23 Years Ago Today…

Today marks the 23rd year since my mother passed away. Every Feb 21st, I quietly celebrate the 15 years that I spent with my mother and I also mourn the 23 years that I have had to live without her. Before today, I have never shared with anyone my private ceremony in honor of my mother; but for some reason I felt it was time to expose that part of myself…maybe it will help someone else.

Either way, the lose of a parent is never easy. As time passes, you learn to deal with the ups and downs that you’ll experience. You learn to live and move on, but there will always be a part of you that is wounded from the loss. The wound never completely heals, but only scabs. Sometimes I pull the scab off, in order to feel the pain of the loss because I want to know that my mother was there…I want to know that she is still in the forefront of my memory…I don’t want to forget her. After 23 years I still feel her presence in my life & and I am grateful.

Rest in Peace Patricia (1949-1988)

Journey to Me: Entry #13

Entry #13 (click here to read entry #12)

To escape the madness of my life, I went to church as much as I could with my god-mother, who I will call Precious. I spent countless hours learning the Bible, doing stuff around the church…just whatever I could do to prevent me from being in that house. My god-mother was my savior. She and I initially became acquainted at church…she was my Sunday school teacher and for some reason, she and I because very close. The more I got to know her, the more I loved her. I loved her with all my heart…more than any other grown up in my life at the time. Precious was different than anyone I had ever known. She worked a great job. She and her husband owned a home. She had nice things…very nice things. She didn’t have kids of her own, so she took me as her daughter. She did everything for me…it was as if she was put on this earth to mold me into the person that I was to become. She exposed me to things that I would not have otherwise known about. She would go out of her way to make sure that I had what I needed and even the things that I wanted. She taught me to be a lady and what a real woman did. She read to me. She cooked for me. She cried with me. She prayed with me. She knew everything about me and didn’t judge me. She showed me that despite the hand I had been dealt, I could live and happy and healthy life but it was all up to me to do so. This woman became my mother…my second mother.

My aunt of course despised the relationship I had with my Precious. She would do her best to prevent me from spending time with her. She said that Precious was trying to make me her child, because she didn’t have any of her own. She hated the fact that this lady was giving me more than my own blood relatives gave me. Funny thing is that I told my Precious how my aunt bashed her, but when she saw her face to face, she was smiling and laughing like nothing was wrong. Precious would always say that she wasn’t worried about it, but that she would just pray for my aunt. I was always moved by her humility. This woman made the biggest impression on me, so much so that I begin to model my life after hers. My aunt did not like this and made life hard for me because I choose to elevate myself above what she was offering. This was the beginning of a long hard road with my aunt.

Aquarius.Soul © 2011

Journey to Me: Entry #12

Entry #12 (Click here to read entry #11)

Where do I go from here? This is what I thought about after my mother’s funeral. I am 15 years old and my brother is 8….what are they gonna do with us? These and many other questions filled my mind as I was uncertain of what would become of us. My aunt, my mother’s oldest sister stepped up and said that she was take me to live with her and my dad, said that he would take my brother to live with him and his new wife. So y’all are gonna split us up, I asked? And the answer was yes. Before that could settle in, my other aunt, who was my moms youngest sister said: No, we will not spilt these kids up; they both will come and stay with me. Now mind you, this is the Aunt with the terrible sons that I did not like. Going to stay with her was like sentencing me to prison time. Surely there would be a discussion about this. Someone, at least my father would say no to this, but no one said anything…it was settled. My brother and I were moving in with my aunt…the aunt I didn’t like.

My aunt G was a decent woman but she was harsh and cold at times. She and her husband lived in a 2 bedroom apartment along with her two sons. The day we moved in, I wondered as the only girl where I would sleep. The place wasn’t terribly small, but it wasn’t large enough for 6 people to live in. My brother was put in the bedroom with my two male cousins and I was given the pull out sofa to sleep on and the hall closet became the place for my clothes and other effects. I spent the next 3 years sleeping on that sofa and it was the most tumultuous 3 years of my life. I couldn’t go to bed when I wanted, because the living room was where the television was. I had to wait until the last person was done with TV before I could sleep. The kitchen was a few feet from my make-shift bedroom and my aunt would wait until after 10pm to wash the dishes and clean the kitchen…so this kept me up most nights. Having to rise early for school was a chore because I didn’t sleep like I should have.

