heard all of it. I didn’t want to see it for what it was though. That part didn’t make sense or register properly. Especially at that age. That part was not even a consideration or conversation.

The gay part.

And from what I see now, that part didn’t register to a lot of people. More accurately, that part didn’t register well with a lot of people.

I know it’s hard to fathom and for anyone outside of us to explain but hear me clearly when I say this: My Mother was murdered March 25, 1994. I found her body on March 28, 1994. Her funeral was April 3, 1994. April 3rd was the last time that we saw or heard from 90% of the people, community, family, friends, and etc, that had been part of our lives before she was killed.

I have spent 29 years, 7 months, and now 29 days trying to figure out what it was about me that caused everyone to leave us, her children, alone the way they did.

I’d thought it was me. There was no other reason that I could think of. The way EVERYONE disappeared. People who weren’t connected to the “that part” of this. People that were MY family and support system. Those people left too. Some of them I never saw again! And when I say “some”, I mean DAMN NEAR ALL.

And I was 15. A child. A child processes trauma differently. A child internalizes and rationalizes in a particular manner. A child blames themselves. Especially when abandoned. Abandoned by everyone. That child begins to believe that they are or were the problem.

“They treated y’all like y’all were poison. Everybody. It didn’t make no sense then and it don’t make no sense now. Michelle was too good of a woman to too many people, for all of them: her family, her friends, that church, all of them, for them to never even come by and see about y’all, at least.” That’s what my Dad said a little over a year ago. March 22, 2023, I confronted him about my Mom. Because here is what y’all are not going to believe: He didn’t talk about her either. Especially with me. I’ve made up a thousand reasons why that was. Years ago I settled on his pain. This hurt him. It hurt a lot of people.
But on March 22, 2023, I asked him if he could handle me talking to him about my Mom. It was just he and I in the car. He obliged. I recorded the conversation. I recorded the conversation, as I’ve recorded interactions with him over the last 10+ years, because my Dad is important to me. And he’s old. There may come a day when he is no longer here with us. I want to be able to hear his voice. His humor. His wisdom. I don’t have any videos of my Mom. I decided a long time ago to not let that happen with him.

But I recorded that conversation. And in it he said a bunch of things that I’d never known. Things that I needed to know. Even if they hurt or raised more questions and concern, I deserved to hear them. The silence of these past 29 years (28 at the time of that conversation) had done far more damage than any noise could.

But even in that conversation he had not said anything about my Mom being gay. I’d never heard him acknowledge that until Thanksgiving.

All of this has been because she was gay!

Back to the 2 conversations I had yesterday. Both of these people said the exact same thing, “I heard they were in a relationship”. And it came out of both people after them saying that they didn’t want to speak on “certain things”. I prodded and poked for them both to continue. I am 45 years old. There is nothing that you are going to say to me that will shock or surprise me about this. Nothing. There is no secret or detail that is going to shut me down or send me into the depressive state that I once lived in. I’m so free now.

Yet, this is what was said. “I heard they were in a relationship”.

Do y’all know that there are people that are very close to my Mom that to this day REFUSE to acknowledge, let alone accept, that she was gay.

She was bisexual.

It was what it was.

And because it was that, all of this happened.

And I’ve been trying to figure out for almost 30-freaking-years what the problem was.

The problem was that she was gay. That she hid it. That she lied about it.

We have not seen BLOOD family since this happened. We have not seen BEST friends since this happened. We have not seen the whole village that my Mother entrusted, and trusted, to be part of our lives since this happened.

Take a deep breath, See.

Taking deep breath.

Breeeeeeeeeeeathe.

For 30 years I reached out to that lady. For 25 of those years what I wanted to know was about my Mothers sexuality. Because everyone has denied that she was gay. I’ve had to almost fight people because I have said that my Mother was gay. There are people that REFUSE to accept that part.

Some of those people denied us because they needed to continue denying that part.

A few years after her murder, when I was made aware of this, I was able to process what happened a whole lot better. Because this made sense. They were in a domestic partnership. The fights and arguments, lovers quarrel. The issues and mess, relationship drama. The back-and-forth, toxic relationship sh¡t.

And to be honest, I understood how it got to the point that it did. Because I lived in that house and I saw what I saw and heard what I heard.

That lady loved my Mom. My Mom loved her. Then my Mom decided that she wanted something different in her life, for her life. For our life.

She put that lady and her children out. To add insult to that injury, she went back to the man (my Dad, that lady’s uncle) that the lady had taken her from in the first place.

