Speak Ill

Dead men tell no tales, but survivors do.

“Hey, Boo. Have you read your mothers obituary?”

My wife’s question caught me a bit off guard. I had broken up with my mother on June 26, 2015, though we should have called it quits a lot sooner. We’d been separated for years, I always felt more comfortable with at least a thousand miles between us. We were seeing other people, but she was always was on the lookout for a better, more feminine, favorable, and less furry daughter. Towards the end, it felt like our phone calls and phony connection continued more for appearances than actual care. After the breakup, friends, and complete strangers, would suggest reconnection and reconciliation to honor the sacred mother/daughter bond. But, we broke up after the last heinous bullshit she said to me, not the first. I just happen to remember the exact day because it was a momentous day for me and my LGBT tribe.

I had not thought about her obituary in a long time, hell, I tried not to think about her as much as possible. She was just someone I used to know. Finding her obituary online had brought a massive relief, relief that I would never ever have to speak to her again. It was a rather surreal moment when I found out she was gone. I was Googling her while sitting on the toilet in the middle of the night and was kind of shocked to discover she had been dead for months. I usually checked for her obituary after big days, like birthdays or anniversaries, but she slipped around and kicked it in between events. I remembered reading it and seeing a picture of a younger, nicer, Phyllis. There were words about her and I was mentioned by my married name, which surprised me, but I couldn't tell you much more about her obit. I had moved on and thought I was good with her being gone. I honestly and actively try not to dwell in the anger I occasionally feel as the long reaching psychological tendrils of her vileness are biologically entangled in my brain like fungus-ey mycelium strings. The bullshit of the mother forever visited upon the daughter.

Then I reconnected with my dying brother and had to take another look.

“Yep”, I confessed to my wife that I had not only read the obituary, but I had written in the attached online guestbook no less than 6 times…only to erase my vitriol and put my credit card away. I refused to give Legacy.com any money, but debated taking out a full page ad in the Moultrie Observer, our hometown newspaper, and lambasting her sorry ass for all to see.

The obit was short and rather sad, too bad she didn't know any writers that liked her. There was no funeral, no service, no headstone, no plot, just a pile of ashes and a paltry 127 words left behind on a shitty website as her only earthly remembrance. It mostly mentioned those she left behind and folks who went before her. The only thing said about her was, “Mrs. Cheek was a homemaker and was of the Baptist faith. She was an outgoing person with a great sense of humor. Mrs. Cheek loved her family and friends and enjoyed spending time with them.” Such an insightful obituary, it was obviously written by one of her special friends. Mrs. Cheek was a way better friend than she ever was a mother; I doubt she delivered any of her friends to the waiting arms of the Kiddy Diddler Babysitter Club, force fed them red pepper, or abandoned them with others for weeks on end. She was our first bully, not theirs.

Phyllis was a wonderful friend and a crappy mother. She was all the things to friends that she wasn’t to us. She gave my friends the best support, advice and hugs. She was the mom everyone wanted to go to. Little did they know she railed on us for their high jinks and confessions. Quintessentially southern, she was sweet as syrup to their faces while talking complete trash about them behind their backs. We didn't even get that courtesy, no pulled punches for us, just wrath.

De Mortuis nihil nisi bonum, "Of the dead, [say] nothing but good." Am I being petty? Maybe, but we've been warned before and you ain't seen nothing yet. Never piss off a writer. Ladies and gentlemen, for your reading pleasure I present to you, Honest Obits.com. Imagine telling the truth about the dearly departed dastardly deeds instead of sweeping their hateful bullshit under the rug. What if we didn’t let bygones be bygones and “Bye, Felicia’d” the dead and spoke ill instead? The results could be hilarious and enlightening. Seriously, there are a LOT of dead people past and WAY past that could use a little honesty, no?

For example, “Self-proclaimed Defender of the Faith (until he decided to invent his own church), King Henry the VIII has left us for a kingdom beyond the mortal coil—where, we assume, he’s already hitting on angels. Henry leaves behind a legacy of six marriages, two beheadings, and a questionable diet.”

When I post my mother’s obituary on Honest Obits, it might read something more like:

After multiple attempts at it over the years, Phyllis Cheek finally succeeded in abandoning her kids, by choosing to die with dramatic flair…per usual. In spite of having the means to do better, Phyllis leaves behind 2 emotionally scarred children, 3 ceramic chickens, and 37 feral cats breeding their furry asses off under a leaky trailer. Phyllis had many talents, one of her greatest was finding the predator in a room and hiring them as a babysitter. The Kiddy Diddlers send their condolences. She was gifted at fucking others over and playing the victim. In complete disregard of her wishes for a fancy and heartfelt funeral, she was cremated this week by her 100k richer grifter friend and poor choice of a daughter replacement, Angela. After a lifetime of cold calculated manipulation, Phyllis’s heart burst with warmth, in the crematorium. Those who know her best know she urned it.

https://beardedragyns.wixsite.com/honest-obits