It wasn’t long before my older male cousin started making his way to my bed at night attempting to touch me. There were nights that I would wake up to him sliding in the bed with me or with him fondling my breasts. He never actually penetrated me; it was always touching and rubbing. I lay there, very still and let him do what he wanted to do. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I would move abruptly and he would jump up and run back to his bedroom. I never said anything to my aunt because I didn’t think she would do anything. The sofa was less than 50 feet from her bedroom…to this day I believe that she knew what he did, but refused to do anything.

My dad came around a lot after my mother died. He would come pick my brother and I up and just spend time with us. I never told him how I felt about living with my aunt, so he was under the impression that everything was well. I had been planning in my head that as soon as I turned 18 I was going to go and live with my grandmother (dad’s mom) I was only gonna stay in this apartment for as long as I had to.

Aquarius.Soul © 2010

Journey to Me: Entry #11

Entry #11 (Click here to read Entry #10)

The day that my mom died was the day that my life changed forever. I was 15 years old with no clue as to what would happen to me or my brother. All I could hear was the adults around me, making plans to bury my mother. I would look across the room and see my little brother with swollen eyes and confusion on his face. I remember calling my dad the night mom died to let him know what had happened and before I could get the words out, he told me he was on his way over…it was after 3am and he seemed to arrive at our home within minutes. My father cried like a baby in front of us all. I never knew how much he loved my mother until this day. My dad changed that day and so did I.

I heard talk of what to do with my brother and I. Who should take us? Should they separate us? What did my mother want for us? My aunt, the one with the horrible sons spoke up saying: “Trisha did not want these kids separated so we are not gonna separate them.” This was the last I heard of the custody of my brother and I until after my mother’s funeral. Days passed and I grieved in my heart for my mother, but I had this unusual peace about the whole thing. Even though I was only 15, I understood that my mother was gone because it was her time and I also understood that God was comforting me and preparing me for a greater task. That’s a lot of a 15 year old kid to truly understand…but somehow, somewhere this had been planted into my being. My tears dried up although I still wept for my mother…it was a different kind of weeping. I loved her. I would miss her but God was going to provide for me…I believed this with my whole heart.

The day of the funeral was one of great sadness. My mothers mom sat in her room and wailed like her soul had been snatched from her. You see, at this point, my mother was the first to die in our family. It was difficult for all of her brothers and sisters to deal with. I recall sitting in my grandmothers living room, watching everyone hurry themselves and prepare for the funeral that day. The loneliness that I felt was overwhelming and stifling. My little brother sat so close to me that day that I could barely move. I felt the burden of responsibility weighing down on my back…but even still, there was this calm that pushed its way forward in my spirit. I know it was God. I knew he was gonna look out for me and help me make it through that day.

We arrive and the church and its packed. I still cant believe that that’s my mother laying in that casket. Many people got up and said wonderful things about my mom. It was a beautiful service, but all I wanted was for it all to be over. Finally the services ended and we begin to file out of the church as is customary in the black church. The funeral directors lead the processional with the pall bearers carrying the casket behind them. The family then files out behind the pall-bearers while “I’ll Fly Away” is being sung by the choir. I remember losing all strength in my legs as we were walking out…if my aunt had not caught me, I would have hit the floor. We finally get into the limo and being our journey to the cemetery. The entire ride, all I remember thinking was why this was happening to me…I am 15 years old…I need my mom…Why did my mom have to die and leave us here like this. Tears streamed down my face for the entire ride. My aunts held me and my brother in their arms until we made it to our destination.

I hate cemeteries; I always have, but that day was different. My mom was gonna be living here. This is her final resting place. As we embarked on her burial location, my dad walked with my brother and I holding our hands. He stood by us the entire time of the graveside service. This was the first time that I felt like he really loved me…like he was really my father.

The three of us watched as my mothers casket was lowered into the ground…ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I cried, my father cried, my brother cried. Goodbye mama.