Oh, the shame, the hurt, the embarrassment, the mess, the toxicity, the BS. Some real life Ricky Lake, Jerry Springer, Donahue sh¡t.

The difference between those shows and our life though: People tuned in to those shows. People tuned out of our lives.

For almost 30 years I’ve been trying to figure out why.

And now I’m finally getting some answers.

That part is effed up.

Time to move on. Part 10.

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“Say sorry.”

Talking to my son yesterday…

I tell him that I’ve been healing and on the other side of this is a better version of me.

He says, “… I couldn’t have asked for a better version of you. You’re an amazing person to me, already.”

I have an 18 year old son that I’ve done everything in my power to shield from what I was going through. I even kept him from being exposed to my “family” because I never wanted him to experience any of the pain, hurt, silence, and whatever else that I had to deal with. He just knows that I’ve been here. In his life.

He thinks the world of me. He thinks the world of THIS me!

My son doesn’t know any of what I’ve had to deal with. Yesterday was the first day that I gave him certain details and descriptions about any of this. Because this wasn’t his pain to process.

But any pain that he has or had, my son has had my ear, my heart, and my full attention. I am his biggest advocate. The sacrifices I’ve made in order to give him the best me I had available, are extraordinary. I’ve tried to do an unimaginable task, be as present, aware, and available as I could be, while dealing with everything that you’ve been reading pertaining to these “parts” of my life.

When he was very young I didn’t want ANYONE around him, without me there. I was so cautious, nervous, and deliberately overprotective. His mom once asked me, “Do you think you’re more mommy than me?” because I was so reluctant to relinquish my grasp on everything that had to do with him.

As he got older I explained to him that when I was young and vulnerable in age I’d been molested and exposed to sex way before I should have been. I didn’t want that for him. I prayed that to not be his story. I grilled him every chance I got about what and who he’d been exposed to. I have always- since he was born- communicated with him that he can always communicate with me. I will always be here. If he knows nothing else, he knows that to be true.

I’ve always told him that because no one ever asked if was okay or if I needed to talk, especially when I was being touched, I was going to make for damn sure that he would never have that story. So I talk to him. HE knows that I will always listen too. There is nothing off the table between us.

The relationship between his mom and I didn’t work out. That has never been an issue to my son. I will say this, she has never gotten in the way of me parenting my son. We may not agree on much of anything, but she has always recognized and respected that I have his best interest at heart. I thank God for that part, always.
I’ve never allowed anything that she and I had, in differences, to impress, influence, or impact him either. To this day, he’s never heard me say a negative word about his mother. My stance has always been that he honor, respect, and protect her. I have never done, nor would I ever do, anything to cause friction to or for them. Even if that meant my being the villain, problem, or whatever reason needed for them to flourish, I’d be it. I applaud who he has as a family on their side. I am forever grateful to the support and system he has with them. I thank God constantly for the consistency he has with them.

About 8 years ago I told my son that I was about to go into a season of getting myself together. I needed to heal and I knew it. I told him that I was going to step back from trying to force a certain cohesion between his mom and I. He was 10! But if you ask him today, he’ll tell you that we had that conversation. He remembers a specific part of the conversation: I told him, “When you’re 18, you’re mine”. That probably sounds crazy to y’all but what I meant was that as he entered manhood I’d be there more than ever. Although he doesn’t feel like I ever left, I knew that over the last 8 years I would be working through the issues that you’ve been reading over the past few weeks.

And God had me. Whole time.
He made sure that one thing I’ve not had to worry about is my son. While I was dealing with what I was dealing with, as I was taking back my feeling, from the numbness that had for so long stricken me paralyzed, this child of mine… listen.

The other day, while talking to my dad, he told me:

“Whatever you have to do to get this out of you, so that you can move on, do it. You have my blessing.”

I didn’t need his blessing. But the apology that he gave me right before it, was life changing.

The day after that, I was talking to my son and I apologized to him for not being more. My son told me that I had been more.

I’ve never been part of a more beautiful disagreement.

In all of that I realized this:

Parents, apologize to your children. For the real things. For your real mistakes. For your real fvck-ups.

If children never get an apology, it’s hard as hell for them to know how to give one. Especially the meaningful ones. Especially when they grow up.

Until recently, I’d never gotten the apologies that I needed. That I deserved. And I’ve never ever really given the apologies that were needed, that were deserved.

Earlier today a family member called and apologized. She said it has been so hard reading my posts, knowing that all of it is true. Knowing that she is one of the “everyone” that abandoned and deserted us. She apologized for her ignorance, indifference, and her absence. She told me that she knows there is nothing that she can say or do other than what I decide can be said or done to help me heal.

