A Day at the Bud Billiken
“Until the lion writes his own story, the tale of the hunt will always glorify the hunter.” The Soy Autor writing process was developed in collaboration with young people at-risk of, victims of or perpetrators of violence in El Salvador. In 2017, this innovative program expanded into Chicago to create positive opportunities that nourish the minds, ideas and words of the underserved and underestimated.Through the process of drafting, revising, illustrating and publishing memoirs, the Authors’ Circle develops reflection, critical thinking, camaraderie, conflict resolution and positive self-projection.
In collaboration with:
Chicago CRED
A Day at the Bud Billiken Malik Mckee
The hot summer sun beamed into my eyes and woke me up from sleep. The brightness of the sun gave me the feeling that today was going to be a good day.
I sure hope so! My cousins and I were supposed to be going to the Bud Billiken parade. I was looking forward to this day. I had never been and my family told me of the fun to come.
After taking a cool shower, my cousin Bam and I sorted for fresh clothes out of the drawer. “Come downstairs, It’s time to go!’’ exclaimed my Aunt Lori.
Her and my Uncle Byron’s home was always the meeting grounds for my family’s special events. We all huddled into the gray minivan to be in attendance for the festivities on 39th and King Drive.
En route, the streets were decorated with people dressed in bright colors.
“We’re here,” announced my Uncle Byron. The smell of barbeque reached my nose while exiting the van. My family scrimmaged through the crowd to get behind the metal barricades.
A high school marching band filed down the street playing funky sounds from their loud horns. A slew of bands came. My Uncle Byron’s facial expression hinted at who were good and who were not so good.
The chatter among the crowd did the same with the phrases, “they were good,” or “they need some work.” I wondered who the next people were to appear based on the crowd’s expressions. “I don’t like him,” was said by some old woman, a few moments a car slowly drove down the main street with some man dressed in a suit waving to the crowd.
“Anybody hungry?� asked my uncle Byron with a handful of dollars. He gave each of us some money. I began to trail in the direction of the barbeque chicken.
While waiting for a local vendor to serve the food, a parade float, one of many came down the street with loud music. It was the type heard in a gym aerobics class. A minute later, an intercom announced: “The Jesse White Tumblers!” my cousin Bam exclaimed. “Look!” He told me how “cold” they are.
The young men and women who were dressed in red did multiple flips within seconds. The crowds were in awe by the horizontal
midair acrobatic spins. In came a trampoline, propelling the flipping crew into what seemed to be a height like the tall oak trees lined down the street. I was amazed.
About an hour later, after witnessing more floats come down the street my cousins and I were rounded up by Uncle and Aunty to leave and go home. We all gathered in the minivan.
Driving back, they asked if I enjoyed myself. I responded, “Heck yeah! Look! I got a free bookbag with pencils and folders to begin school in about two weeks.�
The city looked so beautiful that day.
I am Malik McKee I am from the city. From joyful sunshine, painful rain. I am from the trees, Growing branches reaching to the top. I’m from story telling and singing, From Daisy and Brown. I’m from the dinners and get togethers. From Mom’s travels and childbearing. I’m from walking straight and respecting creation. From the delta’s start, greens and yams.