Aquarius.Soul © 2010

Journey to Me: Entry #10

Entry #10 (Click here to read Entry #9)

My mom died February 18, 1988…she was 38 years old. I was 15 years old when my mother passed away. It had been exactly 2 weeks since my 15^th birthday when she died. Devastated. Heartbroken. Lost, Confused. Depressed…these were all the emotions that I was constantly experiencing when I lost my mom. It seemed so sudden. A week earlier we were home doing what we normally do and mom got sick…she couldn’t breath & she was having chest pains. She called to tell my aunt that lived in the same apartment complex as we did & she rushed over. Within the hour, the paramedics were in our apartment loading mom onto the stretcher and wheeling her off. On her way of the door, she told my brother and me to be good and that she would be home soon. By this time my cousin who normally came to take care of us when mom went to the hospital had made it to our house…we were so accustomed to mom being in and out of the hospital that this occasion was no different….we said our good byes to our mother and carried on with our youthful activities.

Three days had passed since my mother was admitted into the hospital. She called everyday to check on us as she always did…but on day 4 her call and tone were different than normal. As she and I were talking, she told me to always be a good girl and that she knew that I would grow up to be a decent young lady…she went on to say that I should always look out for my brother no matter what and that she knew that she could depend on me and most importantly of all she loved me more than I could ever know. Being a 15 year old kid, it didn’t register in my mind that she knew that she wasn’t coming home anymore. I just said yes maam to her requests and never thought twice about it. 12 hours later at about 3am, there came a knock at the front door.

It was my mom’s older sister and her brother…her face was swollen and her eyes were red. She walked over to my bed and told me that my mama wouldn’t be coming home…she said “baby…your mama has died. The devastation and heartbrokenness griped me like a pair of needle-nose pliers. I remember crying out in this loud voice of despair…my aunt grabbed me and hugged for what seemed to be forever.

My brother was 7 years old when mama died….they were closer than close. When my aunt told my brother it hurt him to his core. He was 8, but he was ahead of his time. He understood exactly what my aunt was telling him & he wailed in despair. He slid out of my aunt’s lap and ran to my mother’s bedroom and into her closet….he pulled down all of her clothes and lay on top of them crying his little heart out.

February 18, 1988 was by far the worst day of my life.

Aquarius.Soul © 2010

Journey to Me: Entry #7

Entry #7 (Click here to read Entry #6)

After my mom and Willie ended their relationship, we began to struggle financially again. We ended up moving into government housing and receiving government assistance. Our lives virtually changed overnight. My dad was a total deadbeat and never really helped my mother in raising us…at least not in the ways he should have. Every weekend, my mom would have friends over and they would play cards, drink and listen to music late into the night. While this was going on, my brother and I were banished to the back bedroom. Most of the time I would end up in the front of the house with the adults and because they had been drinking, they wouldn’t make me leave. So I was able to see what they were up to. Back in those days…well at least in my house, the most the adults would do is drink and smoke weed and at times I saw this stuff with my own eyes. Fortunately, it didn’t influence me to go out and try drugs in any way. I think this was because my mother was very open and honest with me about everything, including drugs.

Although I wasn’t influenced by the things that happened in my house, my overall environment wasn’t the best by today’s standards. Despite all the fun it looked like my mom was having; there were still the abrupt changes that we experienced. Having to go from living in a house to living in a government apartment was major; in addition to all of the other things we had to give up. All of these negative changes affected my attitude towards EVERYTHING. I stopped enjoying school and started missing a lot of days, which caused me to be left behind that year. I befriended the worst kids. I experimented with smoking and sex…all of this by the age of 14. While dealing with all of this, the thoughts of my rape still loomed in the back of mind; causing me to be shy and somewhat of a recluse.

We lived in these government apartments for about 2 years and my mother continued to struggle to provide for my brother and I. There were times when our lights would get disconnected or the gas would get cut off. I saw my mother put her pride aside and go to places to seek assistance in paying her bills. There were also times where she would go to food banks and get free groceries for our household. I saw her struggle to make sure we were taken care of. My dad was a sucker and didn’t do jack shit to really help her. $50 here and there was all he did during those days. My grandmother (dad’s mom) always bought my brother and I clothes and shoes…so were never without. As an adult, I applaud my mother because I know she did her best with what she had…but as a 14 year old girl, I hated her and I hated the situation that I thought she put us in. Our relationship was strained and difficult… I talked back to her and she whipped my ass…but I did it anyway. I was stubborn and prideful…and I did everything that I thought I could do to hurt my mothers feelings because after all…the situation we were in was all her fault right?