That apology hit different.

Her apology today penetrated deeper than the one yesterday. And that one, deeper than the one that came prior.

The feeling helped me realize what I’d been missing. There is a validation and vindication that comes when someone apologizes for where they offended you.
Today, I realized what some people are missing from me. All of my trauma aside, I’ve done some terrible things. Been in some terrible seasons. I’ve caught some storms. I’ve caused some too.

If hurt people hurt people…

I think I know what healed people do.

-see

©️2023 Cornelious “See” Flowers

Time to move on. Part 9.

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In or around the year 2000, my biological Father, Mayn, and I were having a conversation. The conversation was about “all my money”. I was asking him why he always asked me for money as if I was rich or something. He replied, “You are rich. What happened to all of your money?”.
I asked him what money was he talking about. His response was, “All the money from Michelle.”

Huh?

That Huh? was for you.

To him I replied, “What money are you talking about? There was no money.”

And then I went off. I started telling him about all of the money we DIDN’T get. I told him about the PrimeAmerica life insurance policy that the company voided out because she smoked. My Mother had stopped smoking at some point. Around that point she’d gotten this life insurance policy. The policy was for $100,000. With double indemnity (because she was murdered) the payout would have doubled, $200,000. When they did the final consultation and spoke with her doctor he let them know that she was smoking at the time of her death. Because the policy was under 2 years old and with the doctors statement, the company voided the policy. They didn’t pay it out. Never mind that she didn’t die of lung cancer. She died of a bullet to the head. If she was smoking then, maybe it was because of some ridiculous amount of stress that she may have been dealing with that triggered her to pick up an old habit. But, they didn’t care. They voided out the policy. In addition to not getting that money, we did not get anything from the many people, places, and other entities that around the time of her funeral had presented themselves and offered or stated that they would be there for us, her children. Yea, all of them were gone. Disappeared.

My Dad does a way better job illustrating and expressing anger towards those people. I was a child. It is what it is. My Dad though, he absolutely recognized the complete disrespect and disregard to my Mother’s memory that so much of that was. He still expressed that much to this day. Not to make another excuse for him, but I watched him take the stance in that moment of “… Fvck all of them. I’ll take care of my kids. They ain’t never needed for nothing and they won’t need for nothing. Whatever we have to do, we will do it”. He’s always had that belief and stood on that. I don’t agree or accept everything that he’s done in the aftermath of our tragedy, but I’ve always applauded the way he took that stance.

Back to the convo with my Father and I…

“Huh?”

That “Huh?” Was for him.

He listened to me talk about all we didn’t get and to which he replied, “All that money that Michelle left for you and all that money that was raised, what did you do with that?”

“There was no money!”

At this point I’m animated and getting frustrated. Because he was adamant and almost accusatory. It was pissing me off.

“Come here” he says.

He takes me outside and we go into the garage. We were at my grandmas, his mother, house. He used her garage as his something-like-a-mancave-but-not-exactly-more-like-his-secret-hideaway-getaway-thingy. He didn’t live with my grandma but he used her garage like he did.

We go into the garage and he walks over to a cabinet and pulls out a binder from the cabinet. The binder was filled with documents and business cards and zerox copies and pictures of…

“Why do you have this?” I asked

… things related to my Mom. Like a scrapbook but not a scrapbook. More of a detectives log. He’d collected a bunch of things that, well, didn’t make sense-from my perspective- for him to have. There was no reason for him to be concerned about these matters. He and my Mom were not together and had not been together since 1979. A year after I was born. They didn’t have a relationship. They didn’t even talk when she was alive.

Here he was with a whole scrapbook-not-scrapbook thing that was blowing me.

Then he says, “…They killed her. They know who killed her. They’re covering it up.”

Before I could respond to that statement, he opens to a page that has a newspaper article. There are 3 articles on 2 pages. There is highlighted typeset.

“Huh?”

That was from me.

I was looking at articles that had “a fund has been setup for the children and donations can be made here” typed on the bottom of stories of my Mother’s murder.

He’d highlighted the donation mention.

I’m reading, and he points his finger and says, “What happened to that money?”

“Can I have this?”, I asked.

“No. These are my records. They didn’t do Michelle right. Someone is going to answer for it one day. These are my papers, I know what they did.”

