Lots of Reasons

I always gave my father lots of chances. I did that for lots of reasons. One was that it was easy to communicate with him. I was a lot like him, in that I understood what set him off. It was easy to learn the boundaries. He had the same violent streak that I had. There was a sadness and an intensity in him that I understood. I could understand the need to stay busy and not hear the voice inside that said mean things to me. He needed the validation that hard work brought. He had made himself after being the scapegoat in an abusive family. He had earned every advantage he had. I understood why money was important to him, although I never agreed, because I knew that all the money in the world could never fix the hurt.

I have always watched people. I feel a lot. I didn’t always have the words I needed to define what I felt, but I learned who was safe and who wasn’t. I couldn’t always keep myself from dangerous people, but I knew who I didn’t want to be like. I could eventually know when I was being lied to. Being a person that was easily stimulated by lights, sounds and emotions, was super hard for me. I didn’t know that was what my problem was until I was in my 40’s, but it was very hard to visit my father’s family when I was a child. There were so many of them. The history of alcoholism and abuse, although was not overtly present, was still there and I didn’t have words for it because I had been protected fiercely by both my father and my mom. I often would hide in a quiet room when it got too much for me and my father would find me and drag me out to join the noise.

I didn’t like my Grandpa Clemenson. It is hard to say that because I know it will hurt several people, especially my aunt. But I didn’t like him. My aunt has lovely stories about him and I think it is because she was his favorite, or maybe she chooses to remember him that way. But my grandfather’s eyes scared me. They were never soft; they were always hard and piercing. He always barked orders. I don’t remember hearing please or thank you from him. I don’t remember seeing love in his eyes toward my father and that scared me, because as I child, my father, was Superman to me. The only conversation I really remember having with my grandfather was when I heard him refer to black people as niggers. I was about 8 to 10 years old and I got in his face and told him that God made all people and He loved everyone and that it was wrong to use that word. I vaguely remember my father standing close by, maybe to make sure he could protect me from his father. My aunt has told me that my grandfather didn’t trust my father. This makes me sad. Because I know that my father took more beatings than his siblings. My grandfather created the monster inside my father. I don’t think it is fair that he didn’t trust him.

I had a hard time learning my name as a child. It was long. Summer Clemenson was so hard to learn that I didn’t learn to spell my middle name, Deanne until I was in 4th grade.

I was an angry child and teenager. People told me things they should never have told a child and teenager. Mom, in her desperation to keep us afloat told me things. Ms. Colvin, in her attempt to abuse me and hurt my mother told me things. My father, for his many reasons told me things he should never have told me. My anger is much quieter now, but there is still some left. I have learned to not feed the violent part of me. I want to be gentle and peaceful.

But as a young woman, I hated my name. I saw it as my grandfather’s name. I resented him because I didn’t think he loved my father. I never thought he should love me, but I knew I was loved by my parents and I thought parents were supposed to love their kids. This was not because of anything anyone had told me but what I felt when I was around him. I also didn’t like him because of the way his hands wandered when I was forced to hug him. Luckily a conversation among my father, Ms. Colvin and all my siblings, eventually made the hugging stop.

When I was in my young 20’s I was so angry that I used another last name. I got bills to the name Summer Dae. I wrote under the name Anna Stourmie Somre Dae. For a few years I was considering changing my name. But I was also in therapy at that time, and as things do, we begin to accept ourselves and I began to learn to love myself. I had not caused a lot of the negative things that had happened around me to happen and at some point I accepted my name. It was mine. Not anyone else’s. Yes, it connected me to a lineage, but in my mind, it was mine.

I remember the stress my mom was in when she divorced my father. She had decided to keep my name. She kept it, not because it was my father’s name, but because it was the name of her children. There was a month that Ms. Colvin wrote out the child support check to my mother’s maiden name. What a mess that made at the bank. What stress that added to our home. We needed that money. Ms. Colvin would do anything to hurt us. It wasn’t just my mom she was hurting, it was the children of the man she was supposed to love. The children she refused to allow her husband to co-parent their 3 children, one who was very difficult and needed more attention. No…She can’t have my name. I am Mrs. Clemenson now.

