Have you ever wondered how domestic abuse affects a little girl?
Almost daily I read posts on social media that wish “happy heavenly birthday” to somebody. Presumably somebody who is cherished, somebody who is missed, and most often it is a parent. I often believe some people do this to prove to others just how much they loved them. Some do it for the likes—others for the attention that it generates. I can understand this as a way to publicly grieve, I suppose, if the wound is fresh—but of course, no one can put a time limit on grief. But often, the loved one may have passed, oh 30-years, or so, ago. Both my parents transitioned many, many years ago, (like over 45 years ), and while I have missed them throughout my life, I don’t usually feel the need to publicly display those sentiments every year to many on social media who didn’t even know me when they died. (No shade to those of you who do.) I have, however, and now do on occasion, recognize my ancestry, those whom I consider to be a part of my Spiritual crew, my angels, my Ancestors; those on the spiritual realm who, I believe, guide and protect me while I am still on this side of the grave. These types of posts usually are made to recognize my maternal ancestors (as I feel closer to them) and yes, I do it on the dates of their births.
But I began by asking you about the affects of domestic abuse on little girls.
Part of the reason why I have never acknowledged my father in this way is because he treated my mother horribly. When I was growing up in St. Louis, Missouri, often on sweet, balmy, summer evenings, the tension too, was so thick you could cut it with the proverbial butter knife. He had a short temper. I never knew what would set my father ablaze with jealously, domination, and anger towards my mother. At 5, 6, or 7-years old, the sound of his incensed voice would send me scurrying to a bedroom closet. I’d stuff my little fingers in my ears, afraid that when I came out my mother would be dead. By today’s standards he was a certified wife beater, a bully, and an asshole. I loved him still, and he died when I was just fifteen. For many years into my adulthood, I could not wrap my head around it, nor could I reconcile the words “abusive” and “father” in the same sentence for a man that I loved. And those unresolved emotions probably sabotaged every relationship afterwards. While I could not do a background check on people I met, my internal radar has always tried to detect a man’s potential for violence towards me.
Watching the documentary, Maxine’s Baby, about the life of movie mogul Tyler Perry, he talks about how he still financially takes care of his father who was mercilessly abusive to him and his mother growing up. Perry says he does it because even though he rarely talks to him, his father was a good provider. My father was also a good provider and protector. And while in recent years I have learned more and more about my father’s family and my paternal lineage, I know very little about him. But who he was in this life no longer haunts me. I pray for his soul, and that his Spirit has reached the realm of the ancestors, and that he continues to guide and protect me.
On this day, of his earthly birth, I honor my father. Peace, Light, and Progress to the Spirit of Evans (Nathaniel) Allen Hale, Jr., Ibaye.
SPITTING OUT BONES 