“Why can’t I have this? This is my Momma stuff. This doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

Understand, my Father and I also NEVER talked about my Mom. Before or after her death. There was no reason to. He never asked me about her. She didn’t ask me about him. Well, she didn’t me about him in that way. She definitely asked me about his interactions with me whenever I returned from a visit with him. My Father had struggled with some things and he and I didn’t have the greatest relationship, due to that. I loved him. I always loved him. I wanted him to be part of my life. That was a struggle for him. Further complicating that was the fact that my Dad was who my Dad was to me. That hurt and frustrated my Father. I recognize that more now than I did back then. I was just a child then. I had no business trying to process any of that. But, I should have. I’m around the age now, that my Father was when we were having this conversation. I see it differently now. I can recognize some of what he was dealing with.

But back then, that sh¡t made no sense. Why is he collecting info on my Momma?

He won’t let me take the binder, nor extract the articles from behind the plastic. He hands me a pen and a piece of paper.

“Write down whatever you need to write down.”, he says.

I wrote it down.

Long story short. There were funds setup by people we didn’t know. Money was taken in. It was never given to us. I contacted the banks, they gave me that much information. They required me to bring in documents to support that this was my Mother when I was trying to get this information though.

That is the whole point of this story…

So, after finding out there WAS money and that this was another middle finger to us in all of what had been done, or not done, I was left to do nothing. One bank manager told me that all she could do was give me the info she gave me. Further investigation would have to include an attorney, courts, and SUPPORT that it was already obvious we weren’t ever getting when it came to all of this. So I let it go.

Those documents that I had gotten to prove my identity and relationship to my Mom were about to open a whole new can of worms.

You ready for this?

Time-out:
(Let me say this before I go on… EVERY WORD OF THIS IS TRUE. As crazy as all of this is. Factcheck me. Look it up. Ask someone. Investigative report if you please. This has been my life. This is what I’ve been dealing with. AND THERE IS SO MUCH MORE!)

Back to the story…

I have my Mother’s birth certificate and death certificate, as part of the documents that are needed to verify my identity at the bank.

This was the year 2000, I was back living with my Dad. I took the documents back to the house and I was about to put them in the closet, where I had a lot of the other paperwork that had to deal with matters concerning my Mother.

I was about to put them on the shelf when something told me to open the envelopes. I’d never looked at either of them. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to see my Mothers name on those documents.

Let me speed this up. I’ll do bullet points.
Get ready. This part is good.

  • I open documents
  • I read documents
  • I notice something in documents
  • “Father” line is filled in
  • Has a name on it.
  • I recognize the last name
  • Kellogg
  • “Huh?”

I’d been asking my Mother, for as long as I can remember, who her Daddy was. I don’t know why I wanted to know. But I did. AND ASK ANYONE FROM AROUND BACK THEN. They will tell you that I was obsessed with wanting to know. She never told me. NOT ONE TIME.

Back to the bullet points…

  • I know the Kelloggs
  • I take the documents and show my Dad
  • He’s just as shocked
  • He says it doesn’t make sense
  • To me either
  • I reach out to the most popular Kellogg I knew at that time, Eric. He was my teacher growing up. He was a friend of the family. I hadn’t seen him in years. I reached out to him.
  • Eric is happy to hear from me.
  • Tells me to meet him for breakfast on Wednesday at Denver’s Restaurant
  • We meet
  • I give Eric the folder containing the documents
  • Eric is shocked
  • Eric says we have to talk to his mom
  • Eric sets up meeting with his mom and I
  • I meet with her
  • Charles Kellogg is my grandfather
  • Charles Kellogg is a poet
  • Charles Kellogg is alive
  • Charles Kellogg lives in Dixmoor

Let me pause right there. My grandfather, who I always asked about, lives in the neighborhood that my Mother raised me in. You ready for this. My Mother raised me 5 houses down from her father, THAT SHE KNEW, and never told us.

Back to the bullet points…

  • I’m given grandfathers address
  • I go to house
  • I get no answer
  • I wrote grandfather a letter
  • I leave letter at his house
  • I attempt to connect with family
  • I spend 20 years doing that
  • Charles Kellogg died in 2006
  • I never get to meet him
  • At urging of a friend, Justin Stewart, I take AncestryDNA test
  • Test comes back with results and connections to Kelloggs
  • I search family tree
  • I see names
  • I recognize a name from Facebook
  • I reach out

On December 1, 2021, I find out that I have 8 Aunts and Uncles, and 68 first cousins that I never knew about.

We aren’t even going to get into that story right now. I am telling it to put in context what I’m about to say.

