Chasing Memories That Were Never My Own

Reflections from a child whose father was murdered 29 years ago.

previously published on substack

I have never written about this before, and I rarely talk about it with family and friends. I keep this loneliness that I feel to myself because I didn't think that my grief was legitimate enough to openly talk about. When I was 5 years old, my father was murdered in the city that I love, my hometown, and that left a large wound and a longing within myself that continues to cause me to feel deep pain, especially in the month of July. Only 5 days after his 27th birthday, he was gunned down outside of a project in Richmond, leaving behind five children all under the age of 6.

The memories that I once had of my father have begun to fade, and I have had to chase down these memories of him through the recollections of others. Through my aunts, uncles, cousins, and even my late grandmother, I've had to piece together who my father was, what type of father he was, and what made him so special to not only his children but also the world. My father wasn't a perfect man, and may have been hustling, but he was a loving man. He was someone who made people laugh and made people feel comfortable. He and my mom met on the bus in Richmond, Virginia, when he complimented her anklet, and the rest is history. They were best friends even after they decided to no longer be in a relationship after I was born. From what I have been told, my father loved me deeply and fiercely. As his eldest daughter, he really felt a connection to me and made an effort to be a part of my life. Unfortunately, as I get older and the decades pass, I have forgotten who my father was.

This saddens me to know that I cannot remember the man who loved me fiercely. It breaks my heart that the only memory I have of my father is of me sitting on my aunt’s lap in front of his casket at his funeral. I can't remember his smile. I can't remember what he smelled like. I can't even remember what he sounded like. I would do anything just to be able to have a recollection of his presence in my life.

Although my father died when I was 5 years old, I have a biological connection to my parent and the deep, deep wound of losing him. At times, I feel like I shouldn't talk about my grief because my father was murdered when I was so young, and that the grief of others who have lost their parents later on in life is more important. I know this probably sounds crazy and a bit misguided, but I want to be able to grieve the loss of my father out loud. I want to be able to express my loneliness and my longing for him out loud. I want to be able to vocalize that I will always have an emptiness within me because he is not here with me.

Because of how my father was murdered, I have a legitimate fear of guns. I don't like to see guns, I don't want to hold guns, I don't want to go to a gun range. Being the child of someone who was murdered is extremely traumatic, no matter how old you are. My father was taken away from me by the hands of someone else, and I will never be able to understand the reason why. I will never be able to share my life with my father in the physical realm. I practice Isese, an African Tradition Religion, and I am very very in touch with venerating my ancestors, and although I have been venerating my father since I was 7 years old, I still long to be with him in the physical.

I know that a lot of people experience grief differently, and a lot of people have been in my position where they don't feel as if they should talk about their grief. But this year, that changes. Because I cannot remember my father, I plan to talk about him as much as I can to try to remember who he was. I know his spirit is with me, and I know that if he were here, my life would have been completely different. I would have experienced love from a parent that was unconditional and protection, and safety. The amount of abuse and neglect, and abandonment that I experienced (I was not raised by my mother and lived with different family members) all before the age of nine would not have happened if my dad were alive, or I would like to think that to be true.

I'm writing this not only for myself but also for anyone else who is the child of someone who has been murdered. It is a different type of pain to know that violence is what took your parent from you. It is a different type of pain to celebrate your birthday as you watch yourself outlive your parents. My father had just turned 27 when he was murdered, and at 27 years old, his children and his family were ripped from him. I have been carrying this deep sadness and loneliness, I have been carrying shame that my father was murdered in the same streets he was a part of, I have been carrying my grief silently and only sharing it on days where we celebrate him, but I don’t want to do that anymore.

Starting today, I will be open about my grief, loneliness, and no longer feel like I have to suffer alone. Instead of just chasing memories that are not my own, I will use my ancestral veneration to create new memories with him in the spirit realm. I wrote a poem in my teens where I said, “I wish I could miss you like they do,” and 29 years later, I realized that I do miss you like they do, and that losing my memories of you does not mean that I cannot continue to long for you to be here. My love for you is the foundation for my being; I carry your soul with me.