I go by Summer D Clemenson because at some point I was aware that I have a distant cousin named Sommer and before she was married, we had such a similar name that I chose to add the D. But this also was in honor of my Nana. She really wanted me to be named Summer Dee after the actress, Sandra Dee, but my mom wanted to make my middle name a little like her name so I got Deanne.

When Karen G Clemenson and I got married we were going to leave our names alone. We had been single for a long time. She was almost 50 and I was almost 40. We had lived a long time with our names. For me, I also didn’t like the name Gidderon. And the struggle it had taken for me to finally accept the name I had been born with was just too much to let go of it. But after a few months of marriage, I asked her, what would we do if we ever adopted children. We couldn’t curse them with the name Gidderon-Clemenson or Clemenson-Gidderon. We had to pick a name. So Karen’s answer was to take mine. Her father had died already and mine was still alive. Her parents had not given her a middle name so her last name became her middle name and she took my last name. Grandma Clemenson asked her once why she took our name and Karen explained it to her and Grandma thought that was the most practical thing ever.

We were talking about it recently and the only other name I would have ever wanted to take was Henderson, which is my Grandpa Bill’s last name. We could have done that but it would have been an expense to change everything for both of us. I also think that it would have hurt Grandma Clemenson too much.

My father did not share his family with me very often. I don’t know why. He must have his reasons and I have made peace with that. But the time I had with my grandmother, let me know she was a strong and honorable woman. She was not perfect, but she worked to get better and she loved fiercely. You didn’t have to be blood to be family and you didn’t have to be family to be loved by her. She tried so hard to honor her children, even though she knows choices she made hurt them and for that she carried her sadness, but she also cherished their success. She remembered every name and birthday. She was thankful for every day she had, which taught me to appreciate getting old, because not everyone gets to. She wore the ugly scarves I made her as a child. I made one for her and for my grandfather and because they were too small, she wore both of them. I know she loved me.

So if anyone asks, I took Grandma’s name.

I know Ms. Colvin made Grandma cry and that is another reason I hate her. Another reason, Ms. Colvin can’t have my name.

Shannon be sure to share this article with anyone you want. You have my blessing. I am feeling more freedom from my pain but I am also wondering if by telling the truth if I am freeing myself from the secrets I was told to keep. Be careful with how you all respond, I haven’t told all the stories yet. But there are good stories too…

Ms. Colvin should not write anymore letters.

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Feel free to leave your comments below!

My name is Summer. That is how you can call me. I hope that I am a blessing to you. I am not perfect. I will fall again. But I am forgiven. For anyone reading this that isn’t a Christian, unapologetically, I am a Jesus Follower, but I believe there is room for lots of beliefs and religions in the world. It is not my intent to offend people with different beliefs than I have and I would be open to open-minded conversations with no goals of changing anyone’s mind, but sharing information. If you are interested in becoming a Jesus Follower…Do you know Jesus? Do want the Holy Spirit to fill you and give you understanding and salvation? Ask Him. Want someone to pray with you? Contact me.

If you would like to know Jesus as your friend, but want to make this amazing commitment by yourself please pray something like this: Thank you Jesus that You are the Son of God, the God that created heaven and earth. Thank you Jesus that You came to earth in the form of a man so that You would be able to empathize with my humanity. Thank You that You did this in order to fulfill the promises You made at the foundation of the world. I realize that I am a sinner and do things that hurt myself and keep myself away from you. Thank You that You died for my sins so that You could defeat death and bring me into Your life. Please forgive me. I ask You to be Lord of my life. I ask you to heal my hurts and show me what my new life, empowered by You looks like. Thank You for Your mercy.

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