So, the reason that I’d searched out the Kelloggs for so hard and for so long was because I felt like I didn’t belong with none of the “family” that I have. The silence, the tragedy, the dysfunction. The controversy. I’d been looking for “blood” family. I just wanted identity and definition. Because, as I told you, there was this feeling that I’ve been getting for the last almost 30 years that gave me the sense that a lot of people don’t like me. And I’m a legit “good guy”.

Grab your fvcking popcorn.

Connecting with the Kelloggs gave me a sense of victory, in that, even though I never got to meet my grandfather, I’d been going after this feeling I had since a child. I pursued it. I worked at it. And although it took more than 20 years, it was real.

Well, that gave me a renewed sense of courage and confidence to start pursuing some other answers and clarity. If you’ve been on here, then you’ve read some of the post over the last couple of years. This was all the reason and impetus for where I’ve been in that.

By March of 2022, I’d gotten to a place when I was no longer begging for certain people to talk or avoiding asking certain questions and I started to demand or force certain conversations.

March 22, 2022, my Dad and I had the very first conversation about my Mom’s murder. Yup that’s right. After 28+ years, he and I finally had a talk about it. It was much needed. I communicated a lot of things that I needed to say. He said some things I’ve long needed to hear.

I’ll get back to that later. In another “part”.

The conversation with him led to me doing some other things that I’ve long needed to do. One of those things was to reach out and find my aunt that we had been raised around. The aunt that my siblings haven’t seen since my Mothers funeral. That I saw in 1997, 1998, 1999, 2008. I lived with her for awhile. But it was always this weird feeling that I’d been telling everyone about. I used to tell people that she doesn’t like me. Because the way she felt was obvious. I just didn’t know what she felt.

June 2023.

So I send out a message in early June to some family that I knew could get in contact with my aunt. I sent my number and asked if anyone could find her and my uncle, I would really appreciate it. I wanted to speak with them.

On June 16, 2023 I get a text from an unknown sender. I respond asking who it was. My aunt said that it was her. I called immediately.

The first 25 minutes were AMAZING. We were catching up and talking and… well.
I asked why she left us. Why she felt whatever way that she did.

My aunt said that…

Even typing this bullsh¡t is frustrating

My aunt said that the wrong decision was made back then. She said that with “today’s eyes” she can say that. But at the time, back then, the reason that I was treated the way that I was…

First of all, let me say this: I TOLD YALL THEY WERE TREATING ME FUNNY. There was this feeling, this strong and distinct feeling. I KNEW IT!

… because I had chosen to go and live with the family of the person that murdered her sister.

Yup, you-heard-that-the-fvck-right.

My family, a whole bunch of them evidently, has held a grudge and animosity with me for all of this time because I chose to go and live with my Dad. And instead of considering that I was a 15 year old child who found his mother’s murdered body, who had two younger siblings that he was not going to separate from, who was already dealing with a world of hurt and trauma and stress, who was THE ONLY ONE FIGHTING on behalf of he and his siblings… they decided that because I chose to go and live with my Dad, they were going to abandon us. Because understand this: The people that have been in my life, I chased after. They didn’t come for me, or come for us. That is how I can say that my siblings have not seen 90% of the people that were part of our lives prior to my Mom’s murder. I actually went after some people, seeking and searching acceptance, connection, and response. But I was met with this weird-ass energy that I talked about for all of these years. My aunt had finally explained it.

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

Some-fvcking-nerve.

My dad had absolutely nothing to do with my Moms murder, outside of being the uncle to the woman that did it. Mind you, his guilt, hurt, his shame and embarrassment has always been profound and made obvious by HIS silence. He has always felt some level of responsible. Because, oh yeah, there’s the fact that he was part of the love triangle that is most likely a supreme contributing factor to her being killed.

That part, a bunch of the adults in the room knew about. And it was something they didn’t want to know. Like everyone says… it was 1994, homosexuality was taboo. It came with stigmas. It wasn’t a topic anyone wanted to discuss. It was synonymous with AIDS. It was highly controversial.
And here was this lesbian relationship that turned violent.

I heard something the other day that I’d never heard… “A lot of people looked at what they were doing as incest.”
At first I didn’t understand that. But I get it. My Mother publicly presented the dynamics of our household as her family and Hazels family being cousins. Because that’s what they were. By blood, to my siblings, and my Dad.

This sh¡t so messy.

And instead of my family acknowledging that this might have been hard for me… my Mother is gone, I’m now living in a place where I’m most accustomed and comfortable, but with the reality that I live in a house where everyone is blood-related to the person that murdered my Mom.
And I had to deal with all of that…

Breathe.

I dun forgot the point of this part.

I’ll be back.

(Cont’d…)

©️Cornelious “See” Flowers