Aquarius.Soul ©2009

Journey to Me: Entry #5

Entry #5 (Click Here To Read Entry #4)

My mom and I had a pretty decent relationship, but I was a 13 year old girl who thought she knew it all…so we had the usual mother daughter spats and disagreements; mainly over clothes, friends and of course boys. I never have been the super girly type, and I think that’s what my mother wanted. She bought me purses and make up and all the frills that come along with becoming a budding young woman, but none of that stuff stuck. I recall a purse my mom bought me which I hated, but she made me carry it. One day in particular, I left it on the school bus just to show her. I remember my aunt telling my mama that they needed to keep and eye on me because I may turn out to be a dyke. I look back at that now and laugh…at the age of 13 I had no clue what that word even meant.

My 13th year of life was fun. We were still living in that small yellow house. It was an innocent time of playing ball in the streets, walking to school and just being a kid. All of my friends lived around me and we spent the night at each others houses all the time. Of course at 13 years old, boys come into play. I always liked boys, but never the ones that were my age; seemed to me that all the 13 year old boys were too immature for me; so I always ended up “going with” an older boy. There was this one boy that lived around the corner from me who every girl in the neighborhood wanted to be with. His name was Broderick and he rode the coolest red BMX bicycle. He had a caramel complexion and deep wavy neck length hair. Broderick of course was about 2 years older than all of us and he knew that the girls all liked him. One summer day we were all outside and it was about dusk. A storm had blew in a few days before and knocked down a fairly large tree. We all were sitting on the tree playing and talking. Beautiful Broderick comes riding around the corner on his red BMX and stops right near us. We were all talking and playing and eventually he brings up sex. At 13 I had heard of sex, but didn’t know anything about the actual act. So of course he being the older boy decides to explain it to us. Ultimately he says: sex is all about the man’s penis. All the girls cringe and giggle at this word…he then asks us if we wanted to see his, but before we could answer, he whips it out and lays it flat on the trunk of the fallen tree…all the girls start to run away laughing. This was my first penis sighting. After Broderick showed all the neighborhood girls his package, life continued as usual, except for the fact that I got to the point where I knew it all and mom and I had it out all the time….of course she would win cause back in the 80’s parents beat your ass for acting up.

One day while walking home from school with my neighborhood pals, I met this guy who lived a few streets over. He was tall, brown and lean…his name was Randolph and he was 18. He and I talked and he would meet us in the same spot everyday in order to walk me close to home. I say close to home because I knew better than to let my mom see me with this older guy. So we would kiss a few blocks away from the house and then I would make my way home with my girlfriends just like normal. I talked to Randolph all the time on the phone and tried to find a way to end up on his street as much as possible. This little love affair was short lived when my mom found out about him. You see, my mother’s aunt lived on the same street as Randolph and one day she saw he and I together…before I knew it, my mom was coming down the street with fire under her feet. No more Randolph for me, or so I thought. I still had to and from school and even though I told Randolph to leave me alone, he wouldn’t. He would be there in the mornings on our way to school and also in the evenings. It got to the point that I was becoming afraid of him….so my friends and I had Broderick and the other boys in the neighborhood to walk with us. This was the only way that he didn’t approach us. Months went by and everything seemed back to normal. One morning, I gave my mom hell about going to school. She made me go that day, but I decided that I was gonna skip school. So I take off walking in the direction that I normally go, only to turn around at the next street. Guess who I run into…Randolph.

He begins to follow me and try to talk. I talk to him as we are walking and we end up at this corner store. By this time I am about ready to go home because he was sort of creeping me out. So instead of taking my same route home, I go another way so that I would end up passing my friend’s grandmother’s house that is always at home….he follows at a distance behind me. On this street, there was a vacant wooded lot that sat between my friend’s grandma’s house and a church. As I approach the vacant lot he runs up behind me and pushes me off into the wooded lot. Not realizing what is about to happen, I didn’t scream or anything. All I did was push him and kept asking him what he was doing. He eventually pushes me down to the ground and puts his hand over my mouth so I couldn’t scream. With his other hand he rips my dress as he is trying to make his way up under it…eventually ripping my panties down the front. In order to pull his “package” out he had to remove his hand from my mouth and when he did, I screamed to the top of my lungs, hoping someone would hear me. It was 8 am in the morning and most people were at work or gone to school. He kept telling me to shut up as he tried to thrust himself into me, but I kept moving and he was having a hard time entering. He eventually got extremely angry and slapped me in my face multiple times while holding his hand on my throat. After all of his fidgeting; he finally got himself into me and began to pounce up and down. The pain was so intense that all I could do was wince and cry…I tried screaming, but nothing would come out anymore. After about 2 minutes, I heard gunshots and Randolph jumps up and runs through the wooded lot. I look up and it’s my friend’s uncle who took off from work that day. I later found out that he was in the shower, but heard a woman screaming. After Randolph ran off, I got up and started walking. The man who basically saved me from a savage rape tried to get me to stay with him while he called my mother, but something in me wouldn’t let me sit and wait. So I took off walking down the street with this torn dress and my ripped panties in my hand. As I approached my street, my mothers best friend came driving up beside me asking why I wasn’t in school and I didn’t respond…she stopped her car and got out and saw my bruised face and my torn clothes and immediately put me in her car and drove the rest of the way home. My mom opened the front door and I burst into tears.

