A Fact Written in Twilight

Photo of Bessie Louise, age 31, taken by my father,

Floyd Walker, at Pittsburgh's Buhl Plantarium in 1970.

THE TWILIGHT HOURS are good for reflection, where abstract thoughts and memories buried fathoms deep for decades come washing ashore on waves of tears. I hope you don't mind if I share some of these thoughts with you. There will come a point very soon where I'll be speaking about my mother Bessie's physical life in the past tense. But for now, she's still here, and I'd like to honor her by writing about the experience of being in her orbit for so long.

"LITTLE BESSIE"

Like Mother, Like Son

When I was maybe eight or nine years old, I was given the nickname "Little Bessie" after my mother, because it was widely acknowledged amongst our extended family that I looked and acted so much like her. Since few little boys want to be that directly associated with their mothers, I hated the name, which meant it stuck for quite some time. I clearly remember the annoyance I felt at being addressed as "Little Bessie", which seemed like an insult to my burgeoning sense of masculinity. By comparison, a few times I'd also been referred to as "Little Floyd" after my father, which I also never cared for, but that one never really stuck. It never felt as genuine, as a compliment or an insult, and instead always seemed obligatory.

Regardless, it wasn't as demoralizing as "Little Bessie" which I had no retort for, because it was so true in every way possible. If you knew my mother, and you watched me for five minutes at any point while growing up, you knew I was her son without question. I looked like her, and acted - and reacted - like her. I smiled and laughed like her. I had her temper. I had her disposition. I fostered the same types of relationships.

Little Bessie was indeed a chip off the block, which became something of a chip on my shoulder.