e were to pay the house each time we were paid. First summer jobs we got, our stepfather said twenty five percent of what we earned was to go to him for the house. Because we lived there was the reason, he told my mother. Summer pay amounted to less than one hundred dollars a week. I was to get it back when I attended college.
I got a job first, I was the oldest. Then my brother got his summer job.
My mother questioned stepdad about receiving our money several times. He would always say, “It is between me and the kids.” He never discussed it with us.
Energy above is of my biological father, James Charles Williams. I thought this was a good counter balance to my mother's second husband.
When I prepared my admissions applications, he initially said he would help in any way he could. I left the stack of paper on his desk. One weekend, I was sitting on the floor in the living room. I don’t remember what I was doing. My mother was sitting on the couch. He was sitting on his “chair”, a record cabinet with sliding doors, used to store his albums. (“They are for the children,” he would say to my mother when she raised objections to his spending money. We were never allowed to touch them, however.) He threw the stack of applications at me as he said, “What do you want me to do with these?!!” The tone of what amounted to be a statement shocked me. I looked up at him. My mother looked at me and at him. I rose and collected the scattered papers that fell beyond my reach.
After a couple of years, he explained he thought helping me would hurt Tracey’s chances of attending college. I thought to myself, she never asked for his help, financially or otherwise, her own father.
I was leaving this house. I was relieved. After years of bullying, beatings, a lot directed to my brother. His face was hit so often you could hardly recognize him. There were incidents my mother reminded me of that she witnessed only after she returned to the house because she forgot something she needed. A lot was done in secret; he knew she would not agree to the punishments he thought we deserved. We were toddlers then.
As I aged, I was slapped with his redundant statement: "You're not s smart as you think you are." I believed it. I ultimately believed I was the opposite of what I believed I was because he, an adult, told me so. Who better than an adult you live with would know how smart you are, would know how anything you are? I failed tests or barely passed them. I never asked for money for PSAT prep courses. Why bother? I was stupid. I bless my teachers. They always attempted to move me in a different direction. I never shared with them why I felt the way I did.
Deeper Blu Dream by Allison L. Williams Hill
He died in 1980. When my mother called and told me, I wailed. I felt I owed this man so much. Since then, dramas about abused children told some of the issues with children in such situations. For instance, they would always side with the abuser thinking that would lessen the possibility of being harmed.
Searches through his finances were conducted by his sister and stepfather; no money was found. He left nothing.
His attache case of Playboy and other sex magazines were eagerly given by Mom to Gilbert. She wanted all of his belongings gone. She asked me to roll out his “machine shop” he built with 2x4s and peg board to contain his workshop tools. I suggested selling the screws, nails, soldering gun, so much stuff, she should be able to get good money from them. She shook her head, eyes closed, “I want it out of here,” she said quietly. I rolled it out, went down on the elevator and took it to a large opening where it would not get in anybody's way if they wanted to walk but anyone passing by would see it. I returned to the apartment. I went outside after about an hour and was still amazed that the entire “shop” was gone.
Gone. He was finally out of my mother’s life. Her feelings stretched back many years. My nearest sister, 5 years my junior was a baby when she asked him to leave. He refused to unless he could take her with him. Mom would not have it.
The day Gilbert came into his new reading collection, he sat in the dining area shaking the box with Colin's ashes. He was muttering stuff to the box. When he, the late comedian and actor Godfrey Cambridge, and Colin were roommates, Colin whacked Gilbert over the head with the vacuum cleaner arm leaving a dent in the middle section. Today was indeed momentous. All of these years we had to use that old Electrolux vacuum cleaner and I now know what caused that dent in the middle section: Gilbert's head! Gilbert went on, “Oh, Colin apologized. Said he was overcome by some thoughts. Never knew what they were though. It hurt like hell.”
Mom was laughing, watching Gilbert and shaking her head as he kept shaking the box like a marrakah, alternating hands. “Gilbert, you're too much.”
We said goodbye to Gilbert assuming we'd see him again. Usually, two or three visits are allowed upon the death of a spouse. I think he died about three months later.
I never shared the events that occurred shortly after Colin's death in my apartment with the family. I was typing on an electric typewriter (pre-PCs) on a large coffee table in my small Brooklyn apartment. I left it on, walked into the bedroom and bathroom. I paused at the mirror that hung in the foyer. Against it was a wooden ladder about five feet high. The place was quiet and I felt as if I should expect something. The ladder began to move from side to side. It stopped. I looked at it and it began to move again. It kept moving until I placed my index finger on it to stop. I thought it might have been Colin. I returned to the typewriter. I sat on the cushion before it. It began to type. No letters appeared but buttons were being pushed. After a few seconds, I turned the machine off. Since then, I had many dreams where he appeared. I saw him in his “place of work” helping youth who had crossed over. The dreams seemed to take a sexual turn and after the night it first happened, I asked the Angels to stand between us and only with their blessing allow any further contact. Since that request I spoke to the Angels thanking them for helping me because I never saw him on the dream plane again.
Fast forward to 2007. I was in my second year of attending Delphi, the mystery school my friend Raphael told me about in 1990 and I, to this day, don't know why I had not started attending then. One of our Advanced Channeling class experiences was the soul rescue of my stepfather. I was asked closed questions about him. A classmate asked about tar paper, about being stuck. I said I did not know. During the session, her vision proved true. Colin was stuck in the same spiritual place for over twenty years. I asked him why he did what he did to Mom and, especially, to my brother, on whom I felt he unleashed all manner of violence because my brother reminded him of what he could not do with and for a young boy because of his size. I never asked about what he did to me. He regretted what he did to Mom. He thought the way he dealt with my brother was the way to treat children to produce solid adults and, according to our teacher whom I cherish, that was the way he was treated evidenced by the cuts and bruises across his back. Through tears, I accepted what he said and forgave him all that he did. All in the group commented on the beauty of the Angel that took him up. The last thing I said to him was, “I love you Daddy.”
Later that night, I had a dream where I was in a house available for purchase. Colin came in on the first floor smiling. He kept talking, smiling, and he walked away. I don't remember what he said. I awoke thinking that the agreement with the Angels was not in effect. I realized they thought this was agreeable hence his appearance. He appeared to be thanking me for the rescue. After that, I never saw him again. He comes to mind once in a while but it is all about wishing him well and moving on.
Dance by Allison L. Williams Hill