Aquarius.Soul ©2009

Journey to Me: Entry #4

Entry #4 (Click here to read entry #3)

My parents broke up midway through my 10th year of life. As a kid, I always thought that my parents were married. After they split, I found out that they had never been married. Back in those days’ people would use the terms shacking and common law marriage as a way to describe couples who had lived together for a while and had kids. This is what my mom and dad were: common law married. When my parents split, my mother, brother and I moved in with my saved, sanctified, Holy Ghost filled church grandmother. Needless to say that this was a major culture shock. To go from having your own room and space to sleeping on the floor with a pallet was a major change. In addition to the three of us living there, my mothers 3 dead beat brothers lived there too. So in a 3 bedroom; 1 bathroom house there were 2 kids and 5 adults. Needless to say we were stuffed in there like sardines. I recall my mom and grandmother arguing very often about various things: one of the main things being my mom’s lack of church attendance and her habit of smoking. As I mentioned previously, this grandma was a church matriarch…spent 4-6 days at church for prayer meetings, revivals, and other church functions and she of course wanted us right there by her side. My mom grew up in these circumstances, but once she became and adult she vowed that she would not force her children to endure what she had endured when it came to church.

After this major change in my life, I realized that my dad was a major deadbeat, but I still loved him. I can recall my mom struggling to make ends meet. Dad hardly ever came around and when he did, he had the gall to hand out $5 to my brother and I like that would erase all the other crap that he did, but I still loved him. We eventually moved out of my grandma’s house once my mom had been approved for government housing assistance. We moved into a yellow 2 bedroom wood-frame house in a marginal neighborhood, I hated that house. It never really felt like home, but there was nothing I could do about that. As a kid I believed that things were ok. I had a lot of friends in the neighborhood and we would run and play without a care in the world. Looking back, I can see that my mom was a total rock through all of the things she endured raising my brother and I. My dad sucked for the entire decade of the 80’s. He came around when he felt like it. He never really contributed to the well being of his kids. He believed that dropping by on the weekend and taking my brother and I for a burger was acceptable. He would give my mom a hard time when she would ask him for help on bills…it was a total mess. I can recall many times where our lights got disconnected and we would have to sit in the dark with candles until mom found a way to get them reconnected. Our gas got disconnected from time to time as well…and my so called father never stepped up to help unless it was convenient for him. To this day I think that they only way he would help my mom out was if she slept with him. I recall him coming by the house and the two of them would be sitting in the living room talking about stuff and he would say to my mom: “come step into my office” meaning the bedroom…they would be in there for hours and then of course, the next day the lights would be back on.

Around the age of 13 my mom started to date this dude named John. He was a chef who on the surface seemed to be a good dude. He was nice to my brother and I and he seemed to make my mother happy. After about 6 months of dating, somehow this guy ended up living with us. I couldn’t believe this shit. Why does this dude have to stay here with us in this little ass house? Despite my pleas, he moved in anyway and within 2 months he was standing over my bed in the middle of the night looking down on me. I awakened and he put his finger up to his lips and said shhh as he began to pull my covers back. What John didn’t know was that I wasn’t about to let him crawl his nasty ass up in the bed with me. I began to scream to the top of my lungs and my mom ran to the room and caught his ass standing there with his dick out. He tried to diffuse the situation, but mama wasn’t hearing that. Back in those days, people would raise their windows and would have to put a stick of some sort under the window to keep it up. We kept our stick right in the hallway outside of my room…mama grabbed that stick and whacked John in the back of the head and threw him out in his drawers that night. From that day on, my mom was my HERO.

Aquarius.Soul © 2009